Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent (9 page)

“Who do you think has the best style … the French?”

“I actually think the best style in Europe goes to London. The men are not overly curated. Anyway, it’s more important to be fit than to be well dressed.” She yawned.

“Perhaps you’re biased because you’re English.”

“
No
, dahling,” she said, fingering a toasted slice of pita. “I call it like I see it. I love America, but the men are the worst dressed on the planet. They have zero style and let their
wives
dress them. It’s so sad. I do love your style, though. You’re more European than American. And you have wonderful suits. Napoli?”

“How did you know?” I nearly choked on the pita.

“It’s the cut. Very Neapolitan.”

“What’s the difference between an English suit and this suit, in your opinion?”

“In England, the suits are more conservative. They have a way of fitting by giving the
illusion
of being ill fitting, but the fit is, well … very English.”

“And the women?”

“My friends all look good. Very little makeup. Right off the country estate and right into the Range Rover.”

“And the best female style award goes to … ?”

“Why Sophia Loren, of course, dahling. Who else
could it possibly be
?”

The next day, I met my close friend, a very talented menswear designer, for lunch at the Downtown outpost of Cipriani on West Broadway to catch up on our summer vacations. Cips was exactly what I needed as I tried to ease back to my New York diet after two weeks of gorging on Southern Caprese cuisine. And when one is feasting day in and day out, one cannot just go cold turkey. Like one eases off cigarettes or heroin, there has to be a methadone version of Italian food withdrawal to help the body recover. My friend, who is a Paleo, wasn’t indulging. However, I always love getting his POV, as he doesn’t have opinions as much as free-floating declarations!

“I just think Italians wear it better,” he stated clearly.

“I agree.” I viewed the glistening
melanzane alla parmigiana
lasciviously. “But how so?”

“The fit of the clothing is closer to the body, and they are more casual about it than the Americans. When American men get dressed up, they look
constipated
,” he said, not caring that I was eating.

“The Italians are also in better shape,” he continued. “They’re fit. Americans are afraid to sit down because they don’t want to wrinkle their suits.”

“So you aren’t a fan of American style?”

“They look like assholes.”

“So who is buying your clothes? You live in America.” I tried to shoot holes in his theory.

“I design for myself.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning my customers—they’re all rich. They’re all in shape. International. They’re not wearing velour sweatsuits in Vail. That’s not Italian style.”

“What do you think of
the
sweater
?”

“Italians wear the sweater because it’s cold, Americans wear it because they saw an Italian wearing it in a magazine but then it’s one hundred and twenty degrees.”

“What do you think of the French?”

“I think French women are the best. Chic and a bit messy. French men have good suits but for some reason they wear those long shoes and look like elves. The tips are always five inches past their toes. I still think the Italians do it better. That’s why I manufacture my suits in Italy. They only want the best of everything. The best fabrics and tailoring. They may not have a lot but it’s always the best. It’s the opposite in New York.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“It’s the truth. In the US we hate our jobs because we need to make money. In Europe they take being the best seriously. The best tailor, the best waiter. They’re happy every day doing whatever they are doing. It’s the olives. Even the man who is making espresso at the gas station, so there’s a pride and therefore the style and clothes are the best quality. We’re all working so hard that we’re miserable. But that’s the reason we work so hard: to make money, be miserable, and then fly over there for great style and a great bowl of pasta. For five days of happiness.”

Two days ago, I decided to duck into Via Quadronno for a double espresso as I had a little too much fun the night before. As I stirred the espresso with the diminutive spoon, an attractive older and aristocratic woman walked up to the bar. I did a double take as I noticed she was a
Sophia,
the mocha velvety skin, the high bust, the coiffed hair—all cheekbones with the Sophia spectacles and dripping in Buccellati. She looked me over from head to toe.

“
Scusi,
” she said. “
Che ora
è
?
”

“I’m sorry, but I only speak menu?”

“Menu? I don’t understand.”

“I have been going to Italy for over twenty-five years, but I only speak menu.”

“Now, I understand.” She laughed. “I’m so sorry, but I thought you were Italian, the way you were wearing your sweater.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I said with a smile. “You actually just made my day.” I smiled at my Sophia. I stood up straighter, the lavender cashmere sweater falling ever so effortlessly over my shoulders, perfectly in place.

