I’m one of those people who has all sorts of rules about entertaining, and one of my biggest binding regulations is no sweets before 8 p.m. I can’t stand it when I get to a party during dinner hour, craving something savory, only to be passed a lemon square.
So many cocktail party caterers try to “cycle” you through a miniature dinner, first with an amuse-bouche, then “the meal,” which these days is always those horrible throat-clogging sliders that are now inexplicably ubiquitous, and finally little passed desserts.
The problem is that rarely do the offerings approximate a real plate of food, so then you have to go to dinner afterward. But a mini-carrot cake spoils you for the night.
So at last night’s seventh annual Design Cares, which benefited Furnish a Future and was hosted by Metropolitan Home magazine, when a waiter approached me at the outset with a tray of tiny brownies cut into perfect squares and arranged oh so artfully (read sparsely) I thought, “Ugh, not another night of mistimed sweets and savories.”
Then the next tray came by: little green-striped cakes. “Oh I get it, it’s a dessert dinner, yuck.” And the tasty Prosecco passed in wine glasses cried out for something salty. Or did it?
I broke down and had one of the tiny brownies, which was dense and satisfying, maybe one of those no-flour deals. Then I saw a cute egg-noggy kind of thing in a mini-parfait, which seemed like the perfect follow-up.
But it wasn’t until I saw the buffet table that all hell broke loose. An entire winter wonderland, all in white, on a long chic white bar. I hope my photo does it justice.
One tray had frosted but crisp snowflake-shaped sugar cookies, alternating with white candy chunks. An elevated cake tray had a pile of teeny tiny squares—I assume they were the brownies again—only this time covered in white chocolate. Buttercream-topped cupcakes served as bar bookends, and did I dare take one from the perfectly arranged display? I did.
The silent auction of chairs, throws, and bric-a-brac was well organized, if uninspired when compared to the nifty white Christmas spread. The most creative staging was a clipboard hanging on a string, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Stepping closer, it appeared to be for a round rug. Oops, I'm standing on it.
I bid on a cashmere cable throw by Ralph Lauren (it’s white, of course, and now I’m bitten) and then on a nice enough stool. All the items were donated by manufacturers from the New York Design Center, which hosted the event. I also bid on a kid’s chair—the mini-me in me came from the catering-induced craze. I wanted people to see me bidding aggressively, so that when I headed back to the sweet station I would have earned my second snowflake.
This is the second time that Creative Edge has impressed me. Now I want anything they dish up.
Furnish a Future is part of the Partnership for the Homeless, and Met Home editor Donna Warner is wise to have linked up with this group for an annual, apparently successful (after seven times, one assumes) venture. My favorite thing about F.A.F. is that if you have things to donate, they come pick it up, even mattresses. Genius, right?
Less genius is the $700 Taschen collectible book of photos and more about The Godfather. If Rizzoli is the Mercedes of art publishing, then Taschen is Ferrari. I worked with Helmut Newton and the International Center of Photography when his giant Sumo came out (the limited-edition came with a Philippe Starck table) and was lucky enough to acquire one as compensation. But this volume commemorating Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather is oddly commercial looking, and filled with giant pages of text that I wonder if anyone will ever read. Taschen has a flagship store in Soho (who doesn’t?), but decided, along with co-host Men’s Vogue, to unveil the new tome in Audi’s Park Avenue showroom. Did somebody say advertiser?
The unlikely fit has yielded a big-enough crowd; they’re clamoring at the door as if Brando were inside. Taste Caterers did the honors here, and a porcini mushroom puree on toast validated their moniker.
Wait a minute, didn’t Men’s Vogue just fold (or at least get folded into the mothership)? Looking around I spied a copy of the final issue in this incarnation. I never thought Men’s Vogue would fly, despite the fact that it is aimed exactly at readers like me (guys who care about giant books from fashion photographers). There on the cover was recent parolee Kiefer Sutherland, a kiss of death if ever I saw one. Only one from Marlon himself could be more deadly.
