Platonically adored by the city’s leading ladies for decades, the flash of Mr. Cunningham’s camera is worth more than any cocktail hour compliment, a thousand-fold. While women have tripped over their trains, desperate to impress him for decades, Mr. Cunningham has remained unaffected, the dogged archivist of New York city’s ceaseless uptown carnival.

Yesterday evening, Mr. Cunningham’s frequent subjects congregated at the Waldorf-Astoria for a night in honor of their beloved photographer, who was receiving the Carnegie Hall Medal of Excellence.

Perched alone at a table, a black fur cape draped over his formidable knee, André Leon Talley arched his neck and surveyed the growing crowd of society peacocks. He was eager to speak about Mr. Cunningham. “He is what I call, the best of the old school world class personalities. He is more than just a photographer. He is a great gentlemen. He represents the best of what Americans can be,” Mr. Leon Talley said, with his lofty, precisely articulated intonation. “It’s not about the moment of bloggers or blogettes or fifteen minutes of fame,” he said, distain audibly dripping through his enunciation of the digi-sphere. “He has always been and will always be the person you see… He’s the same in Paris as he is in New York, and he is the same in New York as he would be in Paris.”

We wondered if one could describe Mr. Cunningham’s contribution to American fashion. Mr. Leon Talley thought for a moment before, with particular gusto, pronouncing the following: “One of the great chroniclers, as well as an oracle. A visual oracle, word oracle, word chronicler; master. American master.” He smiled, pleased with his poetical report.

We noticed Anna Wintour enter the room, swathed in a white fur wrap. We asked if she wouldn’t mind sharing a few thoughts on Mr. Cunningham. She sized us up. “Yes, in a minute,” she said, disappearing into the dense taiga of couture gowns as quickly as she had appeared.

The foyer was filling fast, and, between the ball gowns, flying bisoux and circulating crab cakes, there was little room for movement. Guests shuffled, as best they could, toward the bars with an unabating harmony of “pardon me, excuse me please, and so sorry could I scoot by.”

The guest of honor was barely visible in the crowd, an unceasing receiving line surrounding him and heaping praise upon him. In typical fashion, Mr. Cunningham did his best to recoil from the attention as politely as possible.

Chatting with friends at the bar, Mercedes Bass appeared particularly resplendent, in a full length feathered gown, a self-conscious swan queen. “Only for Bill. I never speak to the press,” Ms. Bass replied when we asked for a moment, bristling slightly.

She described her first impression of Bill Cunningham, some forty years ago. “I thought he was adorable and weird looking and I thought ‘Why is he doing this?’ and when he talked I thought he should be a professor. He has a wonderful command of the English language,” she remarked.

Others, however, could not quite recall when they first met the lensman. “It was many, many moons ago,” Sarah Jessica Parker professed, appearing in a blue Oscar de la Renta dress, a nod to Mr. Cunningham’s ubiquitous blue jacket. “But I knew who he was. I’ve always known who he was,” she said. Ms. Parker was glad Mr. Cunningham is finally being recognized for his decades of singular effort. “His work is deserving. Every now and then a deserving person is recognized,” she suggested, “and it’s such an enormous body of work! That’s what’s also so special, is that he doesn’t seem interested in stopping,” she said.

Mr. Cunningham had left his place in the eye of the storm and had, much to the delight of the guests, reprised his preferred position: behind the camera. As guests began to head into dinner, he snapped pictures of the meritorious few whose habits met his standards.

Inside, we spotted Ms. Wintour once again and re-approached. “Oh,” she said thinly. “You’re back.” She did, however, share her thoughts on Mr. Cunningham. “It seems he was practically the first person I met when I moved to New York,” she said, waxing nostalgic. “He’s so unbelievably authentic. If he doesn’t like something, he’ll tell you. And if he does like something he’ll tell you. His eye is extraordinary,” she said.

