High life
Talent scout
Taki
TNew York
his is as good a time as any to be in the Big Bagel, what with charity parties against racism, sexism, homophobia, eco- logical threats, sexual prudery, anti-Aids brutes and, of course, homelessness, being given non-stop by nouvelles society hostess- es eager to please and make the gossip columns. As I'm all of the above (except for being homeless), I have refused to attend any of the shindigs, but still, it's a lot of fun to read how far people will go in order to become known by the illiterates who read the Noo Yawk tabloids.
The one great bash I did attend was the debut of Mohammed Khashoggi, son of Adnan, as a nightclub crooner/heart-throb. I have never met Mohammed, but his sister Nabilla is marrying my great friend Danny Daggenhurst on 20 December, which is the best thing that's happened to the Khashog- gi family since armaments were invented.
But back to Mohammed. Sinatra he is not, nor will he ever be, but there are worse things in life than not being Frankie- boy. A local magazine described young Mohammed as a Tony Bennett-style croon- er, but the mag was doing a Florence Nightingale. I would say Mohammed is more the Paul Anka type — a bit greasy, a bit gooey, but nice, and especially brave. It takes guts to stand up in front of an audi- ence and, with eyes closed, sing 'Lulu's Back In Town' and a medley of Cole Porter hits.
Mind you, Mohammed is no fool. He had his lackeys cheering from the wings, starting with the greatest courtier to the nouveaux riches and infamous, Sebastian Taylor. Taylor is an old buddy of mine, in fact he materialises by my elbow like a character defect whenever I'm doing some- thing sleazy, which that particular evening I was not. But the party was fun, and Mohammed gets a first for chutzpah and a third for talent.
Speaking of talent, I went to the opening of the New York City ballet as it plunged into its 97th season at Lincoln Centre, and to the dinner dance immediately following. Years ago I used to go out with a rather famous ballerina, but one so thin that when she needed an X-ray the doctor simply held her up to the light. She was also very fragile in spirit and broke down in tears if, say, a waiter brought milk instead of cream. Our relationship did not last long: in fact it was a one-night stand, or one-night dinner,
rather. Because of her I cannot get excited watching the nymphs dancing on stage, so I send the mother of my children to see the Performance and joined Graydon Carter — editor of Vanity Fair and Knight of the Garter-to-be for keeping the wolf from the door of unemployed British hacks — for the glitzy dinner.
The great mother of the New York City ballet is Ann Bass, ex-wife of Sid, the man who paid 200 million big ones for a used Mercedes. The only way I can describe Ann Bass is to say that she's to constipation what Princess Di is to bulimia. She was there that night, as were most of the Bagel's big shots, but I got the impression that even if the British junior royals have not caught on that things are tough, rich Big Bagelites have. The mood was a festive one but also restrained.
For once without a hangover, I neverthe- less missed the Elizabeth R documentary and dinner the next day at the British lega- tion, and it was just as well. I had already seen it back in England and Brits abroad, especially in the Bagel, are insufferable. My, how terribly, terribly lah-di-dah their accent becomes and how quaint and eccen- tric they all pretend to be. I went to 1629, Chuck Pfeiffer's new bar and restaurant on 2nd Avenue, part of which I own, and believe it or not managed to be thrown out for being rude to an Irish bartender. Still, it was a good week, and then I was off to Palm Beach, a place that makes Monte Carlo seem like Mount Athos and where people are so fat their bathtubs have stretch marks. If I run into Ted Kennedy I will tell you all about it next week.
Jeffrey Bernard is unwell.
Previous page
