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The BookBrowse Review
The BookBrowse Review
Published February 12, 2025
ISSN: 1930-0018
The BookBrowse Review
Published February 12, 2025
ISSN: 1930-0018
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From the New York Times bestselling author and advice columnist, a poignant and funny debut novel about the residents of a women's hotel in 1960s New York City.
The Beidermeier might be several rungs lower on the ladder than the real-life Barbizon, but its residents manage to occupy one another nonetheless. There's Katherine, the first-floor manager, lightly cynical and more than lightly suggestible. There's Lucianne, a workshy party girl caught between the love of comfort and an instinctive bridling at convention, Kitty the sponger, Ruth the failed hairdresser, and Pauline the typesetter. And there's Stephen, the daytime elevator operator and part-time Cooper Union student.
The residents give up breakfast, juggle competing jobs at rival presses, abandon their children, get laid off from the telephone company, attempt to retrain as stenographers, all with the shared awareness that their days as an institution are numbered, and they'd better make the most of it while it lasts.
As trenchant as the novels of Dawn Powell and Rona Jaffe and as immersive as The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Lessons in Chemistry, Women's Hotel is a modern classic—and it is very, very funny.
Chapter One
THE END OF BREAKFAST
It was the end of the continental breakfast, and therefore the beginning of the end of everything else. For thirty-five years, every Biedermeier girl whose rent for the coming week had found its way to Mrs. Mossler's crocheted lantern-bag could go to sleep secure in the knowledge that she would wake up with a breakfast tray slid into the recess of her door, delivered just as advertised, "silently and gratuitously, no waiting—no waiter!" During the war the fourteendollar rent was raised to eighteen dollars, then again to twenty-five dollars after Carmine DeSapio replaced Hugo Rogers as the head of Tammany, Mrs. Mossler certain that a non-Irish Tammany boss was a harbinger of the rising prices, social upheaval, and general chaos soon to come. But the Biedermeier's daily rendezvous between tray and door never failed, not even on Sundays, and aside from a wartime substitution of Postum for coffee, the menu had remained implacably untouched by time. One's choice of either sliced grapefruit or tomato, a Vienna roll or brown buttered toast, a shirred egg, and a cluster of grapes sustained plenty until dinner (new girls learned quickly not to speak of supper within the walls), as lunch was not included in the weekly rate, and fewer than half the inmates were so reliably employed as to be able to comfortably commission a week's worth in advance.
Possibly by way of consolation, lunch had become a slightly unfashionable meal at the Biedermeier. The girl who paid for hers sometimes discovered that she had hung an albatross around her neck. It was a daily custom for residents who considered themselves "at home" enough to receive visitors to leave their doors ajar between the hours of ten and two. Since no more than twenty of the Biedermeier's more than two hundred rooms were larger than the original ten-byfourteen-foot floor plan, only visitors of supreme or long-standing intimacy were entertained all the way inside the room, usually given pride of place upon the bed while their hostess perched against the desk. Ordinary callers were received in the doorway, sometimes several at once, depending on the attractions of the inmate, but the girl who received her lunch from the hotel often found that her floormates treated the sight of the tray as a no visitors sign. Then, no matter how charming her conversation, no matter how ingenious her tricks of arranging hair or repairing handbags that might have otherwise endeared her to them, no matter how invitingly open she propped her door, she could not tempt a single straggler to her threshold. The girls whose jobs occupied an entire working day took their lunches, if they had any, at their desk or in company cafeterias, luncheonettes, or at a coffee stand, but as they ate them properly in public and therefore out of sight, no one held it against them. (The Biedermeier had a cafeteria, but for six years had not been able to support the staff required to prepare and serve lunch.) To eat in conspicuous privacy, in full view of your fellows, was generally understood as selfish, antisocial behavior that required immediate checking, lest it spread and infect the whole population. The record holdout, a girl named Sylvie who had possessed an immaculate brow, had endured six weeks of freezing out in 1958 and ultimately resigned her tenancy rather than give up her lunch, her loss regretted by none.
The rest were happily won over to the great and delicate game of scrounging, whereby every girl cadged food—whether a box of chocolates from a date or covered plates from church suppers, bingo hall refreshment tables, gallery openings, employers, women's City Club lectures, or high school cafeterias (a sweater set, in either tan or navy, and an innocent expression being sufficient for entry in many of the public schools downtown, though any interloper who tried the same institution two days in a row or more often than once a month did so at her own risk)—then laid out...
