Le Pavillon, the quintessence of sophistication and haute cuisine for about 30 years, was invaded by the bourgeoisie yesterday as the defunct restaurant put up all its goods for auction.  Hundreds of people crowded into the elegant mirrored rooms, with their magnificent wall sconces and crystal chandeliers, to buy everything—from the canvas on the outside canopy, which went for $55, to the 1,700 pieces of flat silver, which went in one lump sale for 40 cents each.  Most of the buyers were connected in some way to the restaurant business, and they were there mainly to find good bargains, such as steam tables and cash registers.  But standing on tiptoe in the crush of the crowd, or perched on the red velvet banquettes that lined the main dining room, were men and women whose elegant clothing and wistful faces gave then away as former patrons of what was considered at its peak to be the finest—and perhaps most expensive—French restaurant in the United States.  “This is so un‐Pavillon—it's so un‐Soulé,” said 17‐year‐old Meryl Levin, her voice choking with tears. She was referring to the late Henri Soulé, Le Pavilion's owner, who founded the restaurant in 1941 just after the close of the 1939–40 World's Fair.  Miss Levin is the daughter of Stuart Levin, the manager and one of the owners of the restaurant. It was he who announced last September that the restaurant would close because of a lack of clientele who wanted grand luxe restaurants. The restaurant, which is on the corner of Park Avenue and 57th Street, was reported to have lost about $100,000 in the first six months of last year.  But everything was selling yesterday. The grand eight‐armed chandelier from the front room, with its red shades and dangling crystal droplets, went for $1,600. The bar went for $400, and the bar stools for $18 each. Seventy‐nine red plush chairs went for $35 each.  There were also endless copper pans, which had once produced the delicate crepes Pavillon, and dozens of white soufflé dishes, out of which had once risen fluffy soufflés tous parfurns. There were even three greasy pans—auctioned as such by the tireless auctioneer, Cecil Schwartz—for $5 each.  Julie Davis, sales manager for Brown Vintners, the wine importing division of Seagram's, bought all the menus for $190. He had no idea how many menus were in the lot, but they were piled in three stacks of at least a foot high each. They contained such entries as foie gras truffé ($6), Chateaubriand pour deux ($11), cuisseau de veau Pavillon ($7.25) and pamplemousse—grapefruit to the uninitiated—for an outrageous $3.  “I'm going to give them to wine aficionados as mementos of one of the great restaurateurs and wine connoisseurs in the business,” Mr. Davis said, referring to Mr. Soule. “Pavillon was one of my accounts, and I felt desolate with its passing.”  Two men were standing quietly just inside the front door—Ernest Guzmits and Joseph Haft. Mr. Guzmits was one of Mr. Soulé's many culinary heirs who worked under the master and then went on to found their own restaurants. Mr. Haft had the checkroom concession at Le Pavillon from 1957 to 1969.  “I started in the old Pavillon on 55th Street and then came here when the restaurant moved in 1957,” said Mr. Guzmits, who is now one of the owners of La Cocotte, at 147 East 60th Street. “Monsieur Soulé was the greatest, He made us suffer—all of us. But it was worthwhile. He made restaurateurs out of all of us.  “Even when he was wrong, he was right,” Mr. Gumnits said. “It still keeps us today, as if you had him behind you. The ghost is always there, and sometimes when you think it would be worthwhile to cut corners, you just don't do it, because he never cut corners.”  “He was the tree and everybody else was the branches,” he said.  It was not a good market for souvenir hunters because nothing was engraved with the Pavillon name except for a few of the wine glasses. One man bought glasses at $3 each.  “Do you want them all?” the auctioneer asked him. “What do you mean ‘all’?” the man said.  “There are 155 glasses,” the auctioneer replied.  “What!” the man shouted, looking horrified. “I just want 24.”  “All right,” said the auctioneer and went on to sell the rest.  There were so many goods spread all over the main dining room that many people had to bid without knowing exactly what they were getting. At one point the auctioneer held up a little white glazed stoneware crock and said that he would auction off a lot of 23 of them.  Diane Wallace thought they looked just right to put plants in, so she bought the lot at $4 a pot. Her friend then managed to push and shove until she made her way to the lot and found that there were 22 pots larger than the one that had been held up and that the largest ones were so heavy they could hardly be lifted.  “We're thrilled,” Mrs. Wallace said gamely.  Minutes later her husband started to bid on a 10‐gallon crock.  “No!” the two women yelled in unison and grabbed his arm. They pulled Mr. Wallace down from where he was standing on a banquette.  The auctioneer stopped and waited.  “Go ahead,” yelled Mr. Wallace. “I like crocks”—and he proceeded to buy it for $25.  We are continually improving the quality of our text archives. Please send feedback, error reports, and suggestions to archive_feedback@nytimes.com.  A version of this archives appears in print on March 28, 1973, on page 49 of the New York edition with the headline: La Bourgeoisie Storms Sale at Le Pavillon. Order Reprints| Today's Paper|Subscribe
Defunct NYC French restaurant Le Pavillon puts all its goods up for auction; scene described; illus of auctioneer C Schwartz, prospective bidders and articles sold