Frederick’s Downtown, a few blocks from the meatpacking district in the far West Village, is the latest venture of brothers Laurent and Frederick LeSort, who also own a lounge called Frederick’s on West 58th Street and Frederick’s Madison, a clubby, Euro-chic bistro on 65th Street. Jean-Baptiste Parvaix, manager of the Upper East Side restaurant Le Bilboquet, is a partner.

In its previous incarnation, the restaurant was Bivio, a popular hangout attracting an art-world clientele. Now there seem to be two distinct groups of customers, with a sea change taking place around 9 p.m. Earlier in the evening, the room is packed with locals, professorial middle-aged couples, men who bear more than a passing resemblance to Harvey Keitel wearing pink shirts or tattoos, and groups who look as though they wandered over when they couldn’t get into Pastis. An hour later, when those tables have turned, the restaurant is like a private club. There’s a steady influx through the door of the suave and the young, beautifully dressed, many with French or Italian accents (and, commented my friend, with more bankers among their ranks than would care to admit to it). Many of them must surely have driven down from the Upper East Side, and they are warmly greeted not only by the hosts but by each other.

The L-shaped dining room has a small bar in the front, a dark wood floor and large windows on two sides. The walls are lined with gray banquettes, and the tables, packed in tightly along the banquettes, are set with white cloths and candles in heavy glass holders.

“Could we sit at one of those round banquettes in the corner?” I asked the first night I came here, as four of us were led to a table in the back under a loudspeaker. The hostess said they were already booked. One of them remained empty for the rest of the evening as our eardrums were pounded by techno music. If I’d had a gun, I would cheerfully have shot out the speakers.

The food is another story. Executive chef Vincent Chirico has worked at Daniel, Aquavit and Tocqueville, and did a stint with Georges Blanc in France. His menu concentrates on the cuisine of Southeastern France (and it’s similar to but cheaper than the uptown restaurant). A great deal of effort has gone into the dishes, and the food is a pleasure, beginning with the crunchy baguette that’s set down on the table (when your waiter remembers to bring it). It’s not served with butter or olive oil, but with a dense green olive tapenade and a smooth purée of roasted eggplant with mascarpone.

There’s a selection of tapas, including a tender calamari in a crunchy breadcrumb batter with an aioli-tarata and a delicate tartlette made with prosciutto and figs. A plate of crudo consists of a trio: tuna tartare with avocado, salmon and yellowtail, all very fresh and cut in thick chunks.

The salads are also exceptional. Young leaves of frisée are tossed with glazed pieces of pear, shaved fennel and goat cheese and sprinkled with walnuts. Haricots verts come in a white truffle vinaigrette topped with slivers of Parmesan, and baby artichokes are lined up on a long plate with mache, tossed in a lemony chervil vinaigrette.

The foie gras du jour, which my French neighbor was enjoying one night, is excellent. It came on this occasion with a marmalade of figs. I also love the creamy orzo tossed with pieces of lobster and chanterelles. Tuna, cut in small, rare squares, is accompanied with artichokes barigoule and oven-dried cherry tomatoes. Scallops are served with a fine purée of cauliflower and white raisins (this year’s dish of the moment in many restaurants, it seems).

Mr. Chirico matches a terrific veal tenderloin with baby turnips, lardons and shiitake mushrooms, a rack of lamb with white beans and spicy pieces of merguez, and a sliced beef tenderloin with stewed short ribs. The weakest dishes are a watery fettuccini with braised rabbit and roast cod in a wan tomato sauce.

Desserts include a sublime cassis soup laced with berries and faintly scented with cardamom, and a milk chocolate bombe under a dark chocolate sauce. Three small puddings are subtly flavored with lavender, vanilla and chocolate. My favorite of all the desserts is the passionata, a passion-fruit custard that’s like a panna cotta but denser, topped with passion-fruit gelée on a disk of white chocolate and served with passion-fruit sauce.

As he wound up his meal with a Poire William, my companion was still eyeing our neighbor’s Rolex. “In Italy, that is the watch equivalent of driving a 300 Mercedes SC.”

When we left around 11, people were still pouring in, some surely wearing watches of similar ilk.

Frederick’s Downtown, a few blocks from the meatpacking district in the far West Village, is the latest venture of brothers Laurent and Frederick LeSort, who also own a lounge called Frederick’s on West 58th Street and Frederick’s Madison, a clubby, Euro-chic bistro on 65th Street. Jean-Baptiste Parvaix, manager of the Upper East Side restaurant Le Bilboquet, is a partner.

In its previous incarnation, the restaurant was Bivio, a popular hangout attracting an art-world clientele. Now there seem to be two distinct groups of customers, with a sea change taking place around 9 p.m. Earlier in the evening, the room is packed with locals, professorial middle-aged couples, men who bear more than a passing resemblance to Harvey Keitel wearing pink shirts or tattoos, and groups who look as though they wandered over when they couldn’t get into Pastis. An hour later, when those tables have turned, the restaurant is like a private club. There’s a steady influx through the door of the suave and the young, beautifully dressed, many with French or Italian accents (and, commented my friend, with more bankers among their ranks than would care to admit to it). Many of them must surely have driven down from the Upper East Side, and they are warmly greeted not only by the hosts but by each other.

The L-shaped dining room has a small bar in the front, a dark wood floor and large windows on two sides. The walls are lined with gray banquettes, and the tables, packed in tightly along the banquettes, are set with white cloths and candles in heavy glass holders.

“Could we sit at one of those round banquettes in the corner?” I asked the first night I came here, as four of us were led to a table in the back under a loudspeaker. The hostess said they were already booked. One of them remained empty for the rest of the evening as our eardrums were pounded by techno music. If I’d had a gun, I would cheerfully have shot out the speakers.

