There was nothing like the coffee at the Automat
Its aroma and its flavor was supreme
From a silver dolphin spout, the coffee came right out
Not to mention at the end a little spurt of cream.
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| The Automat at 21557 Broadway, in New York City, circa 1930s. |
Brooks also gets considerable face time in this affectionate ode to what once was a gleaming jewel of progressive food service technology, and was for decades the largest and most popular restaurant chain in the United States … despite having locations in only two cities: Philadelphia and New York.
“This was by any measure,” notes Automat historian Alec Shuldiner. “The number of restaurants, the number of people served every day, the number of people employed. It was a true phenomenon of its time.”
Essential history and background commentary, as this film proceeds, is provided by Shuldiner, New York City historian Lisa Keller, and Marianne Hardart and Lorraine Diehl, authors of the 2002 book, The Automat: The History, Recipes and Allure of Horn & Hardart’s Masterpiece.
Hurwitz began work on this film in 2013, having been intrigued — while in college — by the communal nature of cafeteria food, and having discovered Shuldiner’s PhD dissertation, Trapped Behind the Automat: Technological Systems and the American Restaurant, 1902-1991. This prompted her deep, eight-year dive into the careers of Joseph Horn and Frank Hardart, who opened their first restaurant — a lunchroom with a counter and 15 stools, but no tables — in Philadelphia in December 1888.
The venue became a quick success because of their secret weapon: Hardart, raised in New Orleans, introduced Philadelphians to his home city’s style of coffee, blended with chicory. People couldn’t get enough of it.
Horn & Hardart incorporated in 1898. Four years later, inspired by Max Sielaff’s Automat Restaurants in Berlin, they opened their first U.S. Automat on June 12, 1902, in Philadelphia. The first New York Automat followed a decade later, after which this “mini-chain” exploded in number.
How an Automat works:
First drop your nickels in the slot
Then turn the knob; the glass door clicks open
Lift the door and help yourself
As Hurwitz’s film reveals — with writer/editor Michael Levine’s blend of archival footage, photos, printed ephemera and some impressively diverse talking heads — Horn & Hardart’s vision extended far beyond the food delivery system itself.
Automats were known for luxurious décor, with grand entrances and opulent interior spaces embellished in Carrara marble and brass fixtures. And, yes, the coffee dispensers featured dolphin head spouts. A centrally located cashier makes change so that patrons could use their nickels to get everything from sandwiches and Salisbury steak, to mac and cheese, and — for dessert — a slice of lemon meringue pie.
Automats were “an insane center of paradise,” in Brooks’ words.
Hurwitz’s film benefits greatly from her access to — and enthusiastic cooperation from — Horn & Hardart family members; past Automat employees, their children and grandchildren; restaurant historians; and (notably) John Romas, a 40-year engineer with the company, who shared boxes of photos, and the contents of a storage unit laden with salvaged restaurant parts.
What quickly becomes clear, via the archival photos and film clips — and this is just as amazing as the Automat notion itself — is that Horn & Hardart made a point, from the beginning and throughout the chain’s lifetime, of welcoming all patrons, regardless of race, ethnicity, social status or any of the many barriers employed by other establishments to segregate or exclude certain segments of society.
“I moved to Philadelphia in 1954, as a 16-year-old,” recalls Philadelphia Mayor Wilson Goode. “Because there was not a lot of money in the household, we used to go to Horn & Hardart. It was a nice place where African-Americans could go, and feel dignified.”
The restaurants were particularly crucial during the Depression years: a “welcoming, warm place in the worst of times,” notes Keller, “[that] appealed to the poor and downtrodden, because, for a nickel, you could get a lot.”
“A beacon of light in what was otherwise a really dark decade,” Shuldiner adds.
Although Hurwitz, Levine and everybody interviewed on camera obviously share a deep affection for the topic, this film soon takes on an atmosphere of melancholy: a sense that something wonderful has been not only lost, but essentially forgotten. This somber tone is foreshadowed in the film’s early scenes, when the camera pans through warehouses laden with forlorn, discarded Automat machines, their once-gleaming surfaces now chipped, rusted and coated with grime.
Very few people today have any idea what an Automat was, let alone that they were a popular cultural phenomenon. Automats were featured in dozens of movies, and Hurwitz includes clips from quite a few, including 1925’s The Early Bird, 1934’s Thirty Day Princess and 1962’s That Touch of Mink, along with Irving Berlin’s 1932 Broadway musical, Face the Music, which opens with the ensemble performance of “Lunching at the Automat” and includes “Let’s Have Another Cup of Coffee,” which became an enormously popular song (a portion of which Brooks cheekily croons).
As a teenager, Ruth Bader Ginsberg took piano lessons on Saturdays, on West 73rd Street; an Automat was on 72nd Street. “I could usually find a table upstairs,” she recalls, while leafing through vintage photographs, “where I could read a book or do homework.”
Howard Schultz, executive chairman of Starbucks, grew up in Brooklyn. His first visit to Manhattan was at age 10, when his aunt took him to Radio City Music Hall, and then to an Automat. Schultz’s eyes glow, recalling this encounter, and it proved inspirational.
“I have never stopped threading everything we’ve done at Starbucks with that initial experience,” he admits, “when we had 11 stores and a hundred people in 1987, and dreaming about what we would do. I always had the Automat in my mind’s eye.”
Of necessity, the Horn & Hardart story concludes on a dismal note, as the once-proud chain shrinks to a shadow of its former self; venues close, the Automat machines ripped out and sold to scrap metal dealers. Many locations became Burger King outlets (definitely rubbing salt in the wound). Happily, Brooks — absolutely delightful throughout — eases the sorrow with the aforementioned title song.
Although the subject and presentation are engaging and fascinating throughout, portions of Hurwitz’s approach betray her inexperience as a first-time filmmaker. She includes too many mildly clumsy “behind the scenes” moments that feature her own on-camera presence — as if she’s “getting ready to get ready” — and her decision to retain a preparatory shot, when Colin Powell is asked to adjust his tie, is somewhat jarring.
But that’s small stuff. Hurwitz has admirably rekindled the flame of a fabled institution that deserves greater recognition in this day and age.
(And, frankly, I’m amazed that Automats haven’t made a stylish comeback, in our current grab ’n’ go society…)
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