Christmas starts October 30th
Keith McNally, Sorbara's, and notes from a panic attack.
This morning on the way to the flea, KJAZZ was playing ‘Silent Night’ by Sinatra—Christmas music before Thanksgiving. I absolutely love to hear it. I started working on this year's gift guide, half of which will be behind a paywall because this year’s guests are worthy of that. My recommendations will come before that paywall. I put last year’s guide on Jelly Sandwich so it has somewhere to live besides out in the ether that is Google Docs. The day before Halloween I saw Christmas cards in Gelsons and bought a box. I want to feel that way forever. Christmas came early this year.
Before these Christmas cards though, I had my quarterly stint on the opposite coast. I packed only the best from my wardrobe for New York fall. Familiar faces. Armani trousers, Comme shirting, Dries Van Noten heels, Balenciaga beige scarf, Calvin Klein overcoat, Ann D skirt, and my new Porselli ballet flats.
After walking 8 miles on my first day, I noticed my Achilles heel was swollen, causing me to limp around on Friday morning through the weekend. I didn’t pack footwear suitable for walking. I discovered through the amazing search engine Google that I had Achilles tendonitis, of course my brain thought that I had fully torn my achilles, to which my boyfriend, my father, and all my friends assured me there was no way I could have done that, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to walk.
The purpose of my trip to New York was to be there for the grand opening of Sorbara’s (formerly Chickee’s Vintage). My brilliant friend Kathleen’s shop that just opened at 326 Wythe Avenue. Marisa Meltzer profiled its rebirth in the Thursday Styles. It has been so inspiring to watch Kathleen cultivate such a strong sense of community around something she loves. The Madonna lilies and sunflowers that used to shine in the front window of 135 Wythe Avenue have graduated, only to make room for a more sophisticated, grown-up version in the new space just a stone’s throw down the road— the calla lily.
On Friday night, Devon and I ended up in Bed Stuy at a little (literally) restaurant called Bunny. It was one of the better meals I’ve had in New York recently. The small room felt like eating in someone else's kitchen. A warm hug as the temperatures in New York began to drop. I loved the hanging lights and how you can only make a reservation by direct messaging their Instagram account. After our berries and cream dessert, we ended up rushing back downtown to opening night of Anora.
Luckily, I have a friend who works at Angelika who got us into the sold out show by seating us in the handicapped companion seating. Sean Baker’s films always leave me the same way. I remember seeing The Florida Project alone at the Angelika in 2017 and sitting in the theater like I sat at the end of Anora. The last scene in Anora was very moving, after all, it received a 10 minute standing ovation at Cannes—I’ve thought about it a lot since. I was surprised when most of the audience shot up to leave, having no regard for the credits in bold red type on the screen behind them. I was relieved to look at Devon across the aisle and see that she was having a similar reaction to mine. We walked out of the theater in silence. I felt like my head was floating above my neck— a way I often feel when I leave the Angelika in particular.
I went back the next night after my dinner at Minetta Tavern with Alisha to catch the end of the film and then a Q&A with Sean Baker and Karren Karagulian who plays Toros. I had never been to Minetta Tavern before. I love all of the McNally establishments, of course. I think this was my favorite out of all of them. It felt the most like Old New York, which I’ll always favor over anything else. I’d rather sit at Katz Deli than fight a battle with Resy to get a table at Sailor.
On Sunday, Devon and I went uptown to Bemelmans Bar. We got there a bit too early to catch the piano player, but the Madeline etchings on the lampshades kept us entertained while we sucked down our Shirley temples. It was the most gorgeous day. I wore an Ann D skirt with a Flore Flore boat neck (the most flattering of their silhouettes on me) and my little Dries kitten heels (not the best choice with my Achilles tendonitis). It was perfect trench weather.
While uptown, I made a point to visit Lingerie & Company, Mark Peress’ (son of Herbert Peress) lingerie store on Madison Avenue. The tell of a good store: their website is essentially unusable and dreadful to look at. I never got a chance to experience the joy of the Peress store since my tastes have changed for the better since moving from NYC, I’ve developed an affinity for finer things. However, since reading the New York Times piece about the closing of Peress (also written by Marisa Melzer), I have thought about it a few times. Especially this comment that was made below the post.
The attention to detail that the shop owners had is extremely admirable. I love a guest book in a store like this. There’s something so lovely and personal about writing down your name since everything now is digitized. A true piece of history like that is so special and can live on for a hundred years. Peress opened in 1927. The signatures that were included in the NYT article are of Joan Crawford and Mrs. Eugene O’Neill. Maybe these signatures are more special to me because I’m an actress. The wife of the extraordinary playwright Eugene O’Neill buying her nightshirt. And Miss Joan Crawford buying Celestine (more on this in the gift guide soon).
I chose carefully what I purchased, it’s easy to get carried away touching fabrics like that. I bought a pair of Bonsoir of London pajamas which I’ve worn almost every night since and a Zimerelli white tank top (pretty much an exact replica of the one Nicole Kidman wears in Eyes Wide Shut). I was lucky to be the only one in the shop and had a bit of banter with the older saleswoman. I struggled to decide between the Bonsoir and Celestine pajamas, though she quickly assured me that the arms were too short on the Celestine pair, that I’m ‘quite long’ and definitely should not get the Celestine. Bonsoir was the only option. I appreciate an honest salesperson, not just someone who wants to make a commission off of me. She told me to ‘trust her’, that she had been an editor at Vogue for 8 years, going on to be an editor at a few other publications thereafter. I assured her I’d be back in December to come shopping for Christmas.
Other things of note: a massage at the new Spencer’s Spa on Broadway, Arshile Gorky at Prince & Wooster, Dike Blair at Karma, Max Karnig at Half Gallery Annex, and french toast at B&H (a tradition of mine). I was underwhelmed by my first Souen experience. Sorry everyone.
The night before my flight, I sat in front of the fireplace reading All My Sons and Hedda Gabbler while nursing an oncoming panic attack. The initial rush always starts the same. Directly in the middle of my chest—the sternum. Then, spreading rapidly into my arms causing them to tingle and go numb, the glands in my hands become clammy and my throat feels like it’s closing up. My mouth gets dry. I am convinced I am surely going to vomit or die because to me, those are equals. These sensations came upon me at first, and then again two times after I thought the entire episode was finished. I felt more comfort on the bathroom floor than sitting in bed. I knew if I did throw up, then I’d be safe there. I sat there with only my underwear on, freezing, but afraid of having clothes on in case I vomited. My legs look like chicken skin. I’m Googling how long does a panic attack last? I finally decided on an Ativan. I felt ashamed. In these moments I think of my entire life. How will I ever have a child if this is how I am? How selfish? Mostly more feelings of self pity for a while thereafter until Tessa came and we walked around the neighborhood with hot tea.
See you shortly.
David Hicks pink bedroom dreams postscript.