The food is another story. Executive chef Vincent Chirico has worked at Daniel, Aquavit and Tocqueville, and did a stint with Georges Blanc in France. His menu concentrates on the cuisine of Southeastern France (and it’s similar to but cheaper than the uptown restaurant). A great deal of effort has gone into the dishes, and the food is a pleasure, beginning with the crunchy baguette that’s set down on the table (when your waiter remembers to bring it). It’s not served with butter or olive oil, but with a dense green olive tapenade and a smooth purée of roasted eggplant with mascarpone.

There’s a selection of tapas, including a tender calamari in a crunchy breadcrumb batter with an aioli-tarata and a delicate tartlette made with prosciutto and figs. A plate of crudo consists of a trio: tuna tartare with avocado, salmon and yellowtail, all very fresh and cut in thick chunks.

The salads are also exceptional. Young leaves of frisée are tossed with glazed pieces of pear, shaved fennel and goat cheese and sprinkled with walnuts. Haricots verts come in a white truffle vinaigrette topped with slivers of Parmesan, and baby artichokes are lined up on a long plate with mache, tossed in a lemony chervil vinaigrette.

The foie gras du jour, which my French neighbor was enjoying one night, is excellent. It came on this occasion with a marmalade of figs. I also love the creamy orzo tossed with pieces of lobster and chanterelles. Tuna, cut in small, rare squares, is accompanied with artichokes barigoule and oven-dried cherry tomatoes. Scallops are served with a fine purée of cauliflower and white raisins (this year’s dish of the moment in many restaurants, it seems).

Mr. Chirico matches a terrific veal tenderloin with baby turnips, lardons and shiitake mushrooms, a rack of lamb with white beans and spicy pieces of merguez, and a sliced beef tenderloin with stewed short ribs. The weakest dishes are a watery fettuccini with braised rabbit and roast cod in a wan tomato sauce.

Desserts include a sublime cassis soup laced with berries and faintly scented with cardamom, and a milk chocolate bombe under a dark chocolate sauce. Three small puddings are subtly flavored with lavender, vanilla and chocolate. My favorite of all the desserts is the passionata, a passion-fruit custard that’s like a panna cotta but denser, topped with passion-fruit gelée on a disk of white chocolate and served with passion-fruit sauce.

As he wound up his meal with a Poire William, my companion was still eyeing our neighbor’s Rolex. “In Italy, that is the watch equivalent of driving a 300 Mercedes SC.”

When we left around 11, people were still pouring in, some surely wearing watches of similar ilk.

Entering this place is madness: I’m greeted by a cacophony of vendors, yelling, baying, cajoling, imploring me to visit their stalls for “the best price.” I’m looking for a Chinese-style silk embroidered jacket for my wife, and a bright pink “Suzy Wong” sheath dress for my 6-year-old daughter, at her request. I find both on the third floor.

“So how much?” I ask a young Chinese woman in a red smock, pointing to a beautiful black jacket lined in blood-red silk. The woman scrutinizes me from toe to head—my shoes, my Omega wristwatch (real), the brass buttons on my Paul Stuart blazer—and then pounds some figures into a hand-held Casio calculator. She thrusts it at me.

“Six hundred yuan,” she demands. “Best price. You buying?”

Quickly, I calculate the exchange rate: about $80. I know the jacket would go for hundreds on Madison Avenue. But this is China; it’s probably worth $20. And negotiating is the local blood sport. “Six hundred?” I exclaim. “Are you crazy? That’s ridiculous. It’s insane.” I punch my counteroffer and shove the calculator back. “I’ll give you 100.” At $13, it’s low, but not so low as to be totally insulting. And now it’s her turn for mock-outrage.

“One hundred? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who’s crazy!” She pounds the calculator. “Make it 300, we’re done.”

At this point, I realize we’re both actually enjoying this. She knows I’m going to buy; I know we’re going to reach a sane price. She’s come down to $38.50, but I’m not finished yet. “C’mon!” I reply. “Get serious! I don’t need this. I’ve got a plane to catch. I can get it cheaper on Canal Street.”

Hearing this, the woman’s eyes go wide. “Canal Street?” She swats the words away with a flip of her hand. “It’s rip-off. Cheap Taiwanese crap.”

Stifling a laugh—she not only knows Canal Street but is scornful of it—I go though several more rounds of negotiation until we end up at $22. She’s satisfied; I’m not unhappy. And as she wraps up the jacket, she hands me her business card, which has a Gmail address, a Web page and four cell phone numbers.

So what is China like for a visiting American? In a word, overwhelming. Overwhelming in size, overwhelming in scope, overwhelming in ambition. Some thumbnails:

• The Beijing skyline is filled with hundreds of construction cranes working 24/7 to prepare for the 2008 Olympics. At 4:30 in the morning, two dozen cement trucks are working in a pit, 23 stories beneath my hotel-room window, pouring the foundation for yet another high-rise.

• I attend the live broadcast of a TV awards show—sort of like our Golden Globes—that boasts an audience of 310 million.

• I receive an e-mail from an otherwise worldly friend wondering if I’ve found a restaurant that serves decent spring rolls. My answer: No. But if you’re looking for a Bentley, a Jaguar, a Starbucks double mochaccino grande latte or a Citibank machine, there’s one on every corner.

• In the week before I arrive, Jacques Chirac is here to announce a “historic friendship agreement” that includes billions in trade and the construction of an Airbus factory in Northern China; on the day that I’m due to leave, my entire hotel is made over in an African theme—including an elephant-and-giraffe diorama in the lobby and African art in the elevators—to herald the arrival of 48 African leaders who will announce another “historic friendship agreement” and still more trade deals in the billions.

• The last time I was here, two years ago, the thing that struck me was the number of cars and trucks on the streets of Beijing, and the realization that we (as Americans) were going to be in competition for oil. But this time, I was struck by something else: a sense of Chinese invincibility. In the English-language news, there’s almost no mention of the war in Iraq, the mid-term elections or North Korean nukes; it’s as if they’re side issues (think of Americans covering Britain’s Boer War in 1880) and tangential to the future. It’s the Chinese century. And however an important trade partner we may be, we represent the past.

