A large brass bell hangs from a leather strap at the top of the front door. Tacked behind it with clear packing tape is a pocket pack of tissue. It’s a ridiculously simple contraption. When you open the door the bell swings and smacks the tissue, ringing out a muffled ding and announcing your arrival at someone’s idea of the perfect decibel level. But there’s as much need for a bell on the front door here as there is on the front door of Grand Central Station. Wooden tables nestled along the perimeter are jammed with patrons hunched over newspapers blowing steam off the top of their coffee or huddled into groups of twos and fours catching up on neighborhood gossip. Also, the place is small.…