Naughty at the National Arts Club
Last week I attended the first event at the National Arts Club as a member.
Rod, of course, my plutonic boyfriend was my date.
The occasion was to honor Oleg Cassini. It was a black tie deal so I wore Red and Rod wore purple, naturally.
Rod had already imbibed a bottle of wine at home and I was a bit nervous for some reason about meeting new people.
We enter the Victorian splendor of the NAC at 6:45 and there are a fair amount of people rambling about. Champagne is presented at the door much to our relief. We stroll around checking out the art and the people. The crowd is mostly older, some ancient and they are all decked out in gowns, jewels and even hats. We loved that they had decorated the double parlor with Oleg's memorabilia. Along the marble mantles were picture of him hanging out in the Oval Office with John and Jackie, him with Grace Kelly, a snapshot from a fashion show and my favorite- one of JFK with his head in his hands with a bubble popping out of his head that reads: Oh no, Jackie! Not another Oleg Cassini bill!
There was an odd scent in the air all night that I simply couldn’t put my nose on. It was not until I read www.fashionweekdaily.com that I found out Oleg asked for all the flower arrangements to be spritzed with his signature perfume. We all reeked like Dynasty characters all night.
Drinks abounded and Rod and I met new people. Some fun, others not. We met a fun PR girl from Vogue and some great members who are eager to see young blood injected into to Tilden Mansion. So many people showed up that Rod and I spent much of the cocktail hour outside. The opera singer that they hired would of been great sans microphone but with one she was deafening.
As a new member I am not up on all the NAC customs but at 8PM a young man pulled out a triangle and began clanging it around as he roamed the rooms to alert us all that is was dinner time. I was expecting Mini Pearl to fall out of the fireplace and start square dancing.
We asked for our table assignment and we found out that we were at table 30. Our new friends were at table 9. Oh dear. We search and search to no avail. We finally ask some cocky waitress where we could find our table and she says, "Have you heard of Siberia?"
Sure enough we find ourselves in the furthest gallery in the house. The gallery was stark white and for up and coming talent. Not the cozy turn of the century oak panels that dominate the rest of the house. To our right were three people who were debating which Godfather was better and demanding more champagne. To our left was four cute girls who we found out were interns with the Fashion Committee. They all rose to leave thinking they were taking up valuable space and Rod grabbed one of their arms so tightly I thought she was going to scream. "Please don’t leave us with these people, please!" he ordered. The clan was more than happy to keep us company so they sat back down and poured themselves a glass of wine.
Now Rod and I have been to enough of these events to know the routine, roll out the rubber chicken and let the speeches begin. But Rod and I had a mission. We wanted to find the infamous Stanford White room. A friend told me about this secret room where I simply must have a private party. We begin to ask around. Aldon (NAC President) is busy working on his speech so he can’t be bothered. Others have no idea what we are talking about. Finally one man chirps up that it is actually a private club in the club. Oh now we really have to see it!
We hardly sit at our table because nobody is a member and although the Fashion interns are charming we have met some smokers hanging out outside who were the total cool kids of the club. And those flowers doused in perfume were giving us both headaches. A pattern seemed to emerge- eat a course, smoke a cigarette, order a drink ask about the Stanford White room. Repeat.
During Liz Smith's speech a bartender finally tells us he knows where the room is. So we weave through the already perplexed crowd wondering why we never sit at our table and find the elevator and push 6.
We adore the elevator- It has a huge mirror and a wooden bench. So we sit on the bench, push all the floors so we can drink our champagne until we reach 6. A huge sign says LIBRARY but alas, the door is locked. Returning to the parlors we find another room that looks fun, but once we knock and open the door, we find a little lady sitting on her bed. SORRY Girl!
The bartenders tell us that apparently some women own the Stanford White room named Iris Brooks and Brook Iris, or something and when they hold court up there all are welcome. Finally Rod and I are appeased. Mission accomplished.
By this point the event is over, we didn’t here anything anyone talked about and had a tad too much to drink. But no worries we had solved the puzzle!
