Manhattan's quietly swank Savoy-Plaza Café Lounge was last week doing the biggest business in its history as a nightspot. Its Mondays had begun to look like Saturdays. No opulent floor show was packing in the customers. The attraction was the face and the shyly sultry singing of a milk-chocolate-colored Brooklyn girl, Lena Horne.
Unlike most Negro chanteuses, Lena Horne eschews the barrelhouse manner, claws no walls, conducts herself with the seductive reserve of a Hildegarde (TIME, March 13, 1939). But when Lena sings at dinner and supper, forks are halted in midcareer....
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