This comes out in strange ways—like the Chinese investment banker who asked if I was “yet another American” who was going to accuse China of human-rights violations against the Falun Gong, the Dalai Lama, or in its “one-baby” birth-control policy. Or the way I noticed that the word “superpower” was now used with ironic air quotes.

In the movie business, we sometimes use the phrase “the dog that doesn’t bark.” It’s cribbed from a Sherlock Holmes story, meaning that sometimes the things you don’t see—in a movie trailer or a production announcement, for example—are more telling than the things you do see.

In a conversation with a Chinese official about letting more American movies into China (currently there’s an annual limit of 20), I suggest letting every American film in and letting the marketplace decide—whereupon most American movies will fail to find a mass audience, just as they do at home. But the man’s reply brought me up short: “This isn’t about the marketplace. It’s about your culture and its influence. We don’t think it’s positive.”

And thus the dog that doesn’t bark: If you spend time in almost any Asian city—Tokyo, Bangkok, Singapore—you’re bombarded by billboards for American music, American movies or American movie stars hawking everything from cigarettes to cell phones. But not here. Not a single one.

On the way to the airport to fly home, I pass 10 miles of helium balloons and bunting welcoming the African ministers to China. I sail through immigration, although it’s unsettling to be shunted off into special security lanes where people traveling to America—and only America—are subject to extra scrutiny. But it’s just after this, in a gift shop, that the dog does bark: Near the magazines, next to the stuffed pandas, there’s a pile of war toys: F-16 fighters, B-2 bombers and Black Hawk helicopters. All are emblazoned “USAF.”

I’m not saying it’s our legacy. But it’s the first and only time that I see an American flag in China.

Entering this place is madness: I’m greeted by a cacophony of vendors, yelling, baying, cajoling, imploring me to visit their stalls for “the best price.” I’m looking for a Chinese-style silk embroidered jacket for my wife, and a bright pink “Suzy Wong” sheath dress for my 6-year-old daughter, at her request. I find both on the third floor.

“So how much?” I ask a young Chinese woman in a red smock, pointing to a beautiful black jacket lined in blood-red silk. The woman scrutinizes me from toe to head—my shoes, my Omega wristwatch (real), the brass buttons on my Paul Stuart blazer—and then pounds some figures into a hand-held Casio calculator. She thrusts it at me.

“Six hundred yuan,” she demands. “Best price. You buying?”

Quickly, I calculate the exchange rate: about $80. I know the jacket would go for hundreds on Madison Avenue. But this is China; it’s probably worth $20. And negotiating is the local blood sport. “Six hundred?” I exclaim. “Are you crazy? That’s ridiculous. It’s insane.” I punch my counteroffer and shove the calculator back. “I’ll give you 100.” At $13, it’s low, but not so low as to be totally insulting. And now it’s her turn for mock-outrage.

“One hundred? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who’s crazy!” She pounds the calculator. “Make it 300, we’re done.”

At this point, I realize we’re both actually enjoying this. She knows I’m going to buy; I know we’re going to reach a sane price. She’s come down to $38.50, but I’m not finished yet. “C’mon!” I reply. “Get serious! I don’t need this. I’ve got a plane to catch. I can get it cheaper on Canal Street.”

Hearing this, the woman’s eyes go wide. “Canal Street?” She swats the words away with a flip of her hand. “It’s rip-off. Cheap Taiwanese crap.”

Stifling a laugh—she not only knows Canal Street but is scornful of it—I go though several more rounds of negotiation until we end up at $22. She’s satisfied; I’m not unhappy. And as she wraps up the jacket, she hands me her business card, which has a Gmail address, a Web page and four cell phone numbers.

So what is China like for a visiting American? In a word, overwhelming. Overwhelming in size, overwhelming in scope, overwhelming in ambition. Some thumbnails:

• The Beijing skyline is filled with hundreds of construction cranes working 24/7 to prepare for the 2008 Olympics. At 4:30 in the morning, two dozen cement trucks are working in a pit, 23 stories beneath my hotel-room window, pouring the foundation for yet another high-rise.

• I attend the live broadcast of a TV awards show—sort of like our Golden Globes—that boasts an audience of 310 million.

• I receive an e-mail from an otherwise worldly friend wondering if I’ve found a restaurant that serves decent spring rolls. My answer: No. But if you’re looking for a Bentley, a Jaguar, a Starbucks double mochaccino grande latte or a Citibank machine, there’s one on every corner.

• In the week before I arrive, Jacques Chirac is here to announce a “historic friendship agreement” that includes billions in trade and the construction of an Airbus factory in Northern China; on the day that I’m due to leave, my entire hotel is made over in an African theme—including an elephant-and-giraffe diorama in the lobby and African art in the elevators—to herald the arrival of 48 African leaders who will announce another “historic friendship agreement” and still more trade deals in the billions.

• The last time I was here, two years ago, the thing that struck me was the number of cars and trucks on the streets of Beijing, and the realization that we (as Americans) were going to be in competition for oil. But this time, I was struck by something else: a sense of Chinese invincibility. In the English-language news, there’s almost no mention of the war in Iraq, the mid-term elections or North Korean nukes; it’s as if they’re side issues (think of Americans covering Britain’s Boer War in 1880) and tangential to the future. It’s the Chinese century. And however an important trade partner we may be, we represent the past.

This comes out in strange ways—like the Chinese investment banker who asked if I was “yet another American” who was going to accuse China of human-rights violations against the Falun Gong, the Dalai Lama, or in its “one-baby” birth-control policy. Or the way I noticed that the word “superpower” was now used with ironic air quotes.

In the movie business, we sometimes use the phrase “the dog that doesn’t bark.” It’s cribbed from a Sherlock Holmes story, meaning that sometimes the things you don’t see—in a movie trailer or a production announcement, for example—are more telling than the things you do see.

In a conversation with a Chinese official about letting more American movies into China (currently there’s an annual limit of 20), I suggest letting every American film in and letting the marketplace decide—whereupon most American movies will fail to find a mass audience, just as they do at home. But the man’s reply brought me up short: “This isn’t about the marketplace. It’s about your culture and its influence. We don’t think it’s positive.”