13. LET THEM EAT KALE

Extreme Dieters Ruining Dinner Parties for Everyone Else

“HOW CAN ANYONE THROW
a dinner party today?”

A noted hostess bewailed the current state of culinary affairs in the drawing room of her regal Park Avenue duplex, in one of the grandest of grand co-op buildings. It was ever so expansive yet artfully understated, with parquet de Versailles floors dutifully waxed into the kind of dull patina old money truly understands.

We were having late-afternoon cocktails as the sun dimmed through the sheers, and she waxed poetically about the dire straits of entertaining today’s power couples versus the glorious dinner parties of yore.

“Let’s say you have six couples for an intimate dinner,” she said. “Nowadays, this one has a nut or shellfish allergy. This one is now a vegan. The wife is a vegetarian but eats cheese. The other couple eats no dairy. The new thing I hear is this Paleo craze, where people want to eat like a caveman. Someone’s assistant even called my chef to inquire as to whether it was sockeye or farm-raised salmon.” She harrumphed. “Can you imagine? It’s gotten to the point where I should just put out a stack of take-out menus.”

“So what do you serve?” I ask.

“I once tried tofu, but women don’t like it because of the estrogen. Julio (not the chef’s real name) does a roasted, Italian-style vegetable dish drizzled with balsamico and olive oil. People
adore
that.”

I took in the creamy yellow walls, perfectly adorned with Scalamandre silks and satins in shades of egg yolk and freshly whipped French butter. “What would you like to serve if you could?”

“If I had my way, I would do what [legendary socialite known for her stick-thin figure] used to do in the ’80s,” she said. “I would just serve designer meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Everyone just loved it.”

“So why not now?”

“I tried it once, and no one touched a thing except for [a former leading politician] who had two portions. Sadly, those days are long over.” She sighed. “No more crusty French bread, seafood soufflés, lamb chops with mint jelly, or filet mignon with a dollop of butter.”

I asked her if she thought people were missing out.

“Of course I do. No one’s glowing or juicy anymore. Just take a look though at their skin,” she whispered. “They’re all
sandpaper
. They all look like prisoners on furlough—every last one of them.”

The old adage “you can never be too rich or too thin” has had a renaissance on Madison and Park. Competitive and restrictive eating and exercise regimens have transformed power players into Power Rangers. Cross-training, spinning, boxing, yoga, and martial arts are the tools of the trade along with nuts, seeds, berries, and juices. Fat is considered a weakness.

“People I know are
vaporizing
right before my eyes,” Second Wife whispered over a belated holiday meal at her home, twinkling above the UES skyline. I often refer to her as my
second
wife as she is one of Dana’s and my closest friends, but thankfully, her husband gets the Amex bills, not me.

“I feel everyone’s constantly at an ashram.” She shrugged, taking a paper-thin slice of holiday turkey off the platter her chef prepared. “People are starting to look like bobbleheads.”

“You’re certainly known for your figure,” I offered.

“Thank you,” she said. “You know, I work at it, but it’s getting to the point where it’s no fun anymore.”

“How so?”

“You also have to enjoy life. People describe others as obese if they are only twelve to fifteen pounds overweight. And it’s not like everyone looks so good so thin. You start seeing the drawn, leathery skin. I call it ‘pointy face.’ They look ten years older.”

“It
is
crazy. If a centimeter of fat hangs over the belt, your husband is filing for a divorce,” I said, sadly. “How do you feel about that?”

“Not my
problemo.
” She shrugged again.

“That’s because you’re disciplined,” I said, toasting her.

“The bread basket is
over
,” she declared. “Welcome to lollipop-head land.”

According to a recent study, two-thirds of the US population is overweight or obese. But not in the 10021 zip code.

“It really is one of the great ironies that in the olden days fat people were rich and poor people were skinny,” a leading nutritionist told me over seitan at Gobo. “The higher the income area, the lower the weight.”

“Do you think it’s also about fashion?”

“It’s really about everything,” she said, crunching on a piece of fresh lettuce. “By the way, veggies are a great replacement for bread when you’re eating hummus. And two almonds in the morning quell hunger.”

