The other night I went to a dinner party.
This is an epic concept, these days: I have not been to a real, bona fide party with dinner and drinks and seating in ages. The party was thrown by my fashion designer/yoga friend, Calvin.
Calvin's dinner party deserves a blog posting, as it exhibited a slice of the New York microcosm that everybody seems to be part of at some point in New York City.
There was the metrosexual Brit investment banker who texted mysteriously underneath the table, as his date pretended not to notice; the amusing make-up artist angsting over her 29-year-old shriveling ovaries and lack of suitable romantic prospects: no one is as hot or dysfunctional as her hot, dysfunctional British ex-photographer, kilt-wearing ex-boyfriend --
she asked me to close my eyes: "Yeah, they're real - your eyelids - you know Korean women get their lids done, right?"
There was the vamp fag-hag favorite-amongst-the-gays with the low-low cut maxi dress - a direct Gauguin image - in contrast with the forties law firm founder stand-by fag-hag who insisted that she was happy-happy to be single/childless despite the fact that her face fell several inches towards bottom-sinking depression over the course of the evening.
There was the requisite gay, side-kick, just-friend in his high-forties, sporting his own version of hipster, complete with faux-hawk and Gen-Y t-shirt...and then, there was me, the newcomer, the yoga friend and mom of two, who was displaced but tolerable as I am fashionable.
For the most part, I like parties; I like the mix of high and low, the element of anticipation, the quiet spy moments in corners when hopefully, nobody notices... I come out of my surly habit in the presence of interesting people, a good bottle of wine, a glass or four of champagne and some palatable cuisine. Calvin is Vietnamese and he casually cooked about six delectable (he started cooking when I arrived) "basic" Vietnamese dishes for us all to nosh on. The table was beautifully set and the seating, inconspicuously contrived.
One of the main reasons Calvin quickly grew on me, was because he carries the pretensions of "sophistication" very well. He plays the game: everything is no big deal and casual. There is not a hint of eagerness or self-deprecation or egoiste about anything that he does - I don't think he's a liar, I think the spiel is genuine: he makes no apologies and there are no second thoughts. Calvin is casually, fabulously, Calvin. Notes of casual: his homes, his boutiques, his obligatory celebrity dinners; his advanced yoga practice as a beginner: all of it, casual: "No-body dress-up in New York at night; only Jersey people do (that)...you always tell who no New York...people here, casual, re-lax."
That's right: glamor is never glamorous if it (gasp) requires any effort...
