In case you've been pangolin hunting in Pago Pago for the past year or so, the Campbell Apartment is the joint they faked up out of Jazz Age mogul J.W. Campbell's palatial Grand Central office. Marble, wood, club chairs—it radiates couth. Good. Bad: The outrageously priced house cocktails often lack magic. Worse: Weeknights, you can't enjoy them in peace, since the establishment pumps up the boisterous after-work crowd with an ill-advised mix of loud neoswing and AOR (the space cries out for something intimate and torchy—say, Lee Wiley). But if you've just spent the weekend squiring the Aged P.'s around the city and train time's approaching, go here. Early on a Sunday evening you'll find the Campbell Apartment maintaining an appropriate hush, and while the folks are taking it all in you can probably sneak a couple of sorely needed refills past them—as long as they're buying.