Category: Front Row

Last night’s pre season soirée on the rooftop of the Grand Whisker Hotel was, frankly, a triumph, if one overlooks the fountain incident. I counted 211 guests, 37 collars, 14 bow ties and one terrifying monocle.

The mood was jubilant. Sir Basil Tufts told a story about a salmon that went on for twenty minutes, and nobody minded. The drink of the evening was a warm milk with a twist of anchovy. At midnight, the Grand Duchess herself entered, wearing a ruff so large it required a doorman. Applause. Flashbulbs. A single, lonely hiss from the corner, where Marguerite Nightshade was eating a breadstick with a look of exquisite pain.

The seating chart for our July preview was a diplomatic masterpiece. Madame Sphinx von Pelt was placed beside the velvet curtain, Sir Basil Tufts near the snack table, and the notorious critic Marguerite Nightshade at the far end, where she could glare at everything.

Naturally, a seat was stolen within 90 seconds. By the second look, a Persian in a canary scarf was occupying two chairs and an unattended tote. The show, to its credit, was flawless. The hissing, which began at the third look and ended at the finale, was the ecstatic kind. I counted 14 gasps, 6 sighs and one small, tasteful faint.