And thus the dog that doesn’t bark: If you spend time in almost any Asian city—Tokyo, Bangkok, Singapore—you’re bombarded by billboards for American music, American movies or American movie stars hawking everything from cigarettes to cell phones. But not here. Not a single one.

On the way to the airport to fly home, I pass 10 miles of helium balloons and bunting welcoming the African ministers to China. I sail through immigration, although it’s unsettling to be shunted off into special security lanes where people traveling to America—and only America—are subject to extra scrutiny. But it’s just after this, in a gift shop, that the dog does bark: Near the magazines, next to the stuffed pandas, there’s a pile of war toys: F-16 fighters, B-2 bombers and Black Hawk helicopters. All are emblazoned “USAF.”

I’m not saying it’s our legacy. But it’s the first and only time that I see an American flag in China.

The reason why eventually became apparent to the perp after he was arrested by the midtown north grand-larceny unit at 2:45 p.m. The team was visiting the upscale department store hoping to spot pickpockets when they observed the defendant stealing merchandise. And when they asked to see some ID, the identification he produced was fake.

So the police gave him a complimentary ride to the 19th Precinct for arrest processing and then tossed him into a holding cell. It was at that point that the suspect, a 32-year-old male who spoke mostly Spanish, offered the police officer $700 in exchange for his freedom.

The policeman removed the prisoner from the cell and took him to the bathroom, where the suspect repeated the offer. It was probably at that moment that the crook should have withdrawn the bribe, or perhaps should have suggested that the NYPD put it toward upgrading the stationhouse’s comfort facilities, which frankly leave something to be desired.

Instead, the policeman returned the suspect to the holding cell and contacted the midtown north investigations unit. At 7:15 p.m., more than four hours after the initial arrest—and enough time for even the most naïve thief to surmise that something fishy might be brewing—officers from the investigations unit arrived at the 19th Precinct, educated the police officer on the finer points of “bribery and entrapment,” and equipped him with a mini-cassette recorder.

Then they dispatched him to engage the prisoner in conversation yet again and get the bribe offer on tape. The crook was once again removed from the holding cell and taken to a secure location within the stationhouse, where he courteously repeated his $700 offer.

Once the cops checked the tape and made sure the bribe offer was crisp and clear, they informed the perp that he was no longer charged with shoplifting alone, but with the more serious charge of bribery.

Magic Fingers

Rich people are usually pretty cagey about hiding the family jewels when the help is around; after all, why unnecessarily tempt them with a diamond-studded Rolex or a tennis bracelet that exceeds their annual salary?

But masseuses seem to fall into a special category. Perhaps it’s because it takes a certain amount of trust to let them see you without your clothes on. Once that barrier has been broken, maybe it leads you to let your guard down in other ways.

At least it apparently did with an 880 Fifth Avenue resident on Nov. 19. The victim, a 74-year-old woman, told the police that she’d placed her ring in her personal bathroom “that only she uses.” Well, actually only her and her masseuse, who decided to visit her private bathroom at around 9 a.m.

After the masseuse left, the lady decided to take a shower, and it was at this point that she realized her ring was missing. She said she’s been trying to contact the masseuse, who isn’t answering her phone. And probably for good reason: It would take a lot of massages—deep, therapeutic, herbal, erotic or otherwise—to accrue the capital to purchase such a bauble herself, described only as “white stone.” The victim placed its value at $260,000.

Crooks in Candyland

One of the warning signs that you’ve been pickpocketed is when a perfect stranger bangs into you when contact could easily have been avoided. The problem is that there are some stores that are so popular—especially during the holidays—that it’s impossible to distinguish the crooks from the merely clumsy or aggressive shoppers who invade your personal space.

One of those locations would have to be the perennially popular Dylan’s Candy Bar, at the southeast corner of Third Avenue and 60th Street. The jostling at Dylan’s isn’t normally a criminal enterprise, but rather a shopping strategy as customers virtually trample each other for penny candy that costs as much as controlled substances, $29 T-shirts and humble milk-chocolate Hanukkah dreidels that sell for $12.

A 45-year-old Newtown, Mass., woman informed the police that she visited Dylan’s on the day after Thanksgiving, removing her wallet from her purse at 4:20 p.m. to make a purchase. Following her purchase, she put the wallet back in the purse and closed it.

But while having a conversation with fellow family members (which may have been her first mistake, the chaos of Dylan’s hardly making polite conversation possible), she felt herself jostled by strangers in a manner that suggested they were after something more valuable than Wonka Bars.

And then, as she moved toward the exit, she noticed that her purse was open and her wallet missing. The $150 wallet contained $30 in cash, a car-park card, a Massachusetts driver’s license, her Social Security card and her medical license.

The reason why eventually became apparent to the perp after he was arrested by the midtown north grand-larceny unit at 2:45 p.m. The team was visiting the upscale department store hoping to spot pickpockets when they observed the defendant stealing merchandise. And when they asked to see some ID, the identification he produced was fake.

So the police gave him a complimentary ride to the 19th Precinct for arrest processing and then tossed him into a holding cell. It was at that point that the suspect, a 32-year-old male who spoke mostly Spanish, offered the police officer $700 in exchange for his freedom.

The policeman removed the prisoner from the cell and took him to the bathroom, where the suspect repeated the offer. It was probably at that moment that the crook should have withdrawn the bribe, or perhaps should have suggested that the NYPD put it toward upgrading the stationhouse’s comfort facilities, which frankly leave something to be desired.

Instead, the policeman returned the suspect to the holding cell and contacted the midtown north investigations unit. At 7:15 p.m., more than four hours after the initial arrest—and enough time for even the most naïve thief to surmise that something fishy might be brewing—officers from the investigations unit arrived at the 19th Precinct, educated the police officer on the finer points of “bribery and entrapment,” and equipped him with a mini-cassette recorder.

Then they dispatched him to engage the prisoner in conversation yet again and get the bribe offer on tape. The crook was once again removed from the holding cell and taken to a secure location within the stationhouse, where he courteously repeated his $700 offer.

