In celebration of my friend Boni's 3? birthday Kathy and I, the designated event planners, chose the tony and tucked away Hotel Griffou for our usual "family" dinner festivity. Hopefully this year the birthday girl wouldn't have one too many dirty martinis and spew the night's dinner all over the inside of Coco's car! Griffou is like a hipper, slightly less stuffy younger sister of the Waverly Inn: it cultivates the same intimate setting (read: tight squeeze) while being a bit more accessible to everyman. Kathy, of course, procured the res and all we had to do was show up on time. Yes, even you Boni — even if it is your birthday, it's impolite to arrive late though apropos of a diva to keep the crowds waiting.
I was remarkably tired from a tame night of wine with "GG" the previous night. In an effort to recharge I got home from lovely Manhasset, took a disco nap, showered and struggled to find "the perfect outfit". I toyed with my oversized highlighter yellow tee paired with my blue and grey pajama patterned Prada trousers and metallic silver Dries van Noten brogues but vetoed the look as too futuristic alien catastrophe. So I toned down the look with an extra large (my personal fall trend — bigger is better) heather grey cotton henley and grey leather Prada grandpa loafers. To ward off the evening chill I threw on my trusty grey wool Dries cropped waiter's jacket. Unsatisfied with the minimalist leaning of my costume I tried to neckcessorize but failed to find a properly coordinating necklace. With just 10 minutes until kickoff, I jetted out the door resigned but disappointed about my outfit.
Upon arrival, our chicly attired party of five was greeted by a snotty Asian bitch at the hostess stand who made it seem like she was doing everyone a favor by simply allowing them to cross the threshold and stand in her regal hipster presence. Mademoiselle frigidly let us know our table was not ready as yet but that we should feel free to have a drink at the bar. The bar had a decadent old world feel with mirrors, dimly lit sconces, short chandeliers hanging from the low ceilings, and candles dripping wax providing sexy mood lighting, that thankfully obscured some slightly unattractive first dates. After gushing over the birthday girl's mega-watt sexy ensemble (which consisted of a black marabou bolero, champagne satin halter jumpsuit and 20s screen siren coif) we proposed a celebratory toast for la Negra and commenced our photo shoot, no thanks to Mulan, who quickly and ungraciously dismissed our request for a group shot. She haughtily led us to our table in the quaint Little Red Riding Hood dining room where paintings of a very modern Red hung on easels while murals of the wolf crept along the crimson walls. Since we came from the bar equipped with refreshments, the glorified cafe table set for our party was immediately cleared of wine glasses by our waiter to give us skinny beeches room to breathe. The uncomfortable iron back chairs were made slightly more accommodating as we were in pleasant company. I must say these were a better alternative to the spartan wood benches at the long barracks-like communal tables.
In stark comparison to Mulan was our v helpful and enthusiastic waiter. He was a shining example of what food service professionalism should look like: he effusively helped with our selections, offering his educated opinion and even breaking the rules by obligingly snap a group shot of us despite strict rules against that which he explained were due to copyright issues with the artwork. Among the highlights of the menu were the appetizers, more specifically, the crab croquettes (fry anything and it's always a hit), lobster succotash (a dish which our guy informed of was characterized by a mixture of different bean varieties, thank you), and foie gras (bien sur). Our very own California bombshell Betsy, took it upon herself to order a festive bottle of blanc de blancs champagne to match our African queen's jumpsuit and to elegantly toast the day of her noble Liberian birth. Aiming to play the sophisticate, she assuredly paused our waiter before he poured to demand, "Is this the brut de brut?" Kathy immediately corrected her, "It's blanc de blancs tontaface!". Aaah the love and tenderness we have for each other. Thank god she's pretty! Interested in scoping out the rest of the place I searched for the bathroom, and on the way I caught a glimpse of another two rooms. Both of them seemed tamer than our crimson tide where we could barely hear our own dinner conversation above the roar of the bar in the adjacent room and all the competing neighboring tables vying to be heard. Luckily we have no qualms about projecting our voices even when it involves inappropriate sex talk. So back at base, the champers was flowing and the entrees were served. Though less stellar than the apps, they were still quite succulent — Tasmanian trout with heirloom tomato salad for Boni and I, thinly pounded pork chops for Bets and Kat and a delicious risotto for Coco. But far and away the jewel of the menu was the banana pudding which David (that's what I'm going to call the waiter since I didn't get his name) so expertly recommended . Boni had actually spied a couple at the bar chowing down on it and was wondering what delightful treat that could be. David brought it over with a candle (Kat's idea) and to my utter embarrassment we had to sing "Happy Birthday" while Kathy snapped off pictures (Facebook, anyone?). Before diving into the cake, which took every ounce of will power in my body to keep from doing, we gave Boni her gift: a shiny new iPod Touch which she had puzzlingly coveted since last Christmas. Coco abstemiously opted for black coffee sans sugar, adhering to his diet (Bo are you reading?). But the girls and I tore into the banana pudding like nineteenth century imperialists dividing the African continent.
As we departed at the end of the evening, the previously mentioned Asian bitch (because a hostess she was NOT) struck again. Waiting under the awning with the rain-dodging smokers, she preemptively tried to refuse entry to a patron, citing that the kitchen closed. (What about the bar genius?) The gentleman courteously informed her that he was rejoining his dinner already in progress inside and he had simply stepped out for a smoke. So the bitch was forced to let him back in. Ha ha — a petite vicarious victory over Mulan.
Mulan notwithstanding, the evening was a success, even though it was an early night. I was mysteriously
exhausted and the rain kept me from joining Gio's 2nd annual gay ol' Quijote birthday romp. So Coco and the girls
chaffeured me up to 26th Street in the "Kadeelac" before continuing on to the UES.