We came to the party not knowing what to expect, only that it was intimate and in SoHo and much labored over by two incredibly gracious and glamorous hosts.
We came bearing Mexican and Munich beer and a clear square cube filled with wheatgrass shoots, the roots like thin white fingers reaching to the ends of the box, far away from the hearty green of the blades.
We wore our casual best of the weekend—me in cotton empire waist, him deciding against that new hat, and didn’t have pockets for our hands.
We got lost along the way, thinking that we should bring wine too, oscillating between choices (that’s why we got the imported beer, because it was unusual and everyone would bring wine---no, no wine is classier, scrap the beer and leave it sweating on the streets).
We arrived after I tripped on cobbled stones, nearly losing the plant to the momentum of the spill, but both composing quick, my heels righted, the box leveled.
We entered into a legendary New York apartment, one which we thought didn’t exist, save for stories of our grandparents, their Manhattans and their Manhattan, their Park Avenue apartments, cigarette holders, fingers of Scotch, tweed suits and silk garters.
The studio was immaculate, (at first there seemed to be no television to speak of, later I saw a guest was blocking its view) light taupe walls and decorative arts, black and white photographs and the warm glow of dim-bulbed wattage.
But the patio…the patio was heart, soul, and party at once. Candelabras had wax fountains bubbling down their brass, wood furniture with a pomegranate umbrella growing from the tabletop, and all around plates upon plates of salted sugar snaps, crisp Gruyere rice balls toasted with Japanese breadcrumbs, eggplant and arugula pesto, proscuitto and caramelized onions, sweet pea mint crostini, and later, a yellow and brown Magnolia birthday cake.
Reds, whites, champagne, rosé. Tulip flutes and proper wine glasses. Vivacious guests, flashing conversation, and our crystal never dry.
Just like the parties we want to throw when we’re grown up.
With a proper apartment, my mother’s silver in use, and a complete set of gilded dishes, I’d be on my way.
Though for our upcoming celebration of Cinco de Mayo, we’re planning sangria, guacamole, fried chips and Beirut. Will it be remembered as fondly?
We came bearing Mexican and Munich beer and a clear square cube filled with wheatgrass shoots, the roots like thin white fingers reaching to the ends of the box, far away from the hearty green of the blades.
We wore our casual best of the weekend—me in cotton empire waist, him deciding against that new hat, and didn’t have pockets for our hands.
We got lost along the way, thinking that we should bring wine too, oscillating between choices (that’s why we got the imported beer, because it was unusual and everyone would bring wine---no, no wine is classier, scrap the beer and leave it sweating on the streets).
We arrived after I tripped on cobbled stones, nearly losing the plant to the momentum of the spill, but both composing quick, my heels righted, the box leveled.
We entered into a legendary New York apartment, one which we thought didn’t exist, save for stories of our grandparents, their Manhattans and their Manhattan, their Park Avenue apartments, cigarette holders, fingers of Scotch, tweed suits and silk garters.
The studio was immaculate, (at first there seemed to be no television to speak of, later I saw a guest was blocking its view) light taupe walls and decorative arts, black and white photographs and the warm glow of dim-bulbed wattage.
But the patio…the patio was heart, soul, and party at once. Candelabras had wax fountains bubbling down their brass, wood furniture with a pomegranate umbrella growing from the tabletop, and all around plates upon plates of salted sugar snaps, crisp Gruyere rice balls toasted with Japanese breadcrumbs, eggplant and arugula pesto, proscuitto and caramelized onions, sweet pea mint crostini, and later, a yellow and brown Magnolia birthday cake.
Reds, whites, champagne, rosé. Tulip flutes and proper wine glasses. Vivacious guests, flashing conversation, and our crystal never dry.
Just like the parties we want to throw when we’re grown up.
With a proper apartment, my mother’s silver in use, and a complete set of gilded dishes, I’d be on my way.
Though for our upcoming celebration of Cinco de Mayo, we’re planning sangria, guacamole, fried chips and Beirut. Will it be remembered as fondly?
10 comments:
See, that's the great part about New York. You can glide easily from candelabras and gruyere to chips and salsa.
I want to know more about the hat.
I am sure it will! Let me know if you would like a white sangria recipe (email me!). Always loveliness of words when I visit here...
I love gucamole.
you get invited to the greatest parties. My life in NYC was never as exciting as yours is. But I think your Cinco De Mayo party will definitely be remembered as the party of the year. Nothing beats fried chips.
I think everyone needs a little of both kinds of parties in their lives ; )
we love the post, ms. k...
you and your boyfriend were delightful guests AND the imported beer was a hit!
until next time...
guac is always good, and always remembered fondly.
but your almost losing it on the cobblestones reminds me of one year when i was carrying my own birthday cake up the stairs of my family home, and almost face-planted into it when i tripped....
I'm quite sure it will be remembered well. Thanks for the comment - we'll have to talk Ogilvy one day. :)
Dude, just so long as you dont forget the tequilla shots, you aint got a thing to worry about!
And ok, when you do throw your fabulous soiree, dont forget to invite me! I think it be so cool to have dinner old-Manhattan style...you know?
As snobby as this may sound, there will always be someone in those shoes looking around your home thinking, "Wow... THIS is what I want when I grow up."
Which is why, instead of having a party ourselves, Caruthers and I are leaving it to a friend who lives in a much cooler house than we do!!!
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