Azulene’s birthday party provided the perfect excuse for mini-cupcakes from Sara Belle’s Bakery in Austin. Hand delivered by Miss Sara herself, the two boxes of twee pumpkin spice cakes topped with a fistful of cinnamon-sugar cream cheese icing and drizzled with salted caramel were positively inhaled by the glitterati in attendance. We Love You Sara Belle, and we’ll be returning for more!
The coincidence of the Birthday of my darling friend Azulene (photo above by Miss A herself) falling on the weekend of the 2011 Texas Monthly Barbeque Festival induced me to do the quickest Chicago-to-Austin jaunt in living memory. Southwest Airline’s direct flights from MDW to ATX are a thing of economical beauty. Miss Azulene’s chariot fetched me at my favourite airport in North America (that nevertheless has the consistently filthiest bathrooms for a new airport that Ought To Know Better), followed by a leisurely couple of hours engaging in that lovely Texas sport of visiting around the kitchen table, enjoying the peerless hostessing skills of S and K (how many bottles of Prosecco? we lost count) and their family of 3 pugs-plus one honorary pug. Then, my eyes swam with tears of joy and self-pity as we swanned through Central Market (the Original, where my obsession was born). Azulene and I restrained ourselves and yet still managed to load up on frommage, fresh jalapenos, Mexican mineral water, chocolate, tortillas (as toothsome as a french pastry - oh, the texture of CM’s fresh tortillas), guacamole (36 hours in the land of properly made guac, thank you very much), and CM’s famous housemade pimiento cheese, which is beyond belief and will make a fan of even pimiento cheese Haters. I used to be One, so I know there are more out there. I only looked and sighed over the fresh pints of buttercream icing for sale in the bakery, and it pains me to say it, but did the same with the Blue Bell. There just wasn’t time. Next we were off to my unofficial Austin residence - the Hotel St. Cecilia. Many of you are already acquainted with my embarassing schwarm for this South Austin (but only just) Oasis. Suite 4 was our fresh nest for the night, and the only regret was that the burn ban prevented us from using the outdoor firepit. A minor, miniscule sacrifice for the ultra-laid back luxury and film of delicious decadence that hangs in the air at the HSC. Our party that evening was well attended by the most convivial select of the select, with Mrs. Draper (bearing Zubrowka), Mr. Benchley, and Mr. Ginsburg in top form, all. Even Joey Bishop made an appearance, though one suspects he was coerced by an Algonquin. The most illustrious Babe Paley (1/3 of that legendary style triumvirate, the Cushing Sisters) and her Bostonian husband made a delightful appearance, bearing Bulleit, and endured whispered confabulations under the cover of the orange branches and around the corners of Suite 4. An impromptu bedroom photo session brought out the worst in the hostesses, though the professional photographer at hand was kind in his treatment of such amateur models, the highlight of which was Mr. Benchley being ordered to double as Foley artist and lighting tech. With as ill-grace as he could muster, he complied. The most productive aspect of the very fun evening was the solidification of New Year plans with Mrs. Draper and Messrs. Benchley and Ginsburg. San Antonio, Here We Come.
We served “The Gibbons” at Miss Azulene’s birthday party at the Hotel St. Cecilia.
1.5 oz. Hacienda de Chihuahua tequila
3 oz. Topo Chico mineral water
squeeze of 1 lemon wedge; squeeze of 1 lime wedge; 2 slices fresh jalapeno. Shake and serve over ice.
“Hair has always been important.” Diana Ross
My favorite days are the days I get to see my angels at Mixed Co.. Miss Julianne, Mr. Patrick, Mr. Dave and the most precious assistants in the known universe treat all customers like Leading Ladies. Today Miss J is going to take my usual best-ever Charlie’s Angels blowout into the realm of Lana del Rey “Video Games” Hair. Photo above by the illustrious Mr. Benchley (bloggiverse alias for my Best Friend and Literary Executor).
Dancing at The Clarence For Hours Without Falling shoes. Dublin, Ireland, September 24, 2011.
Today I have to visit a sprawling 1970’s era courthouse that always reminds me of the set of Carson-era Tonight Show, so I took Sigourney Weaver in The Ice Storm as my sartorial character inspiration. Her cold flinty demeanor and key party accessories; her disdain for all the men in her life; her pageant hair. Check, check and check.
Where’s the man that could ease a heart like a satin gown? - Dorothy Parker
DVF silk charmeuse wrap dress from net-a-porter. Paired with fishnet stockings and pearls and vintage rhinestone brooch, it is just the dress for drinking 2008 Chablis served by a darling Portuguese waiter with an Irish accent in the Georgian club room of the Merrion in Dublin in late September.
A fab sounding new book on Diana Vreeland and her influence. Amazon Prime, I Love You.
My indispensible Dublin London Austin Montreal Dallas dress. On its own with cobalt ballet flats, dangling pearl earrings and Lana del Rey Hair (apropos for British Museum, Bloomsbury walks, Tate Modern, Temple Bar Daytime, Trinity Library, Galway cheese shopping); or with purple herringbone stockings, the Indispensible Black Cashmere Boyfriend Cardigan, oxblood mary jane heels, a tangled mass of layered chain necklaces, and Lana del Rey Hair (for swanning through airports). Anthropologie.
Sunday, my last full day in London, I spent 4 hours having an English Sunday mid-day dinner - a real feature in English pubs and restaurants. The unseasonable 88 degree weather drew most Londoners out of town to the seaside, so the restaurants were a ghost town. I lucked into Hix Oyster & Chop House just steps from my room at the Rookery. I sat outside as the only customer for most of the time and was brought a stack of Sunday papers and a plate of house-made potato crisps that were light and thin as air - melt in your mouth stuff. The prixe fix menu meant the only choice I had to make was between roast and chicken. They brought me 3 starters: smoked scottish salmon spread on impossibly thin toast (Brits do toast like nobody does toast - and I do love toast); goat cheese, pickled walnut and beet salad; and hamhock terrine with spiced pickled cauliflower. She set these down and asked if I wanted bread and butter, too, and I declined (!). A leisurely hour later, after enjoying the rather astringent treatment of Woody Allen interviewed by a London paper (not for them the reverence of the US entertainment press - gloves off and lawsuits be damned!), they brought out the roast and Yorkshire pudding. London roast - oh my. Rare and tender and the choicest cut possible (of course it was - I was the only diner in the whole place for 3 hours). Also that standard UK side dish of cauliflower cheese (a Barbara Pym scene from Some Tame Gazelle did have me looking gingerly for the possiblity of an undetected caterpillar, but luck was on my side, cauliflowerly speaking). With the roast I ordered a pint of their house IPA, and even though I am not a regular beer drinker in my dotage, my choice was rewarded by the arrival of the most beautiful, sleek sterling silver pint tankard you ever saw. I was a tacky American and even looked at the hallmark. It elevated drinking beer to some kind of near-ecclesiastical experience. That pint tankard (mug? it had no lid, but was just a perfectly plain, elegant pour of silver and handle) was the only thing I saw on my travels that I really wished I could have purchased. Dessert was a warm whiskey and nut tart with a gob of clotted cream that could choke you. If you could be choked by such a thing as clotted cream. It made those marscapone and creme fraiche substances seem like inadequate upstarts, comparatively. Though surely someone somewhere will try to convince me they are all the same thing. If I had had a scrap of ingenuity and self respect left, I should have ordered a digestif after all that food, but I was too full to read the menu.
