Well I'm not surprised. The Howard Chandler Christy murals are lush and playful (a detail provided below), but when a restaurant's food is as arthritic as its clientele, it closes.
The Baad Lamb and I, in our endless search for respectable brunch, decided to stay in the neighb one weekend and found we needed reservations to get into the C des A. For some inexplicable reason, I wore a thick silk pajama top, striped in brown, yellow, black and rust with huge clownlike flat pearl buttons. Maybe I just didn't want to look as funereal as the other blue hairs in the room. The place was stifling. We never went back. With a little clearing, it would make a great gay restaurant for those special occasions.
Delightful is the fact that the restaurant's owner wrote a memoir entitled Nobody Knows the Truffles I've Seen. There certainly were none in the food he served us.