Once the cops checked the tape and made sure the bribe offer was crisp and clear, they informed the perp that he was no longer charged with shoplifting alone, but with the more serious charge of bribery.

Magic Fingers

Rich people are usually pretty cagey about hiding the family jewels when the help is around; after all, why unnecessarily tempt them with a diamond-studded Rolex or a tennis bracelet that exceeds their annual salary?

But masseuses seem to fall into a special category. Perhaps it’s because it takes a certain amount of trust to let them see you without your clothes on. Once that barrier has been broken, maybe it leads you to let your guard down in other ways.

At least it apparently did with an 880 Fifth Avenue resident on Nov. 19. The victim, a 74-year-old woman, told the police that she’d placed her ring in her personal bathroom “that only she uses.” Well, actually only her and her masseuse, who decided to visit her private bathroom at around 9 a.m.

After the masseuse left, the lady decided to take a shower, and it was at this point that she realized her ring was missing. She said she’s been trying to contact the masseuse, who isn’t answering her phone. And probably for good reason: It would take a lot of massages—deep, therapeutic, herbal, erotic or otherwise—to accrue the capital to purchase such a bauble herself, described only as “white stone.” The victim placed its value at $260,000.

Crooks in Candyland

One of the warning signs that you’ve been pickpocketed is when a perfect stranger bangs into you when contact could easily have been avoided. The problem is that there are some stores that are so popular—especially during the holidays—that it’s impossible to distinguish the crooks from the merely clumsy or aggressive shoppers who invade your personal space.

One of those locations would have to be the perennially popular Dylan’s Candy Bar, at the southeast corner of Third Avenue and 60th Street. The jostling at Dylan’s isn’t normally a criminal enterprise, but rather a shopping strategy as customers virtually trample each other for penny candy that costs as much as controlled substances, $29 T-shirts and humble milk-chocolate Hanukkah dreidels that sell for $12.

A 45-year-old Newtown, Mass., woman informed the police that she visited Dylan’s on the day after Thanksgiving, removing her wallet from her purse at 4:20 p.m. to make a purchase. Following her purchase, she put the wallet back in the purse and closed it.

But while having a conversation with fellow family members (which may have been her first mistake, the chaos of Dylan’s hardly making polite conversation possible), she felt herself jostled by strangers in a manner that suggested they were after something more valuable than Wonka Bars.

And then, as she moved toward the exit, she noticed that her purse was open and her wallet missing. The $150 wallet contained $30 in cash, a car-park card, a Massachusetts driver’s license, her Social Security card and her medical license.

If you’ve had the privilege of taking your pet there, you know that security is tight and the staff both competent and close-knit. But just how tight was proven on Sept. 27, when a burglar visited the facility around 1:30 p.m.

The thief—minus the dog, cat or canary that might have provided him cover—made his way to the fifth floor and visited three different offices in search of anything worth pocketing. The only problem was that a veritable studio audience was watching via closed-circuit TV as the suspect, a 51-year-old male, moved from office to office, opening desk drawers and looking for something to take. The witnesses included the chairman of the hospital’s surgery department, its chief financial officer and a security guard at the front desk, who ultimately handcuffed the perp and held him until the police arrived. Needless to say, no animals were harmed either during the incident or in the making of the security video, which will undoubtedly come in handy as evidence.

The Munchies

Crime Blotter isn’t too proud to run stories past their freshness date—at least if they involve hookers, hapless johns, expensive jewelry and fine food and drink, or some combination of the five, as this one does.

At the very end of July, a 38-year-old Jupiter, Fla., resident reported to the police that while staying at the Bentley Hotel, at 500 East 62nd Street, he ventured out for “a few drinks.”

There are those who would probably argue that anyone—but an out-of-towner in particular—who sets his limit in advance at multiple alcoholic beverages is asking for trouble. If nothing else, it might prevent him from appreciating the irony when he’s approached by a female stranger who asks him whether he wants to “go for a ride.”

That’s what happened here—and rather than take a rain check, the victim happily piled into her car, making one pit stop at a local deli to pick up a six-pack and a sandwich on their way back to the Bentley.

To the female’s credit, she didn’t wait for him to pass out and steal his money and jewelry, as ladies in her field sometimes do; instead, she kept him company before she rolled him. Indeed, back at the hotel they had a “few drinks”—not to be confused with the few drinks the man had earlier in the evening—and then they “got to know each other,” according to the police.

Unfortunately, a crime report devoted to the incident draws the shades on that part of the evening. However, when it concluded, the gentleman realized that he’d left his laptop in his lover’s vehicle.

So they both went back to the car to retrieve it, and then decided—by now apparently packing a sex- and 80-proof-fueled appetite—to return to the deli to pick up “some egg sandwiches.” The female said she’d wait in the car while her date stocked up on provisions. Unfortunately, he was forced to dine alone; when he returned to the street with the snacks, his date, her car and his laptop were all gone.

And returning to his room at the Bentley, he also discovered that she’d filched $5,000 in cash and a gold Rolex worth an additional $5,000. The laptop was valued at $1,000.

While the Florida man apparently wasn’t able to provide the cops with a very good description of his friend—not surprisingly, considering the effects of large quantities of liquor on mental function—he obviously had a head for numbers: He recalled that the woman was driving a car with New Jersey license plates starting with “316.” He added that the vehicle might have been black, with a gray interior.

Warning Signs

Crooks offer all sorts of clues to let you know they mean business. These run the gamut from verbal threats to the display of actual weapons. But perhaps the most persuasive is when they’re sporting fresh wounds. The average Joe, suffering from physical injury, would probably first go searching for a hospital. But if a bad guy is so desperate that he’s willing to assault you while his own flesh is falling off, you probably ought to consider complying with his demands.

That’s the situation in which one 34-year-old Third Avenue resident found herself on Sept. 27. She was riding her bike westbound on 88th Street between Second and Third avenues at 6 p.m. when a villain jumped in front of her and stated, “Give me your bike or I’ll shoot you.”

