New York
Christmas partying, like Yuletide shopping displays, begins much earlier of late. After the lockdown, however, the urge to party, and party hard, is justified. Like others, I am trying to make up for the missing two years, but the hangover toll is prohibitive. It takes a whole two days to feel normal again, and at this point of my life, days count as much as months used to.
Last week I hit a hot new club here on the east side of the Bagel, Casa Cruz, owned by Chilean Juan Santa Cruz, who also happens to be a Speccie reader. Juan was sitting at the table next to mine with some pretty girls and a couple of young men whom I knew when they were still in short pants. Alejandro Santo Domingo and the newly married John
Michael Radziwill, alongside his very nice Polish wife, greeted me and were solicitous. The reason for their concern was that the first course had yet to arrive and the old boy was already gone. The problem was my dining companions, Prince Pavlos of Greece and Arki – Romeo – Busson, who were late to arrive and only did so as I was finishing my third double vodka on the rocks on an empty stomach after a violent karate session.
Mind you, I was in the club’s roof garden on a balmy evening looking out over the housetops on Madison Avenue. I had mistaken the view for a trompe l’oeil and was complimenting the waiters on the art, until more sober opinions set me straight. The club is on six floors and is quite amazing, but it will soon have competition because Robin Birley has permission to open his nightclub, exactly one block away from my humble abode.
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