| TED KRUCKEL 09.27.05 |
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| It's Party Time (Again) |
| Thoughts from a tour of duty through events for New Yorkers for Children, Club Med, Malo, and more. |
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 | | I have an idea for the Club Med event. |
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One thing I don’t like about the professional party world is that it’s feast or famine. It always seems that the nights you’re free and bored, thinking about learning to work the self-cleaning feature on your oven, nothin’s goin’ on.
Then all of a sudden, everything happens at once.
In the past week or so I made it to a party for the Museum of the City of New York, the Cipriani 42nd Street-located New Yorkers for Children benefit, a cocktail party at the Malo boutique (somehow related to the American Ballet Theater), and a brand event for Club Med.
But I missed so much. Cosmopolitan magazine’s 40th anniversary party was tricked out by Colin Cowie, which I would have loved to see. Self opened doors on a spa for readers that helped raise money for breast cancer, but I couldn’t get there for my rubdown. There was also a Mont Blanc thing (in the past, their party offerings have been quite posh). [We've got you partially covered: our story from Cosmo's party is here, and we'll have a report from the Self spa next week. For Mont Blanc, you're on your own. —Ed.]
So many canapés, so little time.
Which brings me to my first point. You may have read previously of my antipathy to parties in stores. (Where do you put down your drink? You can’t touch the merch with your greasy hands. And you’re constantly being jostled by strangers.) Add all that to the competition from other parties, and it is a miracle anyone will even go to a party in a store anymore, don’t you think? That’s why I think commercial events in small retail locations should have wider time windows for guests to attend.
For example, if you are having a party in a sweater store, why not open doors at 5 PM for early birds who want to get home faster, or keep it open later for people who have obligations earlier?
At the Malo store perched on upper Madison Avenue, it was just a tiny bit too close for comfort. Result: Some clumsy but well-intentioned guy jostled me as I tried to get a drink from the large and well-staffed bar, and there goes my creamy tan silk-cotton blazer, and the night was just beginning. Hate that.
Other than that, the evening seemed fine. ABT gala chairwoman Grace Hightower De Niro hosted socialites (among them Muffie Potter Aston and Somers Farkas), fashion editors, and my favorite, Fabian Basabe, for a swell bite. But it was a long way to go for this downtowner, meaning even a 15-minute drive-by cost me the cocktail hour at my next gala stop, forcing me right into my seat for New Yorkers for Children.
This is one of those annual big deals. Anna Wintour and Oscar de la Renta are loyally on hand. This year I was at sponsor De Beers’ table, placing me next to Kelly Bensimon and the most central seat in the very first row.
For the award ceremony this wasn’t much. I got to reminded that our mayor, Mr. Bloomberg, is neither statuesque nor burdened with the gift of public speaking.
But when performer Melissa Etheridge appeared for an unplugged concert on the smallest stage I ever saw, I was literally in the show. After I called out to Ms. Etheridge for the second time (she was asking questions), Ms. Bensimon (who works with her husband, Gilles, at Elle) told me to zip it, and now I am Kelly's grateful devotee for shutting me up.
All this A-list proximity seemed great (Melissa is a goddess with just two guitars and an assistant named Chainsaw) until I realized what was different here. In the past, this event has had a great dancing after-party. But because of its success, every square inch had been swallowed, and even as Barry White growled up at just the right time (thanks of course to DJ Tom Finn), no one knew how to get the party started. The most fun people congregated on the street and had a cigarette, then left.
I have only one handwritten note on my program: “food/drink, fast + good,” which reminds me that Cipriani remains the best (though they’re pricey) at the big ballroom game. The rack of lamb was butlered in chunks, so meat stayed hot (as opposed to the sliced and layered look) and the juice didn’t drip out.
I looked around to see if anyone else was enjoying it to find Diane von Furstenburg taking a little bone into her hands for final tasty chew. I always say when a member of nobility eats with their hands so can you. (Well, her first husband, Egon, was a prince of two sorts.)
Also, three different people at my table asked for special drinks during dinner rush at three separate times and were served instantaneously.
The Museum of the City of New York is another one of those events that always draws a good crowd. They have loyal supporters—credit must be given to ubiquitous fund-raiser Mark Gilbertson—and this year a cocktail party for committee members at Rachel Hovnanian’s home was like being invited to a movie set.
My only problem with the party was that this year they didn’t serve dinner, and since my multiyear recollection was that they always do, I planned wrong and went hungry before a long ride home. Just so you don’t think I’m imagining things, I asked two other guests, and they said the same thing: “Wasn’t there a seated dinner last year?”
It’s funny, because I’m always writing that too many annual events don’t change format from year to year, but I guest there is a flipside: If your guests are expecting to put their feet under a table (that was how my grandmother described being fed) and they don’t, there will be grumbling.
One attendee who didn’t seem to mind was Susan Magrino, the PR pro I ran into at the event her firm managed for Club Med.
Held in one of those giant lofts at Boylan Studios, this ambitious effort wasn’t really my scene.
In the sake of full disclosure, I was intrigued because the invitation arrived on the same day of The New York Post’s splashy coverage of the Lil’ Kim “goin’ to da big house” going away soiree (to which I was, sigh, not asked). I noticed Club Med was serving the same odd mix of libations, fancy rum drinks and French champers. But my girlfriend Eleanor refused to wear a midnight satin blue ball gown and/or carry a single rose in plastic like Lil’ Kim did at her party, thus dashing my fantasy of recreating the moment.
Life can be disappointing.
At the Club Med party, different zones symbolized different areas. Over here was Malaysia, over there Marrakesh. But I couldn’t tell the difference. Guests seemed to enjoy caterer Creative Edge Parties’ sesame noodles in the nifty mini-Chinese containers, but no one could tell me which resort they were meant to symbolize.
On the way out, a nicely packaged gift of white sandals paid off the invitation copy— “flip-flops optional.” Maybe I would have gotten more into it if they’d asked us to put them on before entering. Just an idea.
Posted 09.27.05
Columnist Ted Kruckel is an experienced and opinionated former event and PR pro who ran events for 20 years for high-profile clients like Vanity Fair, Elle Decor, Christian Dior, and Carolina Herrera. He shuttered his firm, Ted Inc., in 2003. You can email him at ted@bizbash.com.
Photo: Peter Kramer/Getty Images (de le Renta)
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