When Times restaurateur nightmare Frank Bruni visited media lunch spot Michael’s to trash the food, one thing his palate didn’t pick up on was the power feast taking place in the room. That’s sacrilegious, yes? [Cityfile]
What could be more nauseating than having to trek through an entire column written by Liz Smith? Watching her play videographer. At Michael’s. Bothering celebrities. [WOWOWOW]
From Mediabistro.com’s FishbowlNY report on last night’s Michael’s book party:
Either Cindy Adams wrote this, or George Plimpton’s family might be wondering what his corpse was doing at a book party.
• Fox irate over pirated episodes of The SImpsons, 24; Barack Obama irate over Fox’s coverage of that whole phony terrorism thing.
• Michael’s continues to be the best place for media types to power-lunch, and for Joan Crawford hide out before her pre-Oscars botox.
• American Idol showcases what’s wrong with our society, both through the deluded throngs it attracts at auditions and our voyeuristic enjoyment in watching them fail.
• Martha Stewart doesn’t miss being a CEO, does miss sitting next to her prison girlfriend on Lasagna Night.
• The “Old, Saggy [Grey] Lady” receives both criticisms and praise for its video obituary of Art “I just died” Buchwald.
• Remember that PC World druglord who was killed in some sort drug-related skirmish? Yeah, turns out he wasn’t so much into drugs.
• Richard David Story finds a way to never get table at Michael’s ever again.
• Memo Pad runs out of English things to talk about.
• McClatchy Co. sells Minneapolis Star Tribune – for less than half of what it paid for the paper – to yet another private equity firm looking to fancy itself a newspaper.
• Glam.com continues to misrepresent itself.
• Hallmark willing to let magazine advertisers throw parties in its store.
• NYT‘s Carlotta Gall gives ABC News the scoop on her assault by Pakistani government agents.
• So pleased with the results of its newspaper advertising program, Google marches along with expansion plans to trample over a rag’s ability to earn revenue by itself.
There is not much left to be said about Jay McInerney. After spending his life being compared to Brett Easton Ellis and being held up as an idol to every New York and Vanity Fair writer, McInerney has made a final step into the dark corners of fallen, over-hyped writers: freelancing for House & Garden.
Sure they probably pay like two bucks a word over at H&G and are likely just as thrilled to have such a sexy middle-aged guy like McInerney filling the women of surburban Indiana with fantasies of life in New York. Which is fab. Except that McInerney’s subjects — Elaine’s and Michael’s — have just been officially locked in the “only old people care about this crap” vault.
On the very same day I hit two???count em, two???of the canteens of the chattering classes, Michael’s and Elaine’s. Which couldn’t be more different, though the clientele overlaps significantly. Michael’s being more of a lunch spot, as far as the tribe is concerned, a serious midday power center for the worlds of publishing, journalism and entertainment. Elaine’s is strictly an after-business-hours hang, more boozy and raffish. More writers, fewer editors and agents. Some of the writers no longer among us hover around the place or haunt it with their photographs.
Canteens of the chattering classes? More like “retirement home for editors who worked at, wanted to work at, or wish they were out of diapers so they could’ve worked at Spy.” Don’t get us wrong — we occasionally get an invite to a party Elaine’s or film a lunch at Michael’s with the likes of Atoosa Rubenstein and such other young hip media folks.
But now that Jay McInerney is writing about these canteens we may consider a little longer before fleeing to the UES or Midtown for a soiree. Also, we hope this gives Dylan Stableford all the more motivation to get his “Drinks at Von” segment on a role.
Michael’s and Elaine’s [House & Garden]
Is Joanna Coles planning an Ivanka Trump cover for an upcoming issue of Marie Claire? We would be a little surprised if she was, but we know she’s planning to include at least a piece on the socialite cum magazine covergirl. And the New York Observer’s legendary writer George Gurley is penning the piece.
Though, we may have to expect some of the sass and brass to missing from the article. Lowdown reports that Gurley was lookin’ a little bit smitten after his chat with the heiress.
… George Gurley, looking dazed and dreamy after lunching at Michael’s yesterday with a Very Important Person. “I’m overwhelmed,” Gurley marveled after he bid his lunch companion farewell. “I’m dazzled.”
And then, as he headed toward the door: “I think I’m going to walk it off.”
Well, either that or he just polished off three bottles of champagne and was starting to glaze over.
Snark Attack! [Lloyd Grove, Lowdown]
If you are a frequent reader of the Memo Pad column in Women’s Wear Daily, read Jeff Bercovici‘s column very closely today. Because we just about lost it when we thought his story was about a bunch of big wig editors getting food poisoning at Michael’s.
A bad batch of Cobb salad could have wiped out a good portion of the magazine industry’s top talent Wednesday afternoon as Elle’s Roberta Myers, Teen Vogue’s Amy Astley, Men’s Health’s David Zinczenko, Blender’s Craig Marks, O’s Amy Gross, ESPN The Magazine’s Gary Hoenig and Essence’s Angela Burt-Murray convened at table one in Michael’s restaurant.
As in, we thought the bad batch of Cobb salad really existed and the “could have” referred to the wipe-out. But, no. The article is just about some boring meetings Cindi Leive will be holding in honor of her fancy new ASME president title.
Which is so so much less exciting than a massive Michael’s induced food poisoning.
Power Table [Jeff Bercovici, WWD]
This morning, we fell in love with Cathy Horyn. Not only did she brave the shoe departments at Barneys and Bergdorf to research her story on 5-inch stilettos, she (or her sadist editor) had the grand plan to don said shoes – for research purposes, natch – at Michael’s. She just happened to pick the day when Anna Wintour, Tina Brown, Joan Rivers, and Ralph Lauren were also lunching.
At Avenue of the Americas and 55th Street I got out of a taxi. Taking the R train there was out of the question: not only are the heels high and slanted, but they also taper to a point the size of a nailhead. I had thought to take along a pair of ballet flats, which many bright women in New York on their way to a date or a party have no trouble rationalizing. It’s like having a limousine without the expense and bother.
I mounted the curb. Now six feet tall, I suddenly felt less invincible than wretchedly vulnerable, to gross stares and gusts of wind. Michael’s, barely half a block away, seemed a journey of several miles.
I clumped toward the big “Love” sculpture. I thought: “This won’t do. Lunch will be over by the time I get there.” Looking around ???????? oh, what was the point! ???????? I ducked behind a pillar and put on my ballet flats. Then I hurried on to Michael’s, bolting past Ms. Wintour and the noontime crowd.
The only way to improve on this story: Embellish the facts, pretend to have kept the heels on and tripped over Wintour, spilling her gravlax all over her patent Chanel.
Stilt Walking Into Spring [Cathy Horyn, NYT]