High life
Balls-up
Taki
New York Fr he April in Paris Ball, as everyone 1. who's ever heard of Elsa Maxwell knows, always takes place during October, and right here in New York at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, to be exact. The reason for the contradiction in place and time has always baffled me, but 1 assume it has something to do with the fact that the Ball is supposed to raise money for Franco- American understanding — whatever that means.
Twenty five years ago the April in Paris Ball was the highlight of the New York autumn social season. The first time I at- tended it was just about then, and I ended up having an altercation with the notorious playboy Aly Khan. I have already written about that farce in a previous issue (13 June 1981), therefore I shall spare you further details. Suffice to say that the next time I was invited was eight years later, and that evening, too ended in tears.
For once, however, it wasn't my fault. I was seated at a table with my friend Oleg Cassini, a man known for his reluctance to suffer bores gladly. Oleg was being bored by a nice Greek man when he decided the time had come for our table to be shown an incredible trick he pretended he had per- fected. The trick involved Oleg whipping the tablecloth away with such speed that the contents on it remained immobile. Needless to say, having seen him try it before, began laughing hysterically. Just as needless to say, Oleg missed his trick, and the Greek received the contents of the table on his am' ple lap.
While Oleg assumed an apologetic man- ner, I continued to laugh, in fact I bent over holding my side. That is when the Greek at- tacked me, and 1, naturally, retaliated rather hard. Yet again it looked terrible. While Lester Lanin's Band played on, there was I engaged in a terpsichorean kind of judo with a fellow Greek. It took another 17 years for me to be invited again to the April in Paris Ball. And looking back at last week's bash, the only thing I regret is that this time there was no fight.
What there was was much worse. For starters, there were 1,300 people who had each paid $300 in order to enhance French understanding of the Americans. Surely, I thought, as I negotiated the steps entering the mecca of upward mobility through the magic of charity, there must be a better way
to spend that kind of money. But the mother of my children, who incidentally has never looked more beautiful, for reasons known only to myself, convinced me that it couldn't be worse than it looked. How wrong she was.
The place was decorated in Russian ballet style, but the only things Russian that were visible were the waiters. I am not exag- gerating when I say they literally threw the food at us, and when I asked for a drink the place was dryer than Qum — two of them shouted in unison that 'the drinks come wid de main course and nobody gets soirved until den.'
Well, I will not bore you with what went through my mind, but as my host, a very nice man who works for Sotheby's, was very sympathetic, I decided to tough it out. But sitting among 1,300 American socialites without drink was above and beyond the call of acting human. So I got up and went over to where all the royal guests were seated and confronted Europe's richest as well as rudest man, Prince Johannes von Thurn and Taxis, and demanded some of his dago red. I have known Johannes for longer than he cares to remember, and our respective wives are cousins, so perhaps it was a cheap shot. He nevertheless jumped up and disappeared into the crowd. But his neighbour, Princess Chantal of France, a beautiful, intelligent lady who for some strange reason liked me, took pity and gave me a bottle.
Well, it could have been worse. And I did Manage to dance for the first time since the Guinness Ball — a romantic tango. Lester Lanin's Band played on while I made my way out. Although no fight took place I suspect the next time I'm invited I shall be wearing wings and a halo, and my dispatch to the Spectator will be vertical rather than horizontal.
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