Excerpted from Women's Hotel by Daniel M. Lavery and reprinted with permission from HarperVia, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright 2024.
Please be aware that this discussion guide will contain spoilers!
Unless otherwise stated, this discussion guide is reprinted with the permission of HarperVia. Any page references refer to a USA edition of the book, usually the trade paperback version, and may vary in other editions.
In the 1920s–1960s, the Barbizon Hotel for Women was a residential hotel where respectable upper-middle-class and well-off working women could live in New York City on their own while maintaining their respectability. Its denizens consisted of fashion models, future starlets, writers, and other career-oriented and successful women.
The Biedermeier is not the Barbizon. In his debut novel Women's Hotel, Daniel M. Lavery introduces readers to a less glamorous, fictionalized version of the residential hotels for women popular in mid-century New York City (see Beyond the Book). Instead of future Hollywood stars, it is populated by a motley crew of lovable outcasts: Katherine is the hotel's first-floor director (something of a combination babysitter and resident advisor) and a recovering alcoholic from Westerville, Ohio; Lucianne is a magazine writer with big dreams of nice things and a nice man but less keen on actually settling down and marrying one; Pauline is a socialist-anarchist bent on convincing the rest of the hotel that there is no greater sin than productivity; Gia has come to New York to marry the man her mother is in love with. Each character is enthralling in their own way, and even those we spend the least amount of time with are quite memorable. J.D., for instance, is a particular highlight—an older woman who has been writing a biography of George Sand for as long as anyone can remember and adopts a stray orange cat who appears on her fire escape one day, christening him William Rufus.
Lavery has clearly researched the era; the world of 1960s Manhattan and the "working girls" (as the proprietor of the hotel lovingly thinks of them) who were setting out to make a life and a living for themselves are brought to startlingly vivid life, devoid of stereotype. He focuses the novel most closely on Katherine (we follow her for the first 100 or so pages) but later slips in and out of the lives of other residents. A great deal of the novel's pathos comes through getting to know her, and Lavery captures the stark reality of alcoholism and its repercussions with sensitivity, including how support groups like Alcoholics Anonymous can give a truly desperate person a new lease on life: "[Katherine] managed to lead many a shaky newcomer through the first few steps herself; in so doing she discovered the real pleasure that came from being of use to other people."
The novel unfolds in a somewhat meandering manner, like a slice-of-life series of scenes rather than a tightly plotted story. But what seems like a casual recounting of disparate events aligns into a deceptively complete and carefully crafted narrative. What's more, the deadpan comedic tone throughout leaves one unprepared for an emotionally impactful ending. It's an effective management of mood—it takes a turn for the serious without becoming bleak. The characters with sad stories are never entirely hopeless. For instance, when one of the elder women of the hotel is encouraged to move to a nursing home to stave off starvation after breakfast service is discontinued, she decides to turn to shoplifting instead. This kind of can-do attitude is a mainstay and necessity for the ladies of the Biedermeier.
The most winning quality of Women's Hotel is Lavery's humor, particularly as it manifests in satirical commentary on a time before second-wave feminism and other liberation struggles really took root in the collective consciousness. Lucianne feels no aversion toward Dolly and Nicola, the two known lesbians of the hotel, she just doesn't understand them:
"Girls were cheap and men were valuable, and that was all there was to it...It was like trying to make a living as a poet or something: possibly all right for a girl with a lot of money...But what were two girls with no money supposed to do for each other? Not to each other—that much seemed self-evident and straightforward—but for. Where would they get their dinners? Who was going to pay for it? And who in the world was going to sell it to them?"
With whipsmart snappy dialogue, borderline cartoonish scenarios, and Lavery's wry narration, Women's Hotel reads like a confection at the outset. But its portraits of women striving—be it for success, for survival, for love or friendship, or in Katherine's case, for one day at a time—are affecting beyond what one might initially expect. It bursts with life.
Reviewed by Lisa Butts
Rated 4 out of 5
by Faith Richards
Women's Hotel
Women's Hotel by Daniel Lavery presents itself as a loosely connected series of life events, but it gradually reveals a subtle and well-crafted narrative. The plot unfolds with a deadpan comedic tone that gives way to an unexpectedly emotional ending, offering an effective shift in mood. Despite serious undertones, the novel avoids bleakness, maintaining a balance between humor and heart.