He didn’t produce any weapons or even attack her; then again, he didn’t have to. His face said it all. According to his victim, it featured “fresh slashes.” So the lady relinquished her bike, a dark blue Univega of unreported value. She also allowed the perp—described as 40 years old and 5-foot-9—to abscond with $15 and her Visa card. The police conducted a canvass of the neighborhood for the maimed crook, but with negative results.

If you’ve had the privilege of taking your pet there, you know that security is tight and the staff both competent and close-knit. But just how tight was proven on Sept. 27, when a burglar visited the facility around 1:30 p.m.

The thief—minus the dog, cat or canary that might have provided him cover—made his way to the fifth floor and visited three different offices in search of anything worth pocketing. The only problem was that a veritable studio audience was watching via closed-circuit TV as the suspect, a 51-year-old male, moved from office to office, opening desk drawers and looking for something to take. The witnesses included the chairman of the hospital’s surgery department, its chief financial officer and a security guard at the front desk, who ultimately handcuffed the perp and held him until the police arrived. Needless to say, no animals were harmed either during the incident or in the making of the security video, which will undoubtedly come in handy as evidence.

The Munchies

Crime Blotter isn’t too proud to run stories past their freshness date—at least if they involve hookers, hapless johns, expensive jewelry and fine food and drink, or some combination of the five, as this one does.

At the very end of July, a 38-year-old Jupiter, Fla., resident reported to the police that while staying at the Bentley Hotel, at 500 East 62nd Street, he ventured out for “a few drinks.”

There are those who would probably argue that anyone—but an out-of-towner in particular—who sets his limit in advance at multiple alcoholic beverages is asking for trouble. If nothing else, it might prevent him from appreciating the irony when he’s approached by a female stranger who asks him whether he wants to “go for a ride.”

That’s what happened here—and rather than take a rain check, the victim happily piled into her car, making one pit stop at a local deli to pick up a six-pack and a sandwich on their way back to the Bentley.

To the female’s credit, she didn’t wait for him to pass out and steal his money and jewelry, as ladies in her field sometimes do; instead, she kept him company before she rolled him. Indeed, back at the hotel they had a “few drinks”—not to be confused with the few drinks the man had earlier in the evening—and then they “got to know each other,” according to the police.

Unfortunately, a crime report devoted to the incident draws the shades on that part of the evening. However, when it concluded, the gentleman realized that he’d left his laptop in his lover’s vehicle.

So they both went back to the car to retrieve it, and then decided—by now apparently packing a sex- and 80-proof-fueled appetite—to return to the deli to pick up “some egg sandwiches.” The female said she’d wait in the car while her date stocked up on provisions. Unfortunately, he was forced to dine alone; when he returned to the street with the snacks, his date, her car and his laptop were all gone.

And returning to his room at the Bentley, he also discovered that she’d filched $5,000 in cash and a gold Rolex worth an additional $5,000. The laptop was valued at $1,000.

While the Florida man apparently wasn’t able to provide the cops with a very good description of his friend—not surprisingly, considering the effects of large quantities of liquor on mental function—he obviously had a head for numbers: He recalled that the woman was driving a car with New Jersey license plates starting with “316.” He added that the vehicle might have been black, with a gray interior.

Warning Signs

Crooks offer all sorts of clues to let you know they mean business. These run the gamut from verbal threats to the display of actual weapons. But perhaps the most persuasive is when they’re sporting fresh wounds. The average Joe, suffering from physical injury, would probably first go searching for a hospital. But if a bad guy is so desperate that he’s willing to assault you while his own flesh is falling off, you probably ought to consider complying with his demands.

That’s the situation in which one 34-year-old Third Avenue resident found herself on Sept. 27. She was riding her bike westbound on 88th Street between Second and Third avenues at 6 p.m. when a villain jumped in front of her and stated, “Give me your bike or I’ll shoot you.”

He didn’t produce any weapons or even attack her; then again, he didn’t have to. His face said it all. According to his victim, it featured “fresh slashes.” So the lady relinquished her bike, a dark blue Univega of unreported value. She also allowed the perp—described as 40 years old and 5-foot-9—to abscond with $15 and her Visa card. The police conducted a canvass of the neighborhood for the maimed crook, but with negative results.

Dean, 39, is the "business" mind of the partnership. Davis, 43, is the "creative," scruffy one, a photographer and scout for emerging talent.

"I know so many people, people like Jack Nicholson," he said, sitting in Dean's royal-blue-carpeted office across from his brother and a big glass vase of calla lilies. "I've known Jack forever." The previous night, Mr. Nicholson's daughter, Jennifer, had shown her line-a coup for the brothers. "You should've seen me handling the press with Jack," Davis said.

The SmashBox complex, conceptually modeled after Industria in the West Village, is across the street from the Debbie Allen Dance Academy and near the backlot where Citizen Kane and Gone with the Wind were filmed. Like many places in L.A., the facility is hard to find, and-unlike New York, where one sees a thousand dioramas of human life just taking a cab crosstown-is essentially dead and opaque-looking from the street. Dean said that's on purpose.

"There's very sensitive material photographed here-big celebrities," he said, a large Rolex glinting on his left wrist. "We want it to be a refuge." The facility is undecorated, save for an inspirational poster from the movie Blowup . "It's just … white," Dean said. "We don't want to worry about any outside influences. Your creative energy is not encumbered by anything." He was grazing on a selection from the in-house snack bar: panini, vegetable chips ….

"Anything you need is here," he said. "If someone pops a button on their shirt, we have buttons that we keep-all different colors. If someone asks for something, we get it. And then we get more of it, in case someone asks again."

"We never say no to people," said Davis. Instead of a Rolex, he had on a leather cuff. There was a mysterious crackling sound emanating from his crotch-a walkie-talkie (phew).