Feeling bold, we asked if Mr. Cunningham had ever objected to one of her ensembles. While she did not sigh or murmur “Oh my dear child,” both were implied in her response. “You know he doesn’t like it because he just won’t take your picture,” she said, an imperious smile on her lips as she walked away.

Nearly everyone in the room had seen Bill Cunningham New York, Richard Press’s recent documentary, which paints an intimate portrait of the photographer’s life. We asked Lauren Santo Domingo if she felt uncomfortable peering into the life of such a discreet man. “Maybe for someone whose so private, but you know he captures so many people in private moments, that maybe it’s a fair trade off,” she offered.

His contribution to the world of fashion, Ms. Santo Domingo said, cannot be underestimated. “You know, I think at one point fashion could have been considered trivial, but now it really defines it defines our entire generation. So, the art that he’s been practicing has historical significance,” she explained. “He almost records it almost from an anthropological, sociological perspective.”

After baby spring lamb chops were served, Mr. Cunningham took the stage to accept his medal.
“Everyone in this room, that’s why I’m here! It’s because of you, not me!” he began, pointing out the until-then unspoken irony of the evening: the society photographer, being honored by society.  “Do you realize what you mean to me?” he asked the crowd, his life’s work.

After dinner, we asked Sandy Weill why he thought Mr. Cunningham had been selected for the award. “I love him,” Mr. Weill responded. “We all should love him.”
editorial@observer.com

In need of a wall-to-Waldorf renovation. (Getty)

The Waldorf-Astoria has lost some of its Jazz Age luster, growing rumpled and maybe even a little racist in old age. The hotel was purchased four years ago by Blackstone for $572 million, part of a $26 billion deal to buy up the Hilton chain. Now the monolithic investment outfit is prepared to spruce up the Walfdorf-Astoria, the Post reports.

According to the tab, Blackstone plans to spend "hundreds of millions of dollars" renovating the hotel, once home to mobsters Bugsy Siegel and Lucky Luciano and jazz singer Cole Porter, as well as the eponymous salad. Speaking of, the Walldorf-Astoria's three restaurants—the Bull and Bear, Oscar's Brasserie and Peacock Alley—will be renovated, as well, but will not change.

Can you feel the excitement over this bygone beauty?

New York's interior design and architecture community, however, is already buzzing about the uber-renovation. Noted designer Alexandra Champalimaud will redo the interior, including the rooms and public spaces, sources said. Champalimaud declined an interview due to confidentiality agreements she signed.

Champalimaud's projects include the Pierre, the St. Regis in Beijing, as well as penthouses at the Dorchester, London. Architectural firm Brennan Beer Gorman may also be involved, sources added.

Call it the Uber Astoria.

For some light entertainment, the club ferried in men and women dressed as ancient shamans. In face paint and feather-heavy head garb, they pounced upon the skeptics with Mesoamerican hellfire, whooping and beating on drums.

Some guests seemed impressed, but regular members scoffed—they were, after all, men and women who had scaled mountains, touched arctic poles, wrestled wild things and dashed through archaeological ruins.

Stella Schnabel was a bit dubious about the 2012 eschatology. “I do think it’s very interesting, it’s something to look into, but I don’t believe in it,” Ms. Schnabel said. “It’s a good theme, because it’s a festive one.”

The apocalypse? Really?

She considered, then grew more sober. “The apocalypse is happening in Japan right now,” she noted.

Ms. Schnabel then wheeled The Observer over to Edward O. Wilson, famed biologist and Harvard professor emeritus. He was sitting with Neil Patterson, chairman of the E.O. Wilson Biodiversity Foundation.

“I’m not really into the theme,” Mr. Patterson said. “Are you, Ed?”

The 81-year-old academic  titan didn’t miss a beat.

“The end of time will come 1,000 years after Jesus returns—and that will happen within the next week or two,” Mr. Wilson said, deadpan. “We have to have the Rapture, for all of us who have been baptized in the Catholic Church. Then we have the Tribulations, when the Antichrist rules Earth.”

