Caviar at “Christie’s”

“Matador”—a brilliant red shade of “Chanel”— coated the bottom of my chopsticks. My short black wool dress, angle-grazing velvet coat and gray suede Christian Dior heels were a bit much for late night sushi on a Tuesday but, it had been one of those “Uptown/Downtown” evenings that needed to be digested—alongside an order of fried oyster maki roll— before washing off the war paint and crawling into bed. (Note to self: always buy a copy of the “New York Observer” before going solo to a SoHo sushi counter—the leering Italians can ruin any girl’s appetite.)

Last night’s agenda (ahem, before the fried Japanese fare): “Simon & Schuster’s” party for “Why Smart Men Marry Smart Women” at the very elegant Flatiron-district “Sapa” and then off to Rockefeller Plaza and “Christie’s” auction house to celebrate a certain adolescent French queen’s killer fashion sense (“Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution”). The former and the latter required very different garb—book parties tend toward the stuffy and the tweed whereas “Cartier”-sponsored events at famous auction houses can make such time-intensive wardrobe requests as “18th Century Chic.” Powdered wigs and “Dangerous Liaisons”-like decolletage (remember Glenn Close’s bosom?!) were encouraged. My god, what’s a girl from the Redneck Riviera to do?

Neither party disappointed nor did one completely fall into clichéd territory. The “Simon & Schusters” were fashionable, young and loving the champagne and mojito bar. And, “Christie’s”…well, all right, one friend wryly observed the “octos and anas” were out in full force (the octogenarian men and their nutritionally-starved socialite counterparts). But everyone was sweet and gracious and the scene… lordy.  I digested a week’s worth of cholesterol (foie gras toasts, caviar points, beignets) whilst perusing the main gallery’s wares—the objets d’art and the objects of men’s affections. Just how much did these husbands spend on their lovely lady’s ensembles? The hair stylist, at-home makeup artist, cumbersome jewels, yards of silk, throws of fur… Is it gauche to ponder such things? Sorry. A fete down South (at least on the Gulf Coast) is a mullet-tossing competition that requires cut off jeans, a bathing suit and slather of 30 SPF.

My very fashionable, very down-to-earth date for the evening had to get back to her two babies on the Upper East Side. Did I want to stay behind? she asked. Enjoy a few more flutes of champagne? Nah… I just needed a few fried oysters—hopefully from Appalachicola—and then to get back to the real world.