I nodded. “Do you think people are taking all this too far?”

“Everyone needs certain nutrients, but underweight is better than overweight in my opinion. And from what I know, they don’t even make couture gowns over a certain size, so it pays to be thin if you’re in that crowd.”

“Where’s that? Hollywood?”

“Yes, but certainly in New York.”

“And where else?”

“Palm Beach for sure,” she said. “Oh, another tip: boil asparagus until very soft, and use it in a blender as a base for low-cal guacamole.”

“Thin is the new luxury,” the
Ü
ber
svelte and Fit Real Estate Developer remarked on the terrace of his recently developed multimillion-dollar penthouse.

“In my father’s day, there were the social x-rays. The women looked after their weight, but the men were large.” He reeled off two ’80s titans of nouvelle society, one a financier in New York and the other a legendary magnate in Beverly Hills. “They could eat prodigious amounts of food. Their girth was considered powerful.

“Today, the new successful men are careful about their weight and want to be thin. Old-school fat is considered slothful. Old school was prime rib; new school is parmesan-roasted kale.”

“But what do you really crave now and then?” I asked.

“The roasted carrots from ABC Kitchen.”

Certainly, I know Chef Dan’s culinary skills. “He’s the best,” I agreed. “But don’t you ever want a good, old-fashioned cheesecake?”

“No, do
you
?” he asked, as if I had suggested dropping bath salts at a rave.

“Actually”—I leaned in—“when I need a fix, I have seven-layer cake shipped in from the Five Towns.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Just like people used to frown on smoking, now they frown on bad eating,” he advised, giving me the tour of the planted terrace replete with Palladian-style French doors that some lucky high flier would soon inhabit.

I marveled over the kitchen.

“Yes, it has everything … and even a wine cellar,” he said, listing the latest top-of-the-line appliances and luxuries.

“For the dinner parties where no one eats anything,” I joked.

“If they’re smart,” he said seriously.

“For successful men, do you think it’s about competition as well?”

“Everyone wants you to know they’re dieting, juicing, working out six days a week. It creates an image.”

“Of?”

“Of don’t fuck with me.”

“Isn’t that
darling
?” one of the grande dame socials remarked, peering at the cylindrical tuna tartare and avocado column topped with the waffle-fried potato chip.

“It may look wonderful, but be careful,” another dinner partner commented. “Tuna is high in mercury.”

It’s going to be a
long
evening,
I thought as the black-tie gala got under way. The packed evening at the Plaza underscored New York’s robust charitable circuit, where much good was being done while much-photographed women were allowed to also break out their latest couture and big stones. After the customary speeches, a famous entertainer gave a miniconcert, making a fee but still getting accolades for doing a charity benefit.

“Is there a vegetarian plate?” I asked the white-gloved server as she tried to foist a Flintstone-size side of beef in front of me with a dauphin of Lyonnaise potatoes.

“Why, that’s clever of you to ask. I have to think of that the next time,” the grande dame added, her Plymouth Rock–size canary diamond coming dangerously close to shattering my wineglass.

“Are you vegetarian?” she inquired, her platinum, lacquered bouffant and ageless skin triumphing over any apparent lines. “It seems the trend these days.”

“I’m a pescetarian,” I explained, “who likes his vino.” I motioned to the server for a country-club pour of white wine.

“Well, you can always do what I do,” she said. “Eat a little snack beforehand. My late husband taught me that trick; a piece of low-fat string cheese saves the night. Look around. Hardly any of the women eat anything, because they don’t want a poof in their gowns, and the men have all been ordered to stay away from red meat because of high cholesterol.”

Around the room, people were either observing their main course or politely pushing the food groups around.

“It’s such a waste of food, especially for a charity involved with the homeless and the
hungry
,” she acknowledged. “But for fifteen thousand to fifty thousand dollars a table, you have to serve beef.”

Later that month, Dana and I braved the elements to celebrate a friend’s birthday party at a club downtown. We knew it would be a good party, as the social butterfly and her real estate magnate husband have vast quantities of fun, among other assets. It is rare to see a step-and-repeat at a birthday party, but there was Society Photographer, snapping away. I sidled up to the bar and ran into a music industry mogul, a former Hamptons neighbor.