“That’s a coupla days, right,” Mr. Patterson interjected.

“No, that’s a thousand years,” Mr. Wilson responded. “And don’t forget Armageddon! When the armies of Satan will meet the armies of Jesus. Jesus will win, of course, and time will come to an end.”

Then we can all relax, Professor?

“Forget this ridiculous story of the Mayans,” the famed scientist concluded. “And stick to the simple truth found in the Book of Revelation.”

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

Mr. Sheen booked the Eloise Suite and proceeded to orchestrate perhaps the ultimate hooker-laden, coke-fueled tryst-gone-bad of our time. His guest was locked naked in the closet. Some $7,000 of damage was done to the place. There was a whole lot of “winning.”

Which left us wondering, can this guy still get a room? Adopting the persona of Mr. Sheen’s “assistant,” we decided to find out, starting with the Pierre.

“Is there anything we can do to make Mr. Sheen’s stay more pleasant?” the receptionist wanted to know.

“Can we replace the Coke in the fridge with Pepsi?”

“Yes, this is a Pepsi hotel.”

“Mr. Sheen always requests a portable mirror.”

“I guess that would possible.”

“And he’ll need two bottles of Johnnie Walker Black.”

“O.K.”

“Is there any way to block 911 on the phone so people can’t call out?”

“Well, only if you unplug it.”

“And do you provide handcuffs?”

There was a pause.

“No, we don’t have anything like that.”

We tried the St. Regis.

“Hi, this is Charlie Sheen’s assistant,” The Observer said. “I’d like to book him a room.”

“Did you say Martin Sheen?”

“No,” we said. “Charlie Sheen.”

“Do you know if he’s stayed here before?”

“Um …”

We heard the sound of tapping on a keyboard.

“Oh, he has stayed with us. We’re glad to have him. Let me check in with the sales person he’s dealt with.”

They said they would call us back. We dialed the Waldorf-Astoria.

“Oh! Please extend a welcome on our behalf,” the receptionist said.

We quickly decided upon the most expensive luxury suite—$709 a night, plus tax.

We would have to pay extra for the rollaway, as only three of Charlie’s Goddesses could comfortably fit with him in the king-sized bed.

“We’re interested in extra privacy,” The Observer said. “Can we have blackout shades so nobody can see in?”

“You’ll have to speak with security, but that should be taken care of.”

“And are there are adult video selections available?”

“Yes, of course.”

There was one more call to make.

“Is there a room that Mr. Sheen would prefer?” asked the attendant at the Plaza’s concierge desk.

“Yes,” The Observer said. “The Eloise Suite.”

“Sure!”

We were transferred to a special line.

“I’m sorry I’m not at the phone right now,” a recording said. “I’m off chasing Eloise!” 

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

Just that afternoon, the ex-wife of George W. Bush’s brother Neil rushed from customs to make sure she had time to throw on a gown. Where had she been? Oh, just touring the Holy Land with a certain world-famous megachurch preacher.

“Have you heard of Joel Osteen?” Sharon Bush asked The Observer. “He did a wonderful night of hope in Jerusalem last night, so that’s why I left this morning.”

“Have you met my daughters?” Ms. Bush asked.

We had. Lauren Bush’s charity, the FEED Foundation, was the beneficiary of the event, and sister Ashley tagged along as well.

Earlier in the evening, when guests sipped tulip-shaped flutes of Champagne at a pre-ball VIP reception, Lauren Bush walked in with her fiancé, David Lauren, a thoroughbred beauty, and of course, she was sporting that rock on her hand.

“I have never been to the ball, but I’m so thrilled they chose my foundation, the FEED Foundation, as the beneficiary this year,” Lauren Bush told The Observer. “I’m very honored. It seems like a very elegant turnout.”

