After being on the waiting list for five years, we finally have an eight-thirty rez at Dorsia. Our table probably sucks, but we're relieved anyway. We've ditched the predictable crowd of yuppies and bridge and tunnel idiots. Instead, every couple here looks like they just strolled out of a Ralph Lauren ad, and totally fuckable babes covered in jewels crowd the bar ten deep.
We see Kate Spencer and Jason Lauder in the middle booth. He's wearing a wool tweed suit and a striped cotton shirt, both by Yves Saint Laurent and a silk tie by Armani and new black cap-toed shoes by Ferragamo. She has on a silk and cotton stretch-tulle bodywrap with jeweled lace pants. The sophistication and elegance of the room has us so nervous that the words and even the prices in the menu look like hieroglyphics, leaving us completely at a loss. Dorsia is a venue that lives up to the event's black tie dress code and certainly increases our chance of scoring an exclusive invite to Donald Trump's yacht party.
There is absolutely no desire to skip out of the holiday party early this year to go run a few errands, like returning some videotapes, taking cash out of an automated teller machine and possibly checking on that NYU girl's body that we haphazardly left in the dumpster behind the Gristedes on University Place near the Tower Records, where we have to pick up the new Huey Lewis album.
For now, our collective bloodlust for an upscale and epic holiday party has been satisfied. We fit in.
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