A blond woman in a red fluttery top burst into the room. "I think I've had an interview with you before!" she said to the other intruder. "Angelique?" It was unclear whether she was introducing herself or hazarding a guess at the stranger's name. "You look really familiar. Anyway," she said, turning to the Factor brothers, "this is such an inappropriate time for me to ask you this, but when I D.J.'d here for you last time, I was supposed to get some gifts ? And I never did ? And suddenly I was like, 'I need lip gloss really bad!'"

"Why don't you give us a minute to do this interview and then we'll take care of you," Dean Factor said.

"Look at how nice they are," Fluttery Top squealed, flitting out.

Dean rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly. "We're both very nice people," he said.

The New York Post 's Page Six had been trumpeting a "feud" between SmashBox and IMG's 7th on Sixth, but the fabulous Factor boys shrugged it off.

"The press wants to make a competition out of it," Davis said. "They're doing the same thing that they're doing to Shaq and Kobe! The reporters are just starting trouble …. I think it's a jealousy thing from people. Andy Warhol was knocked forever. At the same time, he's one of the most renowned artists in the history of the planet. So that's what happens. I think people are just upset that they didn't think of it first."

They were born and raised in Beverly Hills with another brother and sister; there is also a half-sister and a stepbrother. "We were a crazy, weird family," Dean said. "Everyone has their issues. But you know what? Everyone's doing pretty good." (There seemed no tactful way to bring up their cousin, the recently convicted rapist Andrew Luster.) They still live a few minutes from one another in, "like, Bel Air–ish," said Dean Factor. Briefly engaged to Shannen Doherty in the early 1990's-she notoriously threatened to run him over-he is now married to a different, civilian Shannon, who just graduated from law school and is writing a script; they have a baby daughter.

Davis Factor, a former aspiring ski racer, is still a bachelor. "I never got there," he said. "Everybody's saying to me, 'God, you could find a girlfriend here; you could meet your next wife here.' It's like, 'I can't sit and talk to someone for a second-I've got 50 people around me!' I'm working, you know? All kinds of women here-I'm too wacked out of my mind to even make sense of what I'm talking."

He whipped out a white tube-SmashBox also owns a cosmetics company-and swiped it across his lower lip.

"That's mine," Dean said.

"No, it's mine-I've been using it all day," Davis said.

What was the week's biggest drama?

"The biggest drama is that a couple of people got upset at the valet parking guy one night, because they were rude," Davis said. "You know? You get all these amped-out designers, production and stylist people, and they just walk in and they're rude to security and they're rude to the valet parking. The valet parker's gonna snap. The valet parker's gonna be like, 'I don't want to park your car-because you're rude. You're so rude!' And I can't blame them, to tell you the truth."

According to the SmashBox fellows, Angelenos just have better manners.

"In Los Angeles, you'll notice, they never knock anyone," said Dean.

"Never," said Davis.

"But New Yorkers, they all really knock Los Angeles."

"They all want to live here."

"You know what? All the unhappy people can go to an unhappy place and do unhappy things," Davis said. "All the happy people can come here. You have a choice. And, I mean, I do love New York. I go to New York all the time. It's so exciting; I have so much fun there."

"I love New York," Dean said. "I have happy friends there, too."

At about the same time The New York Times reported that the average "two-bedroom" apartment in Manhattan now sells for more than $1 million (shudders; tremors), the house across the street in Silver Lake went on the market for just that amount. The street is called Neutra Place (formerly, presciently, Argent Place), because the house is one in a colony of Neutra houses designed by the late, renowned mid-century modernist architect Richard Neutra. Neutra had this whole theory about the integration of outdoor and indoor space, which has enabled many felicitous sightings of the former neighbors' very picturesque Dalmatian dog and aquamarine Arne Jacobsen egg chair.

Almost immediately after the shingle was hung, the driveway began filling up with BMW convertibles and Range Rovers, their occupants clomping up past a 12-by-17-foot reflecting pool to inspect the premises, which include a magnasite front deck, three modestly sized bedrooms, a rear patio with fire pit and pond (koi optional), carport, walk-in closets, deck, terrace and a Sub-Zero refrigerator retrofitted into the kitchen cabinetry. The house, built in 1959, has been photographed for several glossy coffee-table books, and the owners hope-inexplicably-to move to Pasadena once the sale is final. Richard Stanley at Coldwell Banker is handling the sale: 323-906-2417.

It's the coolest house ever, but there's one problem: That view of the sparkling reservoir and the Hollywood sign? Partially obscured by our crummy rental.

because I've seen them twice and thought about them often. Their one-person

Broadway shows keep getting extended, but I still advise you to get there fast.

Acid drips from their shapely mouths when these two flamboyant legends go at

their memoirs with an ice pick, and you don't want to miss a word.

In Bea Arthur on Broadway: Just Between Friends , at the Booth, the

popular harridan from Golden Girls

stomps about in her bare feet and shares her recipe for leg of lamb. Her

friends are everybody in the audience. In Elaine

Stritch at Liberty , at the Neil Simon, the veteran actress and

musical-comedy second banana with Yellow Cab hair and matchstick legs wears

Judy Garland's old rehearsal costumes and shares candid revelations about her

alcoholism. She's "at liberty" at last to be a real star-not a sexy, glamorous

kill-for star, but a "Look at me, I'm still here" star-for its own sake.

Two members of an endangered species better known in impolite

circles as "great old broads," as different as satin pumps and Reeboks, yet

both working toward the same goals: acceptance, approval and love. On a

cost-benefit analysis, they hit their marks and deliver a lot of themselves for

your money. Ms. Stritch delivers quite a bit more than that-two and a half

hours of it, to be exact. You won't go away from the intermissionless Ms. Bea

scratching your head and asking, "Huh?"-although a few people do leave the

exhausting Ms. Stritch asking, "Why?"

For Bea Arthur fans, there is plenty of Maude to go around.