“How have you been? You look great,” I said, noticing his vastly diminished size, his head outsized to his hips.

“I lost eleven pounds—no wheat, no rice, no flour, nothing white. I was a size thirty-six jean in college, and now I am a thirty-one.” (The new dieters, I had learned, often feel compelled to validate their dieting odyssey with stats.)

“What’s been the upside and the downside to the new sleeker you?” I asked, sipping on a white wine.

“The upside is my girlfriend likes it. I feel better.”

“And the downside?”

“No more Italian food. That’s been the hardest, although my credit card bills are better since I stopped going to [well-known, overpriced Italian eatery].”

“Well, you’re so disciplined. There must be something else going on?”

“Of course. It’s competitive. It’s all about control. You try and control every aspect of your life, and you want to be the best you can be.”

“And better than everyone else?” I asked.

“How did you know?” he asked. We fist-bumped.

“I’m not as crazy as some of those Paleo dudes,” he added.

Finding a Paleo wasn’t hard. I just looked down at my own dinner party list and called to speak to a friend who, for more than two years, has done a total transformation, or “mansformation,” as I prefer to call it. I met him after his cross-fit workout at one of the only
five
restaurants he would eat at in the entire city of New York. At a table at ABC Kitchen, he ordered split pea soup, and we had an honest conversation about the new rules of the
über
disciplined.

“So,” I said, “you look even more buff since the last time I saw you.”

“Superripped.”

I got right down to business. “So now tell me what you do if you’re invited to a wedding or bar mitzvah?”

“We always bring our own food,” he said matter-of-factly.

I was fascinated. “You bring your own food to someone else’s event?”

“We bring nuts and berries and pack a green juice. For dessert, one hundred percent cacao bar.”

“Where do you put it?”

“In Marissa’s (his wife, not her real name) purse,” he said with the seriousness of a trial lawyer.

“She doesn’t carry an evening bag?”

“At a dressy event when she cannot bring a larger bag—a mommy tote—we stop for dinner.”

“And how do you eat if you bring the tote?”

“We dig into the bag when no one’s looking. No one knows,” he confided.

“Why don’t you just order the vegetarian plate?”

“The vegetarian plate will undoubtedly be some bad kind of carb, rice, white potatoes, and pesticide-sprayed vegetables from a big-box retailer, or they try to pass off green beans or asparagus in faux butter from not grass-fed cows. No one in my family would eat that, not even the dog.”

“Do your hosts ever get insulted?” I asked.

“I’m insulted,” he fumed. “It’s all processed butter, grain-fed beef, and farm-raised fish.”

“Do people ever tell you you’re too extreme?”

“All the time. They’re just out of shape and jealous,” he shot back.

“Do you think what you’re doing is restrictive?”

“It’s neither competitive nor restrictive,” he said, flexing his superripped bicep in his wife-beater à la Jake LaMotta. “I look at eating as fuel. Eating is not social. It’s a fuel event.”

“So what do you do at a small dinner party?”

“We either decline, eat beforehand, or I bring my own food and cook it. I did that in Paris recently, at a very swanky party, I might add. I went right into the kitchen and made a giant vegetable omelet. Everyone was obsessed with it. The caterers were upset.”

“Were you embarrassed?”

“I would never be embarrassed. I’m embarrassed for them and the way they eat.”

“Clearly,” I said, feeling ever so out of shape. I decided to have a piece of crusty roll with my soup, to his horror.

“Look, I sleep better now, exercise better, fuck better. My skin is better. I’m in the best shape of my life,” he declared. “Oh, and I also wear a T-shirt that says, ‘I hate vegans!’”

“What do you have against vegans?”

“Look at them. They don’t have orgasms.”

“Really?” I said.

“How can they?”

I was having a holiday lunch at Da Silvano with a friend who is an author and a well-known
New Yorker
cartoonist and just happens to be the proprietor’s wife.

“No one eats bread anymore,” she said, shooing away the bread basket.

“Do you think people still eat?”

“I think they do. They do when they come here,” she said. “Why? Do you think I look fat?”