Mr. Lauren, who leapt for a glass of Champagne as Ms. Bush discussed her foundation, rocked some rare facial hair among the mass of men with denuded chins. “It felt like a really warm, wintery feel,” Mr. Lauren said of his ginger-tinged scruff.

Then he pointed to The Observer’s clean-shaven mug. “You could use a little!”

The Grand Duchess Arianna glided into the VIP reception room, her neck spangled with fist-size emeralds. (Considering her reputation, an onlooker explained, this is “understated”).

We were taken with the silver chalice swaying on a chain from the Grand Duchess’ clenched hand. “Oh this?” she said. “It’s just an egg purse.”

By 8:30, it was time to head to the ballroom. The hallway, though, was blocked: A carriage pulled by two magnificent white horses was being trotted down the marble Waldorf corridor. It’s more than a little unusual to see a fairy-tale horse-and-carriage in New York’s storied hotel, and yet the carriage made another appearance during the ballet portion of the night’s entertainment, bursting onto the gold-smothered space and settling under the mammoth, gemlike chandelier.

Debutante Stephanie Nass, a sophomore at Columbia, had just three days to perfect the intricate choreography that snaked its way across the dance floor in diagonal bursts and regenerating circles, the tiaras of the debs resting precariously on the bobbing and bowing heads, each girl clutching a batch of perfect red roses.

Ms. Nass had perfected the English Waltz when she was younger but had to learn this Austrian variety from scratch. “This dance is a bit more difficult.”

“Hours and hours and hours, under a relentless Austrian eye,” one of the escorts sighed. He was referring to Heinz Heidenreich, the director of the Vienna City Ballet, who whipped the waltz amateurs into shape through five-hour rehearsals.

(In fact, one deb whispered to us that two girls broke down and cried at the first practice.)

“He does not like smiling,” another deb chimed in, about Mr. Heidenreich.

The night’s host, Alfons Haider, was required by law to smile. His globe-trotting escapades emceeing these functions have earned him the title “Mr. Opera Ball,” and he is the star of the Austrian version of Dancing With the Stars.

“I like the people here,” Mr. Haider said to The Observer. He singled out Lauren Bush—“Such a beautiful lady!”—and praised New York in general.

“This is the Big Apple,” he said, attempting to smother the German accent that nonetheless slipped through. “This is the most amazing place on earth. Anything is possible.”

The night ended for some with a midnight quadrille in which Mr. Heidenreich led the remaining men in tails and women in gowns through a fairly simple line dance that proved difficult for some patrons, their feet heavy with wine and appropriately imprecise.

But for many the evening had just begun. At 1 a.m., the Astor Room opened its doors to celebrated DJ Ted Gushue, who spun the hits as the late-nighters nibbled on Austrian snacks like bratwurst and gulash, downed beer and, inevitably, danced. (The older crowd who stuck around skewed toward the Vienna Coffee House set up in the Basildon Room, with its chocolate fountain and endless spread of pastries).

The crowd of kids in the Astor Room began to taper around 4 in the morning, and before The Observer left for the after-after-party in the West Village, we walked over to dance floor to find wilted rose pedals that had fallen from the debs’ bouquets, left on the ground as the party went even later into the night.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

Click here for the Week's Best Parties

"Please stand up if you have a relative who signed the Declaration of Independence," he implored. There were cheers and, indeed, a smattering of guests rose from their seats. "That's what this party is all about!"

This stunning display of blue-blood pride came about through a discussion of New York's cherished Hadley Marie Nagel, the most celebrated ingenue of the night and -- it's safe to say -- the presumed Girl Of The Year 2011. Miss Nagel has a family tree that includes two signers of the Declaration of Independence, but at this event, that sort of lineage wasn't unusual.