Establishing squatters' rights on a stage that looks like the set from the old

Johnny Carson show, she warbles ribald songs like "What Can You Get a Nudist

for Her Birthday," and the old Sophie Tucker chestnut "You've Got to Be Loved

to Be Healthy," accompanied by the brilliant

composer-pianist Billy Goldenberg. She tells a few jokes that are so old

they're hairy and still manages to bring down the house with her Rolex eyes and

dead-on comic timing, and aims poison darts at Jerome Robbins, Pia Zadora and

Tallulah Bankhead. Getting serious, she tackles Kurt Weill's dark and difficult

"Pirate Jenny" with that voice of molten lava that sounds like a cross between

T.C. Jones and a pit bull, but one wonders if her TV fans have ever heard of The Threepenny Opera . They have

certainly heard of Angela Lansbury, with whom she sang the show-stopping "Bosom

Buddies" number in Mame . The

blue-haired grannies bussed in from Jersey applaud when they hear the name,

then gasp in collective horror, sucking the oxygen out of the orchestra, when

she gratuitously reveals that the beloved star of Murder, She Wrote can also cuss like a drunken stevedore.

Oh, well, Bea is Bea. She's been around long enough to say what's

on her raunchy and delectable mind, and surprisingly, none of it seems shocking

or mean-spirited. That's entertainment.

A close friend of Elaine

Stritch-who remains anonymous for obvious reasons-thinks the difference between

this duo of divas is simple: "Bea sets out to entertain the audience; Elaine

comes out slugging, determined to get

the audience." Well, maybe not so simple. While years of canny experience

commanding prosceniums and manipulating adoring audiences pay off for them

both, Ms. Arthur never gets personal, while Ms. Stritch saves herself the time

and sweat of writing a potentially best-selling autobiography by talking it

instead, warts and all. Bea's show is frothy and fun; Elaine goes for all the

jugulars, including her own. Bea is doing what is essentially a galvanized

cabaret act; Elaine is performing a structured piece of theatrical

psychoanalysis.

Brainy and brittle and looking like her own Al Hirschfeld

caricature, Ms. Stritch has constructed a systematic self-examination fueled by

insecurity and egotism that is sometimes up the wall and over the fence, other

times moving and funny and informed by a mortgaged

heart, and always endlessly introspective and fascinating. A great,

unique, uncontrollable, exasperating and often undervalued perfectionist-with

no Tony, Oscar, Emmy or Grammy to show for it-she has had more chances at

superstardom than just about anyone in the performing arts, and she has missed

the carousel ring each time by inches. Fortunately, she has also become one of

the great raconteurs in an industry with a short memory and an even shorter

attention span, remembering everything that ever happened in her career with a

querulous candor that is as awesome as it is long-winded. (She even remembers

the brand of booze that got her through each disaster.)

Elaine Stritch at Liberty

is a guided tour through her hits and flops; the years she wasted in a drunken

stupor as an observer of her own life ("My dressing room was like Toots

Shor's"); her failed love affairs with the

doomed and famous; her rise

from a starchy Catholic family in Detroit to the bars of Greenwich Village and

the haystacks of summer stock, where she was often upstaged by barn swallows;

her only marriage, to a man who died; and

the resolve to win battles with alcohol and diabetes that finally led

her to rise from the flames like a phoenix. She tells it all, with the

persistence and timing of machine-gun bullets, on a bare and lonely stage, her

only prop a folding chair that she shakes before the audience like a red toreador's

cape in the face of a charging bull. She may be a control freak-one accused by

friends and colleagues of being her own worst enemy-but I lapped up her courage

and panache, as well as the musical numbers she inserts to illustrate those

qualities, like a gallon of Poland Spring in the middle of the Sahara.

What a treat to finally see and hear her do "Civilization," the

song that launched her, and "Why Oh Why Do the Wrong People Travel" and "The

Ladies Who Lunch," her signature songs from Sail

Away and Company that constitute

an unforgettable master class in how to stop Broadway shows dead in their

tracks. There's real intelligence at work here. Who else would think of using

"This Is All Very New to Me," the lovely ballad from Plain and Fancy , to illustrate the first time she got drunk on

whiskey sours? Who else would open Noël Coward's heartbreaking "If Love Were

All" with the verse to "But Not for Me"? She knows the landscape. Hell, she

owns the whole goddamn territory.

So one thing troubles me.

Every story enthralls, but at someone else's expense. One of them, about

getting canned from a summer-stock production of The Women , makes amusing goats out of the beloved Marge Champion

and the legendary Gloria Swanson, but doesn't even begin to tell the whole

truth about the reasons she was fired by a unanimous cast vote. According to at

least two of the cast members, the Stritch version of the story is downright

delusional. She's kind of a genius, but Ms. Stritch has shot herself in the

foot more times than anyone else in show business-and according to her side of

the story, it's always somebody else's fault.

Naïve is not a word that applies when you think of Ms. Stritch.

So her confession that she was emotionally shredded when the crush of her life,

Rock Hudson, didn't return her passion says more about her own stupidity than

it does about his sexuality. Why knock Rock ("We all know how that turned out,

don't we?") for the sake of a cheap laugh? Surely this goes against the grain

of all the rules in the A.A. manifesto.

The one thing you come away asking is why, after all these years,

is she still so unsure of the proper positioning of that distinguished rung on

the theatrical ladder already engraved with her name on it? "My name is Elaine,

and I'm (fill in the blank yourself)." "Hello, Elaine." Time to chill-you got

the job, and we love you.

But, as she once sang in a flop by Walter and Jean Kerr called Goldilocks (she blames them, too),

"Heigh-ho, a-lackaday." If she has flaws, nobody cares. She's so clever and

special that it's no wonder the world forgives her every sin. She's smart and

tough and hip, and this is a rare chance to see her vulnerable, too. All those

bits and pieces we've been getting all these years were great, but this is the

whole package in one sitting. No discounts here. You get the entire Neiman

Marcus catalog.

Bea Arthur and Elaine Stritch. They're like glamour girls

standing on the quarter-deck of the sinking Titanic .

Excelsior! Not a question in my mind that they will survive. Nothing futuristic

here; they're both as retro as a whiff of White Shoulders. And aren't we lucky

they're both still here, landing in our laps at the same time?