Last Night we went to Churascarria Tribeca, which looks an awful lot like “chiarascura,” meaning “the pleasure and the pain.” Right.
Waiters circled the table with an endless repertoire of roasted meat spits, and while The Seeker forfeited his usual toast/speech in favor of instructions on how to eat the most, The Countess grabbed my hand.
“I don’t like those girls,” she announced across a glass of merlot, nodding at some Vogue interns, shiny and thin and dazed. “They go to the bathroom too much for my taste.”
I couldn’t help it; I put down my sirloin and smiled. The Countess continued, “cocaine is no way to stay skinny.”
No, in fact, eating piles of beef on sticks is the only way to do that.
Probably because he is the youngest of five siblings, Boxer enjoys charming adults even more than he enjoys seducing women. After wolfing three pounds of lamb, he hopped from Baby Boomer to Baby Boomer with his gameshow smile, courting the dean of Columbia college, Boxer’s mother, Patricia Kluge, the architect Zaha Hadid, and a German priest before setting back into his usual rounds – a cluster of girls from Calvin Klein and Target ads lounging in the corner.
As usual, he got bored and came back to the table 5 minutes later, right as The Seeker dropped tiny roast chicken hearts on our plates.
“Eat up,” he commanded, spearing my portion on a shrimp fork. “They’re magic.”
Behind us, someone smashed a bottle of champagne. I bit into the smoky heart, surprised at how good it tasted, wondering if chicken had souls, as The Countess leaned over the table once again.
“You must be very special,” she said, politely flicking her own chicken heart under the table, “if The Seeker wants you to sit by him all night.”
“She’s incredibly special,” replied The Seeker, kicking my chair with a pair of black Adidas trainers. “Haven’t you noticed? She’s the only girl here who isn’t a model!”
Boxer grabbed a bottle of pinot and filled three glasses to the rim. We toasted, our hands on top of each other, our smiles wicked and exclusive, as The Countess stared and a small file of girls fled to the bathroom once again.
[MARTINA BASABE - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]