The Golden Spoon was strictly for suckers. Located a block rth of the river in a revated three-story building, it sported a white-and-red striped capy which stretched from plate-glass door to curb, a huge tri-colored neon sign which flashed Follies Parisienne-Twenty Beautiful Girls-No Cover Charge, and a sharp-eyed doorman with the build of a heavyweight pug and more brass buttons than a general. As I approached, he pulled back the door with his right hand and exposed the white-gloved palm of his left hand, all in one smooth synchronized movement. I igred the hungry palm, dded, and walked in. He let the door bang behind me.