THE FASHION DADDY

Three nights ago I had a great dinner date with Miuccia Prada. Yes, the ONE and ONLY, Saint Miuccia Prada. What, you don’t believe me? Let me tell you.

I was invited to attend a special dinner at the Gramercy Tavern hosted by Saint Miuccia (we have a very casual relationship that we call each other by our nicknames) in honor of her new muse, 14 year old Hailee Steinfeld from the movie True Grit. The setting was spectacular like Miuccia herself; the main dining room had been reserved for the occasion. The tables were decorated with small silver containers filled with fresh gardenias, English roses, baby tulips and sprigs of mint and rosemary. White candles everywhere. Simple and ultra chic. The lighting was seductive and sexy too.

The great designer and excellent hostess Miuccia Prada and guest James Franco.
Left, WWD Staff-Right, Out.com

“Ciao Carlo, come stai?” Miuccia greeted with a warm hug and a couple kisses on my fat cheeks.

“Molto bene. E tu?” I responded nervously. Come on, is Miuccia Prada.

“Bene, grazie,” she sheepishly replied. Miuccia is well known for demure stature and her quiet personality. She’s no pomp and little circumstance. Never a big bang with her. Never.

“Sono cosÌ felice che tu sia qui. Dove Dan?” she held my hand tightly while talking fast and leading me to the bar. I was happy to be there, but nervous to be surrounded by a lot of prominent pretentious folks. Fortunately, nothing like some of the parties I have attended in the past: cheap beer, old wine, disgusting food—sometimes just chips and bean dip and a lot of drunken ugly people.

“Dan ѐ qui, parlando con un amico tramite la porta,” I answered. By this time she was handing me a martini and she was swallowing one too. She’s a great hostess and a happy drunk, if you know what I mean. By-the-way, she looked “favolosa” that’s Italian for fabulous. I, on the other hand looked terrible and feeling pooped. Don’t get me wrong, I was still wearing Prada from two collections ago. Dan looked great in his Dior Homme suit, but was feeling extremely exhausted. 24 hours before he had been in Changsha, China where for the last few months he’s been working on an architectural project.

The beautiful Danish model Freja enjoyed the fabulous dinner party too.
Jeremy Kost/WireImage

I looked around the room and there were some fantastic looking people, mostly eurotrash and some American duds. A lot of models, including the most grand of all models, Daria Werbowy. And the stunning Sasha Pivovarova, the current “IT” girl Arizona Muse and the freakishly beautiful Freja Beha Erichsen. There were also a few queens who were there with their sugar-daddies. A fashion party wouldn’t be a party without the gays. Personally, it’s so nauseating to see young gay guys with some centenarian having whisky and munching on each other’s ears. Gross! Yes, André Leon Talley was there and no, Anna Wintour wasn’t there. Apparently she had better things to do. André was wearing a huge black silk satin robe thing that was embroidered with two blue peacocks, red carnations and hundreds of Swarovski crystals. The cape robe thing looked more like an oriental rug than anything else. You know André; he has to be the center of attention. Marc Jacobs was there too, looking tanned and drinking mineral water all night. He gave up booze you know. Vanity Fair’s Ingrid Sischy was sitting in a corner talking with architect Rem Koolhaas—who has designed a couple of the Prada stores. Both looked like they were having a philosophical conversation and drinking vodka on the rocks. She’s an interesting duck.

The dynamic duo of Proenza Schouler; Lazaro and Jack were there and so was Liya Kebede.
Left, Patrick McMullan/NYMag.com-Right, Femalenetwork.com

I couldn’t believe that I was sitting next to Angela Missoni and Dan was sitting next to Lazaro Hernandez one half of the incredible team of Proenza Schouler. Their clothes are to die for. Across from me was the most ravishing Somalian, Liya Kebede wearing an emerald green stole and the Prada banana shirt and who was chatting up a not so dapper James Franco. Did you know he chews on his finger nails? Now that’s crass.

“I wonder if he took a shower today. Or did he use deodorant?” I asked myself about Franco. The women at the dinner couldn’t keep their eyes off of him, why? He’s not all that. Most, importantly, I kept looking at Dan and wondering whether he was going to use a knife to cut his food or like before, use his fork as a cutting tool too. He rarely uses a knife to cut his food, something I’m intrigued by and appalled at the same time. I was praying that his sweet peas wouldn’t land on Benjamin Bratt’s head, who happened to be sitting across from him. I was relieved when I saw Dan pick up his steak knife.

I was having a wonderful time—an experience like any other, especially after my stint in the big house. I was Miuccia’s guest, drinking champagne, taking photos with Daria and Arizona and having conversations with the likes of Annette de la Renta and photographer Juergen Teller. And hear some fashion rumors from the other half of Proenza Schouler, Jack McCollough. It doesn’t get any better than that right? Well, it only gets putrid from there, because I woke up with a headache from all of the tossing and turning drafting this wonderful dream. It was all just a hedonistic delusion.