Old-fashioned charm
Taki
INew York
I was that rarest of occasions, an oldfashioned dinner-dance for 476 people given by a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary, without a corporate sponsor in sight and no PRs within ten miles of the place. Yes, dear readers, even in the Bagel there are still some folk — very few mind you — that actually give parties and invite only people they know. Such a couple gave probably the best party I've been to this year, at the Bronx Botanical Garden, as exotic a venue as one can hope to find in the asphalt jungle of Noo Yawk; in fact almost as exotic and as novel as a society marriage that has lasted 50 years.
Tommy Kempner is the chairman of Loeb Partners Corporation, grandson of Carl Loeb. the grand Jewish family patriarch. Nan Kempner is the globetrotting socialite and fashion victim, a lady who has attended more parties than Lester Lanin, Edmundo Ros and Xavier Cugat combined, the only person I know of who has breakfasted at the Beverly Hills hotel with Betsy Bloomingdale, lunched in New York with Brooke Astor and dined with Mark Birley at Harry's Bar — all on the same day.
Not surprisingly, the marriage has lasted 50 years because Tommy Kempner never goes out, and Nan never stays home. As I entered the magnificently decorated tent in the gardens, a New York Times friend of mine, Billy Norwich, cornered me for a quote. Already well-oiled, I told him that it
was easy for anyone to stay married for half a century as long as the man could have mistresses, 'as happens to be my case'. The next day the mother of my children was not best pleased to read it while enjoying her breakfast. Oh well, it could have been worse. I coulda stood in bed.
What a great party it was. For lovers of nostalgia like myself, the ball had the allure of yesterday. For day-dreaming youth — and there were plenty of those — the glorious clarinet glissandos expressed the exuberance of the young and hopeful. The special grace of old money and good manners, alas, is no longer imitated. We live in the time of Puff Daddy, a thug, and the Hilton sisters, two sub-moronic low-lifes. But not that night. thank God.
I've always insisted that the only way a party can succeed is by inviting only very good and old friends. The philistines who have taken over say that the mix is allimportant. By mix they mean rock stars, movie people, politicians and society swells. Well, I got news for them. That's the reason good parties have gone the way of good sportsmanship in tennis. Film people are slobs, rock stars belong behind bars, and politicians are smiling wallet-lifters. Ladies and gentlemen do not belong in such vulgar company, which is why the 'mix' doesn't work. If one wants to go slumming, all one has to do is to go to a public place, and presto.
Needless to say, I was among the last to leave, with a feeling of distilled happiness but also of evanescence and loss. Oh, to be back when the rules of behaviour were rigid, and only gentlemen rogues had no intention of sticking to them. I then did go slumming, near Times Square, dancing yet again, but this time it was a la The Wild Party. 'And the party began to reek of sex, White arms encircled swollen necks „ ' What was it that Moncure March had to say about love? `Some love is fire, some love is rust. But the fiercest, cleanest love is lust.' IS it ever! And I sure got a fierce welcome when I came home at eight in the morning.
Never mind. New York is a hell of a place. It is now safer than London by far, although I don't know for how much longer. Manhattan has the lowest crime rate of the five boroughs, which led an essayist, Karl Zinsmeister, to attribute its non-violence to the fact that Manhattanites are terrific cowards. After the horrendous World Trade Center attack last September, huge numbers of them were not inspired to fight. According to recruitment data, the Big Bagel contributed members to the armed forces at only two-thirds of the national rate, and Manhattan was by far at the lowest end. This is not surprising. Why fight when others will do it for you? Taking the chicken run became chic during the late Sixties, so chic, in fact, that it took 9/11 for the uniform to once again be looked up to. But, as Yogi Berra said, for a while last week it was déjà N.( all over again!
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