The master of ceremonies was Mr. Ivan Obolensky, a direct descendant of John Jacob Astor through his mother and a Russian prince through his father. He's long been involved as an Honorary Chairman of the International Debutante Ball, which was first held in 1954. The press sheet described the event's creation story: "Reminiscing about her own debut, Consuelo Vanderbilt, future wife of the Duke of Marlborough, recalled it took two weeks for her to get to England for her debut, then another seven or eight days of exhausting travel to Paris for another ball in her honor. 'Girls don’t realize what a wonderful opportunity they have to fly around the globe to attend each other’s parties.' That remark sparked Beatrice Dinsmore Joyce, a New York Socialite with a dramatic flair for parties and pageantry, to create the first international Debutante Ball as a charity."

In some ways, then, the International is forever destined to be an anachronism, a relic of the past.

"As you can probably guess I am a history lover, so I do appreciate it," Hadley Marie Nagel, Girl Of The Year, told The Observer. She was taking a quick break from her dinner, at a table surrounded by her fellow debs in white gowns and escorts in white tie. Most tables were outfitted with doubly stocked Champagne chillers, but Hadley's table came instead with Coke and Sprite (not that we didn't witness a deb or two bopping about the ballroom flute-in-hand). 

Hadley's a New Yorker, so in debuting at the International she turned down the more city-exclusive cotillions such as the Junior Assemblies or the Infirmary Ball, the same dances that once thrilled and inspired a Midwest-born New York transplant named F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"I love meeting people from all over the world," Hadley said, as to why she chose the International. "I have a teenage travel website called Play in Traffic that I created a long time ago..."

How long ago, Hadley?

"Oh, my gosh! When I was a teenager -- I mean, I'm still a teenager, but yes."

Hadley burst into giggles, and put a hand to her mouth.

Miss Hadley's military escort was from West Point, and she had met him this morning.

"It's a once in a lifetime kind of thing," a cadet from Norwich University told us earlier, in one of the hotel's ancient and spectacular gold anterooms. He was standing, stoic and in uniform, alongside a few similarly dressed buddies. Behind him, four rows of fresh-faced debs -- a giant mass of white silk and smiles -- stood posing for a group of photographers.

"But don't drink too much," another cadet chimed in. "That's why Annapolis isn't here, sooooo..."

A scandal!

"Two years they were here and now they're not," he explained. "They drank too much and they did bad things while they were drunk. I've been told not to break furniture so maybe that could have been it."

"Everybody's been saying 'Don't throw furniture!'" another burst.

"Yeah, 'Don't throw furniture.' The first cadet repeated. "So that must have happened."

The girls, done posing for the pictures, huddled in nervous little groups. Their debuts were just hours away.

"Even though we're all from different places I think that's what makes it interesting and makes us want to meet each other and hang out," one debutante in a group of four, all blonde, told us. "Where else -- besides maybe college -- are you going to meet people from all these different backgrounds!"

She was referring to the three other countries represented at the International Debutante Ball, which were Sweden, France, and England.

"And it's funny seeing how many people know other people that you know," the girl on the left, who seemed a bit shy, let out.

"Exactly!" said another. "You have that random friend who also happens to go to your school, or went to your school..."

The four girls started laughing.

With dinner set to begin the debs and their escorts filed into the Waldorf's grand ballroom, which exuded a level of sumptuousness that may be familiar to those raised in New York luxury but was wildly alien to many of the young eyes present. The balcony was festooned liberally with holly and velvet, golden bulbs and silver bulbs, and these sequined orbs wrestled with the light refracting through the million spindly crystals that made up the Waldorf-Astoria's monumental and stunning chandelier.

"My dad's a cop," one cadet escort whispered to us. "The only way I'm getting back here is if I marry my date."

Dinner (a filet accompanied by spinach and Gruyere souffle) segued into dessert (chocolate raspberry cadeau) and we noticed that Hadley's table, along with the other bubbly tables full of girls in white gowns, was empty. They had decamped to an anteroom where they would line up and shake off the jitters before walking down the length of the dancefloor, approaching the stage and, in their introduction to society, pulling off the perfect curtsey.