We got our gift bags and headed uptown wondering what exactly we had just experienced.
Rod, of course, my plutonic boyfriend was my date.
The occasion was to honor Oleg Cassini. It was a black tie deal so I wore Red and Rod wore purple, naturally.
Rod had already imbibed a bottle of wine at home and I was a bit nervous for some reason about meeting new people.
We enter the Victorian splendor of the NAC at 6:45 and there are a fair amount of people rambling about. Champagne is presented at the door much to our relief. We stroll around checking out the art and the people. The crowd is mostly older, some ancient and they are all decked out in gowns, jewels and even hats. We loved that they had decorated the double parlor with Oleg's memorabilia. Along the marble mantles were picture of him hanging out in the Oval Office with John and Jackie, him with Grace Kelly, a snapshot from a fashion show and my favorite- one of JFK with his head in his hands with a bubble popping out of his head that reads: Oh no, Jackie! Not another Oleg Cassini bill!
There was an odd scent in the air all night that I simply couldn’t put my nose on. It was not until I read www.fashionweekdaily.com that I found out Oleg asked for all the flower arrangements to be spritzed with his signature perfume. We all reeked like Dynasty characters all night.
Drinks abounded and Rod and I met new people. Some fun, others not. We met a fun PR girl from Vogue and some great members who are eager to see young blood injected into to Tilden Mansion. So many people showed up that Rod and I spent much of the cocktail hour outside. The opera singer that they hired would of been great sans microphone but with one she was deafening.
As a new member I am not up on all the NAC customs but at 8PM a young man pulled out a triangle and began clanging it around as he roamed the rooms to alert us all that is was dinner time. I was expecting Mini Pearl to fall out of the fireplace and start square dancing.
We asked for our table assignment and we found out that we were at table 30. Our new friends were at table 9. Oh dear. We search and search to no avail. We finally ask some cocky waitress where we could find our table and she says, "Have you heard of Siberia?"
Sure enough we find ourselves in the furthest gallery in the house. The gallery was stark white and for up and coming talent. Not the cozy turn of the century oak panels that dominate the rest of the house. To our right were three people who were debating which Godfather was better and demanding more champagne. To our left was four cute girls who we found out were interns with the Fashion Committee. They all rose to leave thinking they were taking up valuable space and Rod grabbed one of their arms so tightly I thought she was going to scream. "Please don’t leave us with these people, please!" he ordered. The clan was more than happy to keep us company so they sat back down and poured themselves a glass of wine.
Now Rod and I have been to enough of these events to know the routine, roll out the rubber chicken and let the speeches begin. But Rod and I had a mission. We wanted to find the infamous Stanford White room. A friend told me about this secret room where I simply must have a private party. We begin to ask around. Aldon (NAC President) is busy working on his speech so he can’t be bothered. Others have no idea what we are talking about. Finally one man chirps up that it is actually a private club in the club. Oh now we really have to see it!
We hardly sit at our table because nobody is a member and although the Fashion interns are charming we have met some smokers hanging out outside who were the total cool kids of the club. And those flowers doused in perfume were giving us both headaches. A pattern seemed to emerge- eat a course, smoke a cigarette, order a drink ask about the Stanford White room. Repeat.
During Liz Smith's speech a bartender finally tells us he knows where the room is. So we weave through the already perplexed crowd wondering why we never sit at our table and find the elevator and push 6.
We adore the elevator- It has a huge mirror and a wooden bench. So we sit on the bench, push all the floors so we can drink our champagne until we reach 6. A huge sign says LIBRARY but alas, the door is locked. Returning to the parlors we find another room that looks fun, but once we knock and open the door, we find a little lady sitting on her bed. SORRY Girl!
The bartenders tell us that apparently some women own the Stanford White room named Iris Brooks and Brook Iris, or something and when they hold court up there all are welcome. Finally Rod and I are appeased. Mission accomplished.
By this point the event is over, we didn’t here anything anyone talked about and had a tad too much to drink. But no worries we had solved the puzzle!
We got our gift bags and headed uptown wondering what exactly we had just experienced.