The story centers around the lives of women staying at the Biedermeier Hotel. These characters, while facing challenges, never lose hope. For instance, one elderly woman cleverly decides to take up shoplifting rather than be forced into a nursing home when breakfast service is cut. This practical, albeit humorous, resilience is a key element throughout the novel, giving the characters a relatable sense of determination.
What I enjoyed most was Lavery's sharp humor, especially his satirical commentary on pre-second-wave feminism. The wit is present in every corner of the book, providing laughs while also shedding light on the social limitations of the time. The balance between comedy and serious subject matter was handled skillfully.
However, the meandering structure might not appeal to everyone. At times, the story feels unfocused, and readers who prefer a tighter plot may find the pacing a bit slow. While I enjoyed the subtlety, some parts could have been more dynamic.
Overall,Women's Hotel is a smartly written, humor-infused novel with an unexpected emotional punch. I’d rate it 4 out of 5 stars for its unique tone and well-crafted characters. It was properly edited, and I’d recommend it to those who appreciate satire with heart.
In Women's Hotel, Daniel Lavery introduces readers to the fictional Biedermeier, which is based on the real-life phenomenon of residential hotels for women only that existed in New York City throughout the 20th century. As women began working outside the home on a mass scale, they traveled in droves to the city to make lives for themselves, but there was still a social stigma surrounding the prospect of a woman living alone, and/or in the vicinity of men. The women's hotel, something like a dormitory, was viewed as a more respectable option, without being as didactic as the religious-run "moral homes," which required women to follow a list of behavioral rules and attend regular worship services. Typically, residents of these hotels were permitted to have male guests in the communal spaces, but men were prohibited from the individual private rooms (as in Lavery's novel, this is a rule that was most certainly broken with regularity).
One of the first of these hotels to open was the Martha Washington, in 1903. The hotel offered a total of 650 rooms, with 500 available for permanent residents. These were largely "professional" women, including teachers, nurses, and stenographers, but the hotel also served as the headquarters for the Interurban Woman Suffrage Council. Its amenities (for those who could afford to make use of them) included a manicurist, shoe-polishing parlor, drug store, and tailor. Residents at various times included poet Sara Teasdale and actor Veronica Lake. The opening of the Martha Washington was met with intrigue, fascination, and open mockery. The New York Times provided an account from a woman visitor: "She said that it was impossible for her to eat her dinner in the dining room, as she had never seen so many women gathered together without the relief of a black coat...After dinner women thronged about the office and lobbies, and it seemed an Adamless Eden."
The opening of the Martha Washington was followed by several other hotels, including the Sutton, the Virginia Hotel, and the Hotel Rutledge. But the most famous, and perhaps the most high-class, was the Barbizon. It could house 700 and featured a communal library, swimming pool, gym, garden, and lecture halls, as well as a hairdresser and dry cleaner, among other amenities. According to The New Yorker, applicants for residency were carefully screened, with letters of recommendation required and grades assigned based on age and appearance: "A's were for women under twenty-eight, while those over thirty-eight were lucky to get C's." The Barbizon housed a number of models, writers, and actors, including Grace Kelly, Liza Minnelli, Sylvia Plath (who wrote about her time here in The Bell Jar), and Joan Didion. During its heyday, the residents of the Barbizon were likely exclusively white. Artist and writer Barbara Chase is believed to have been the first Black resident of the Barbizon in 1956, while serving as a guest editor for Mademoiselle magazine.
The Barbizon went coed in the 1980s, and its rooms have since become condos (with going rates from $750K to $4.5 million). The Martha Washington has been bought and revamped multiple times, reopening as a series of hotels over the past 20 years, most recently as the chic Redbury New York Hotel in 2016, which rebranded as 29 E. 29 Hotel, before closing altogether.
Image on Hotel Martha Washington postcard (1907), from The New York Public Library
"Arriving — Martha Washington Hotel" (c. 1915–1920), from Library of Congress
Filed under Places, Cultures & Identities
By Lisa Butts
From award-winning author Paulina Bren comes the first history of New York's most famous residential hotel - The Barbizon - and the remarkable women who lived there.
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