Other couples mock-danced to silent music, practicing their steps..

"He actually taught me how to foxtrot and waltz earlier today," a deb from Austin, Texas, told The Observer as she and her partner broke their embrace. "I've been looking forward to this about four years now."

Walking down the line, we asked a timid-looking girl in a gown if she was nervous to walk out.

"Um, I guess I should be but I'm not?" she said.

Then she paused, and put on hand on her side.

"Are y'all wondering about the Texas Dip?"

The what?

"The Texas Dip!"

She was referring the style of curtsey that would be employed by each of the ten girls from Texas that evening -- a deep and thrilling full-body bend that would, on each display, incite a riot from even this stuffy crowd, who whistled and whooped repeatedly. We, too, were converts. Behold! The eighth wonder of the world, the Texas Dip!

"Chivalry's not dead," the girl stated. "A curtsy is a way of showing some sort of courtesy, and the deeper the curtsy the more courtesy. And you're in Texas, so you get that. Some people practice it a lot, some people it's in your genes. Some people fall over, drunk. You just hope for the best."

Then it came time for the girls, the latest in a long line of groups to make their debut as women in New York society, to walk out in front of the crowd and make their way to the stage. They lined up flanked by both a civilian escort and a military escort following behind them with a flag representing the debutante's country or state. Just before the big moment, the master of ceremonies gave a pep talk that ended with this immortal salvo, a sendoff before the young women were to enter their new phase in life:

"We want you to smile. We want you to have a really good time. We want you to recognize your parents. We want you to have a really good time."

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

The Shareholders of Hilton Hotels Corporation turned over the hotel at 301 Park Avenue to BH Hotels LLC for $572,343,007, according to real property transfer tax records entered with the city on Nov. 21. Hilton also sold the Hilton New York at 1335 Avenue of the Americas for $757,804,148 and two contiguous lots at 102-108 West 57th Street for $68,989,066. The entire trade between Hilton and BH Hotels totals $1,399,136,221.

UPDATE: BH Hotels LLC is an entity of the Blackstone Group, which bought out Hilton in October in a $26 billion purchase. This hotel deal is part of that buy.

The gem of the deal is the Waldorf-Astoria, one of New York's iconic midtown hotels. The Waldorf Hotel was opened by William Waldorf Astor in 1893 at the site of his mansion at Fifth Avenue and 33rd Street. Four years later, Astor's cousin, John Jacob Astor IV, opened the Astoria Hotel on a neighboring site. By 1929, however, to make room for the Empire State Building, both hotels, by then adjoining one another, were demolished and the current Waldorf-Astoria was reopened in 1931 as then the world's largest and tallest hotel. It currently has 1,245 rooms, according to its Web site.

Hilton bought the sites on West 57th Street in 2006 for $63 million. These included the site of the former Shelly's restaurant and an adjacent office building. In September 2006, Hilton announced plans for the 28-story development of a Hilton Grand Vacations Club on part of the site to offer time-shares.

8:15 a.m. The New York Law School's Center for Real Estate Studies holds a breakfast forum on the future of city real estate at 47 Worth Street.

9 a.m. The directors of the city's Industrial Development Agency will meet at the New York Economic Development Corporation, 110 William Street.

9 a.m. The mayor's senior policy adviser in the Office of Long Term Planning and Sustainability speaks at lighting industry forum at the Roosevelt Hotel, Madison Avenue and 45th Street.

10 a.m. Councilman Bill de Blasio and family advocates discuss efforts to increase the number of Family Court judges on the City Hall steps.

11 a.m. Rev. Al Sharpton and other ministers, community leaders and health care workers speak against the governor's proposed health care cuts in front of North General Hospital, 1879 Madison Avenue.

6 p.m. A St. Patrick's Day corned beef cook-off will benefit the families of Fighting 69th and Fisher House at the 69th Regiment Armory, 68 Lexington Avenue.

