Bobo

I was supposed to be guest-listed for Mansion on Saturday, Manhattan’s new swishy super-club, which has opened on the site of Crobar. Unfortunately my jetlag got the better of me and by midnight I was practically face down in my supper.

I had pottered off to a post Fashion Week birthday supper at Bobo in the West Village. Bobo was briefly hip for a few weeks when it opened last autumn – until people actually tasted the food. With a new chef (make that two: Rick Jakobson & Jared Stafford-Hill) taking over five weeks ago, it’s upped the ante considerably. (There’s not a just a new menu, but a new front of house team too, including the very good Andy Vaughan as GM, newly arrived from Soho House.)

Hidden away on a junction in the West Village, with no signage - and no indication it's a restaurant, Bobo's two floors are shabby chic, lit by candles and seemingly populated by very beautiful, underfed people. (The restaurant has become a firm fashion world favourite, & is currently recovering from hosting Vera Wang’s Lavender label show and umpteen fashion house dinners during NYFW).

Where the old chef, Ducasse alum Nicolas Cantrel’s menu was supposedly Pan-European but read more as American Modern/schizophrenic before, the new carte shows considerable restraint and reads well, with a strong emphasis on seasonality and, frankly, deliciousness. Although our charming waitress said the restaurant was French, it doesn’t read much like any French menu I’ve seen in Paris of late, with more in common with London restaurants like Hereford Road right now.

Having seen the piles of salsify at the Greenmarket that morning, it was especially pleasing to see it here in abundance, especially in a delicate, but sharply dressed salad of winter vegetables. Plump and fluffy ricotta ravioli were well paired with trompette des morts and little pieces of cauliflower, whilst a simple plate of jamon de serrano showed that great ingredients don’t always need bells and whistles. I was eating with girls, so pudding was one textbook creamy and cool semi-freddo with hazelnut macaroon and coffee (I think – I was practically asleep by then), six spoons and a birthday candle.

I’m going back again when I’m not so bludgeoned with tiredness that I can't actually eat a sensible meal. I want to go through the interesting wine list properly, which seems to indicate a sure hand in the cellar on first read. It’s just a shame that so many fashion people eat there: food like this deserves some proper trenchermen.

NYFW parties

So having slept all afternoon like a hibernating dormouse in a nest of cashmere shawls on my bed, I spent a glorious hour dancing between the bedroom & bathroom having an almighty primping session, the likes of which I haven’t indulged in since my birthday at the beginning of December. I'm not really engaging with NYFW, as I'm still not wholly well, & fashion weeks are a recipe for illness (you are continually hungry, tired & sore of foot)so only going to events where I personally know the PR, or designers.

I wore this dress with my black suede and patent ankle boots, and 120 denier black Wolfords. And felt mighty glad of it when I arrived at Aziz, a Moroccan lounge in Midtown, for the Nanette Lepore after-show party. I always forget how badly the majority of fashion people dress, especially in New York. Waaaay too many sequins for my liking and everyone in dull colours. I may have looked like a rainbow threw up on my dress, but at least I was making a nod to current trends. I’m so used to London where people really do follow fashion in a quirky & individual way that it’s easy to forget that it just doesn’t filter down so quickly in America.

Fashion week parties like this are always fun. They aren’t full of celebs and models; they’re more of a way to reward the hard working teams who put the shows together, so they are always most amusing with lots of hair letting down. We drank delicious Belvedere white cosmos and did some dancing. The party ended at midnight (as fashion parties always do – the venue is happy to host parties in the 8pm-12am period, but then they kick everyone out for the paying customers).

I actually sloped off earlier to head downtown to what is supposedly Manhattan’s most luxurious, newest and hottest lounge/club/whatever, 1OAK (stands for One of a Kind). (More of this later.)

The wonderful English men’s shoemaker Oliver Sweeney is intent on taking America (and rightly so), and to that end was throwing an exclusive Fashion Week cocktail party there (until midnight!) along with a young English bespoke tailor.

Who just about nixed his chances of being included in the feature I am writing on English tailors in America for a Very Large newspaper with his stunningly rude behaviour last night. The truly lovely Oliver Sweeney PR took me over to meet him, and we talked about his business and Savile Row. Then the owner of 1OAK came over with some badly dressed, but important guy, introduced him, ignoring me (even though we had already met), and then the three men drew together, with the tailor literally turning his back on me: he & I had been mid conversation and I was just frozen out, & left standing there outside their circle like a muppet. I waited a few minutes to see if he was going to turn back to sign off our conversation, but no.

I was so angry that I left the party. I had trekked down to Meatpacking from Midtown for his American launch and, frankly, journalist or no, expect some politesse. Not impressed sir. You’d better learn some manners if you want to grow your business.

hmm

It's somewhat late, but I'm far too awake to sleep... We started off at Manitoba's in Alphabet City, a regular dive bar (and our new local, I reckon). About fifteen of us, all photographers as usual. I hadn't realised that L & A's mate Martin was the extraordinarily good Martin Crook, who I worked with a lot in London, but had never actually met.

At about 11pm the call came in from B & Freedom with whom we partied at The Grand a fortnight ago. So, we ended up in a cab burning it up to midtown, tumbling out at the velvet rope, & uttering the magic words: we're on Freedom's list. And zap, we were in. And yet again, centre stage silliness, more bottle service & ludicrous, ludicrous dancing. And some dancing and misbehaviour with B. I do like DJs who play sets that mash up, amongst others, Blur, Gwen Stefani, salsa, mambo, Guns n Roses, techno, house, dancehall & Cyndi Lauper. Most amusing. And more exercise than I've had in weeks.

So, after B asked me out for dinner next week, ("anywhere you like, anywhere, you choose"), I told him that his girl friend K had told us that he was a shocking player. Don't think he was that chuffed. Now I'm intrigued to see if he does call me after all.... I think of it as calling his bluff...

I wore: Was dressed for drinking not dancing. Petrol blue cashmere fitted long line V neck cardigan, brown tweed short shorts, brown 80 den Wolfords, TopShop burgundy patent platform Mary Janes. gols chains.

What not to do in Manhattan

Delicious, fun dinner for four at Soho House on Friday night: British Banker, JD, Married Man (MM) and myself. I never normally bother with it in the evening as the crowd isn't really my scene, too desperate, somehow; it's better for curling up in an armchair, reading the papers and drinking tea during the day. However all visitors demand to be taken there so.... Cocktails, Cristal, Oregon Pinot, vodka. And then a cab at midnight to The Grand mid-town for dancing and more drinking. Result: serious hangover today.

We were with B & K who were on the next table to us at SH. He's a hedge fund person , she's a beautiful TV exec. They swept us in on the guest list, past the hordes, & we partied in quite some style, centre stage table, bottle service et al. I love the way black guys like B go dancing here dressed like dons (cord jackets and specs). So sexy.

Good moments: everyone dancing on the banquettes to Crazy in Love. Hilarious ones: JD falling off the banquette (fortunately in my direction like an angel from heaven, just in time to avert me from lamping MM (with octopus hands) who had just told me that I was trouble). B turns out to be best friends from college with actor boy from Wednesday. Small world. A hilarious evening, all other things apart.

I'm just pissed off & disappointed because I thought I had made a great new platonic male friend to hang out with here. And instead MM was chatting me up, & I was too drunk to realise & then deal with the situation in a grown up & sensible manner. I am a naive fool.

I wore: Black silk V neck tunic, Black Wolfords, Kurt Geiger black patent pointy toe 4" lethal Mary Jane stilettos. one very long knotted gold chain.

Today I am listening to: The Smiths