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I LOVE THE NIGHTLIFE by Carla Ridge Salutations Fellow Swells! Party season is upon us and what a many-splendored thing it is. It behooves us all to indulge in a variety of merriments, but for many, a truly splendid evening consists of EITHER an intimate affair with a handful of revelers or an "O! the humanity" throwdown with 800 or so strangers.
Some highlights of the party, which bumped well past three, were the reasonably attractive naked guy in white tube socks (best to have a naked GIRL, but who's counting); the tank of nitrous oxide being passed around on the roof; the flaxen-haired teen transcribing an entire scene from Monty Python's "Holy Grail" on a bedroom wall; the secret drug room (kept searching for the secret sex room to no avail); the fun-loving souls in authentic Germanic getups (Carla was among them, flip-top stein in hand); the co-ed bathrooms where the toilet paper miraculously never ran out; our host mistaking one of our friends for an actual pimp; the champagne room (also known as C.'s, where there was lots of bubbly, but alas, no strippers); the wonderful security guard who spent the entire evening shining his flashlight at the feet of those making their way up the darkened rooftop stairs; and meeting K.'s infamous boy posse, all of whom were in dire need of molestation (or maybe I'm just projecting). Three nights later (with a rock star wedding reception at Bar Marmont intervening), Alex and I attended a birthday dinner that was much less grand in scale but infinitely more delicious and conversation-friendly. It was at the cozy Burbank home of world-class chef M., who dubbed the event J.'s Birthday Dinner (Observed), "observed" because the actual birthday was nearly a month earlier. This time, only five guests were required for a truly spectacular evening. The red flowed freely as we settled into M.'s elegant salon-style dining room. Over the table, set with plates bearing works by the great French Impressionists, hung a magnificent red glass chandelier, which bathed the proceedings in appropriate warmth.
Carla strongly suggests you seek out both sorts of parties and attend several of each before deciding which is right for you. Something between 800 and six may also be worth examining. And don't forget to drink plenty of water. Celebrating LIKE IT'S MY JOB, XO, Carla |
Miss
Carla and her constant companion, The Spellbinding Alexander, recently
attended both in the space of four days. The latter was an Oktoberfest
celebration at the home of local playboy K. K. lives with three roommates
in the MASSIVE ninth-floor penthouse of the historically significant
Alexandria Hotel (its underground parking garage is apparently the first
such carport in the world — and it shows). Built in 1908, the Alexandria
was Los Angeles' premiere luxury hotel and a mainstay of early Hollywood,
when the industry was centered downtown. All manner of stars and starlets
had rooms there (Charlie Chaplin, Rudolph Valentino), and the hotel's
restaurant was THE place for a power lunch. (When Jack Nicholson ransacks
the office of the shady Water Department character in "Chinatown," he
opens a desk drawer in which can briefly be glimpsed a menu for the
Alexandria dining room.) Today, the Alexandria's grand ballroom, vaulted
lobby and wide, sumptuous hallways are populated by the requisite downtown
artist types, among others, and a cadre of publicly assisted residents
who provide plenty of color. 
K.
believes his own rooms — the living room alone is larger than the
dance space at many clubs — were where the hotel staff may have
been quartered (a multi-stall bathroom would bear this out). His domain
is bolstered by the rooftop of an adjoining building notable for its
spectacular view of neighboring skyscrapers and giant victrola-like
air vents, as well as its status as the staging area of a suicide-by-leaping
(clearly this person, a guest at a previous party, preferred smaller
gatherings). The roof is accessible only by some wobbly steps (K. kept
insisting it was only THE RAILING that was wobbly). The building beneath
this roof is vacant. In a strange turn of events, it was constructed
solely as a support facility for the Alexandria, with each of its floors
connecting to the corresponding floors of the hotel. THERE IS NO EGRESS
FROM THIS STRUCTURE TO THE STREET and yet, K. says, the owner of this
building actually owns the hotel and not vice versa. Mysterious and
abandoned, yes, but still entertaining, for on one's way to the roof,
one can peer into a disused room marred by fallen supports and I'm sure
a human skull or two. 
Several
DJs manned the dancefloor, which they kept jumping once the first few
intrepid souls ventured forth. Carla was nonetheless NOT a fan of their
wares. Really — was an entire half-hour of dub and reggae truly
necessary? The rest of their offerings were equally anonymous and dull,
but I suspect I'm the only one who cared. I spent much of the evening
relaxing in K.'s private shelter, which more or less comprised a separate
party with MUCH better music. 
Over
an outlandishly rich pumpkin soup with sautéed sage and roasted
shallots, we began a wide-ranging discussion that wound its way through
celebrities, drugs, vegetarianism, politics, Napster and the new Johnny
Cash record. Talk of Britney Spears' insidious influence on children
gave way to "seven-hour" roasted leg of lamb (so tender we could have
eaten it with a spoon), roasted carrots and turnips (turnips taste a
bit like cabbage to me, in case you were wondering), garlic mashed potatoes
(the Yukon Golds really do have more character than their humble spud
brethren), Asparagus Asiatica (so tiny, so tart) and our dear old friends
haricot verts. 
Lord
knows, Carla was full-to-bursting after the soup, but with so much animated
banter to be had, one could only keep consuming these seasonal delicacies
and Bacchus-worthy beverages. Talk of dead parakeets ensued, as it often
does at such affairs. We curtailed this discussion, however, out of
respect for the esteemed Apple Gâteau, less a gâteau in
the classic sense than an architectural marvel of impossibly thin slices
of apple marinated in some transformative substance and topped by homemade
caramel sauce and mascarpone Of the caramel, which J. later ate with
her fingers, I could only gasp, "You can MAKE caramel?" M. then shared
the story of the Japanese apple farmer from Tehachapi who sold him the
dessert's titular fruit (Granny Smiths). "So tart — make a body
shake," the man had said (with a heavy accent). And tremble we did.
By
the time M. served fresh persimmons and walnuts, we'd turned to J's
outrage at the motorist she saw sneaking into the carpool lane after
having fashioned a passenger out of some clothing he had in the car.
Her violent honking did not dissuade him from positioning a ballcap
at a jaunty angle atop the headrest. This skullduggery led us to a tale
from J's narrative-rich childhood that ended with: "No one had ever
said to me, 'Don't lick a frozen metal lamp post.'" That was our
cue to trundle out, clutching our bellies and groaning contentedly.