7 p.m. Domestic violence survivors and supporters will gather at a Girls Night Out anti-violence fundraiser at Fizz Restaurant & Lounge, 137 E. 55th Street.

7 p.m. Author and activist Larry Kramer commemorates the 20th anniversary of ACT UP at the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Community Center, 208 W. 13th Street.

7:30 p.m. Former ABC News correspondent John Miller and "The Looming Tower" author Lawrence Wright discuss Western media coverage of radical Islam at the Council on Foreign Relations, 58 E. 68th Street.

-- Gillian Reagan

John Faso attends the Columbus Citizens Foundation Gala Dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

The Astoria Frank Kenna Republican Club and the NY Young Republican Club will hold their final voter registration drive of the 2006 election season.

On Sunday, Bob Menendez and Tom Kean, Jr. debate on CBS.

Monday is Columbus Day!

Vito Fossella and Steve Harrison spend the holiday debating. Twice.

—Nicole Brydson

At the center of the controversy is a planned 16-story building on East 50th Street between Park Avenue and Madison Avenue, right across the street from the Palace Hotel. The building would serve as a ventilation and cooling tower for a link between the Long Island Rail Road and Grand Central Terminal. Local property owners have been fighting the facility in court, arguing that it would bring traffic and pollution.

But the MTA's plans to store diesel fuel for an emergency generator in or beneath the building is stirring the most concern, prompting Congresswoman Carolyn Maloney to write a letter to Homeland Security Secretary Tom Ridge, stating that the facility would create a "homeland security threat to thousands of workers and pedestrians." "Concerned neighbors point out that terrorists could target the building knowing that the resulting conflagration would likely destroy the surrounding buildings and spread to the underground passenger concourse below," Ms. Maloney wrote in the October 7 letter.

The spokesman for the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, Tom Kelly, said he hadn't seen the letter, and did not comment in detail on the project. "We will take all safety and security precautions in the design and construction of the building," he said.

Neighbors aren't convinced. Representatives of the Palace Hotel, the Kaufman Organization, the restaurant group Smith & Wollensky, and St. Paul Travelers Companies, all with interests nearby, wrote their own letter to Secretary Ridge comparing the diesel fuel storage to the fuel tanks the explosion of which helped bring down 7 World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.

The spokesman for the Catholic Archdiocese of New York, Joseph Zwilling, also said, "We have been following the matter with concern."

Managers of the Waldorf-Astoria were not immediately available for comment.

The new building would stand on the south side of 50th Street, just west of the Colgate-Palmolive building. The Waldorf-Astoria is half a block east, and the grounds of St. Patrick's begin half a block west. The building would replace four smaller structures, including the one housing the venerable Italian restaurant Giambelli 50th.

The new building would be part of a $5 billion plan conceived 30 years ago and on schedule for completion in 2012. The East Side Access project would link Long Island commuters directly to Grand Central, giving them access to East Side subway lines and the commuter rail that the current Penn Station connection makes inconvenient. In the plan's current form, LIRR riders would disembark deep below Park Avenue and be transported by escalators to a new concourse closer to Grand Central.

The legal battle over the site has focused on the MTA's decision not to perform a full environmental review when it decided to change its original plans – according to a 2002 MTA assessment of project changes – because a facility on 50th street would "consolidate many ancillary facilities in one location and reduce construction and maintenance costs." That would include the emergency generator, and its fuel, which would power the escalators in case of a blackout.

Lawyers for the neighbors filed a request for a preliminary injunction this spring, demanding that the MTA complete a full environmental review. They withdrew their request when the MTA agreed to that review, which a lawyer for the owners of 437 Madison Avenue, Roger Roisman, said is expected any day.

But the battle appears to be just heating up. Project opponents have already retained lawyers, consultants, and public relations teams, and have even produced a thick study touting an alternative proposal.