New York City, baby.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Blubox enjoys 50 mile winds gusting in our face -- ever more so when we are recovering from a massive hangover. The cause: a nightime excursion under the barbed-wire, across the trecherous terrain of the Meat Packing District, past the well-guarded gates of Soho House, until we were deep within the fashionista camp.

And not just any fashionista camp. A British fashionista camp.

The White Room -- God, what a name -- was the stage for a cocktail party sponsored by UNICEF. No, actually it was sponsored by Duncan Quinn. His men's shop is in Nolita. The suits are tailored back in London.

David Bowie probably owns three of them. Or should. We should too. It would be a good look for Blubox. But if you want to look money, it's helpful to have some.

We had a lovely time in The White Room, drinking amid a roomful of men and women, for whom the art of looking good is not just a job, but an adventure.

The call of the night turned out to be wearing Duncan Quinn clothes to the cocktail party. Our friend - we won't embarass him by using his name, but his website is -- had briefly toyed with the idea while getting ready for the evening, but chose NOT to wear his expertly fitted Duncan Quinn shirt.

His thought process proved faulty. Quite faulty, indeed.Those at the party who chose to wear their Duncan Quinn apparel: winners all. Yet, it struck me as a bit odd. Like going to George Lucas' house dressed as Obi-Wan Kenobi. Flattering, to be sure. But a smidgen much.

Thanks to the Australian in the ivory sportsjacket, we were all introduced to a drink called a French 75.

"What's that?" I ask him.

"A champagne drink," The Australian says.

"Oh. I like the name. French 75. That's a drink you want. Why do I like that name so much?"

"It sounds sexual."

"You're right."

"My girlfriend just gave me the most exquisite French 75. That's something you want to say."

Okay, so too many French 75s were consumed. But they were exquisite. They were also, as the bartender ominously mentioned to us, lethal. But apparently the only other place you can order a French 75 and they'll know what you're talking about is the Soho House in London.

And so that made us feel special. In fact, we're sure never to feel that special again. The electroclash music, the shag carpets, The Italian Job on the flatscreen. That would be the original '60s version.

Using any vintage Michael Caine movie as a visual backdrop at your party is all you need to know about that party.

Did they pull it off? They did. A credit to the combined brit-cool factor of the Soho House, Duncan Quinn, and that guy at the party whose style was dubbed by our friend Carrol G. as "Led Zep circa '73."

It was one of those parties where every conversation starts: "So how do you know Duncan Quinn?"

As it so happens, back in Nam, we threw him out of the way of an incoming grenade, saving his life, so he could bring his natty mod suits to the world.

The night ended, excitingly enough, with Blubox running into Mr. Quinn in the posh Member's bar, a short, leather-padded elevator ride up from The White Room.

It was a quick train wreck of a drunken encounter, with one of the impeccably dressed gentleman in his crew handing us a goodie bag as he helpfully navigated us out of the inner circle.

Get more info on the post-meterosexual fashion of Duncan Quinn in Daily Candy, who like our gal Britney, is always In The Zone.


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