Even the most recession-ravaged can be bucked up by the holiday energy that I didn’t realize was already bubbling up from those New York street vents that nobody understands. In this town, the band plays on, and a night spent bouncing around the wealthy on the Upper East Side, sampling luxury holiday cocktail parties, is a great tonic to CNBC. I highly recommend it.
I mean, I knew the holidays were around the corner. Susan G. Komen for the Cure’s Holiday House kicked off the Christmas event season this year. (I stupidly forgot about their gala opening on November 3 and hope it went well for this group that has really been there the longest on the breast cancer front.) This was staged by the same team that does the Kips Bay Decorator Show House, so I assume they turned out a good house.
It really is better to go to these designer cluster huts off opening night, also known as the night of trouncing up and down the grand stairs, slipping drops of wine on the velvet lady in front of you.
And what a house this is. I’m going to give you the same brief trip I got, because purrty as it is, I tapped through it—not because my dance card was so full, but because there were no bathrooms in the three story, 20-plus-room mansion.
Bathroom break one:
I forgot about this, a decor show house tradition: no leaking allowed. There are reasons. Although no one minds decorating the bathrooms, no one wants their room peed on. Plus, half the time these white-elephant houses aren’t properly linked up to city services at all. Antiquated plumbing and wiring often means generators in the alley and blocked off rooms where the air units are hidden. But really, the staff who stands there all day must have use of a bathroom. Why can’t someone ask Ralph Lauren for a few buckets of just-short-of-white-White (everyone says Ralph Lauren paints are the best, I’m not sure, just parroting), then paint the hell out of it, and let my people go!
Bathroom pooh-poohing aside, there are two ideas worth stealing at the house. The first is in the dining room styled by neighbor Charlotte Moss. A low oval bouquet of pineapple blossoms was a showstopper. Piney, spiky, and swirling with red, it is perfect for holidays and so simple, as all the best ideas are. (Not to mention semi-affordable, although what you do with the fifty leftover pineapples is up to you.) Ms. Moss?
In the Mother’s Day room on the second floor, I kept looking around at all the flashy stuff—wrapped presents on a white bench, giant fluffy bed—all fine in themselves but something was holding me and not moving me along as these houses with their velvet ropes and greeters are wont to make you do. What was it?
Ah, it’s the wallpaper. Not all of it to be sure—over the mantle there’s a Fantasia flourish that burned the corneas—but the other wainscoted panels were papered in pale lavender, grey, and turquoise—brave but not crazy or hot. The repeat was two feet or so—large, but not gargantuan—and the paisley pattern was grand but not Byzantine. (Sometimes those Etro things make me dizzy. You too?). Call Christopher Norman at 212.644.5301 to order some.
Bathroom break deux:
On my way to another festivity, I wonder what all the fuss is about on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. You can’t buy a quart of milk or a pack of Lifesavers to save your life; the lights on Park Avenue take forever; and at some restaurant I discovered a $10 soda. (I had to buy something. I’m afraid if I just use the restroom without having opened an account that I’ll be accosted mid zip.) It was on the U.E.S. where I also learned that stalwart eatery Il Nino has closed. Some guy named Assam did tell me he might reopen it with the same chef. Stay tuned.
Next, I was off to Graff. This holiday soiree was styled by the inimitable Colin Cowie and lit by the able Ira Levy of Levy Lighting. (He’s a former colleague and my neighbor in the Chelsea Mercantile). It being Colin, the entry canopy was enormous and shiny and black, topped with silver minarets. Velvet scarves with beaded fringe draped the sides and were lit from below with green LEDs. It wasn’t my favorite thing ever by Colin, but nonetheless, I tapped my way in at 5:55 p.m. before the call time. (Only by a few minutes, I know, but still, we had that leak to take care of.) “I’m sorry but I can’t let you in now,” the remarkably young and remarkably stern girl at the door told me. “Oh please,” I said. “I’m a friend of Colin’s and Ira’s and Graff C.E.O. Henri Barguirdjian. I promise I won’t judge by being too early, oh please, please, please.” No such luck.
When I eventually do re-enter the black fabric mosque that encases the store, I’m ready to take on some more holiday luxury cheer.
There’s Henri, smiling and waving with all of Colin’s team. No guests still. But something must have gone amiss because everyone is whizzing around and whispering angrily, a feeling all too familiar from my event days. Yikes. I leave my hello for Colin. Sorry, can’t tell you what he served. (Unlike a lot of celebrity party designers, Colin understands food.)
Now it’s over to Fifth Avenue. Louis Vuitton’s Murakami color light logo show gets an A. Bulgari had thrown open its doors to help launch Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center’s spring ball, which is coming up on its second year.
Bulgari’s pipe and stanchion and carpet are black and set up airport style—you know, back and forth. I don’t know why, but I like it, even though I was the only one in it when I arrived and went back and forth, feeling a little bit silly. But I liked it.
Veronica Bulgari is on hand and I adore her. She sold me a ring once for my mother and was so patient. I ask her how much for the diamonds in the back corner. “They look affordable,” I say, and she laughs nervously and doesn’t answer. Seriously though, if you’ve got some dough, Bulgari’s new line of flat, shiny diamonds has the flash for a bit less cash. Veronica will groan if she reads this. Sorry.
Memorial Sloan-Kettering is represented at the door by Muffie Potter Aston, Ashley McDermott, and Libby Fitzgerald. There’s Adrienne Vittadini, who is so chic and beautiful and nice it just galls me. Socialite Cynthia Lufkin is positively beaming with beauty and health. Ladies, geez, ease up on me a little.
Catering for this event, provided by Olivier Cheng, was just as it should be, no more no less. Grey Goose cocktails in martini glasses with a garnet cloud of what I think was Chambord in the stem were cold and brisk, if a touch sweet. When I went to exchange mine (after gulping 75 percent of it, truth be told) I was handed a pressed and starched white linen square. Let me tell you: Recession, depression, what have you, hand out little white linen squares to the folks and all of a sudden the world is a better place.
It took me a few passes before I tasted the odd-looking pastry shells lined with what I thought was ginger. They were pink. It looked to me like someone had forgotten the dollop of spicy tuna tartare. Not ginger, you idiot, it was salmon, and it melted in my mouth, and the shape provided some tongue pleasure. Lidia Bastianich is always talking about tongue pleasure, and now I’m going to as well.
Listen, in these times, take your pleasures where you can get ’em.
