Wine and good times flow at Spectator party

New York

At one point the Promised Land was Texas. That was the gist of the conversation I had with Rachel Cockerell at The Spectator’s first live event in NYC, at NoHo’s Palo Gallery. I interviewed Rachel about her book Melting Point, which explores the Galveston Plan, when 10,000 beleaguered Russian Jews set sail for Galveston, Texas. After the talk, wine flowed as friends mingled with Speccie subscribers and spilled out into a balmy summer’s eve on Bond Street.

Everyone seemed to enjoy the party except for those who weren’t there. I read the online comments the next morning: “Thanks for the compilation of pictures of the people I’d most want to avoid,” wrote one keyboard warrior. “Just rooms full of snobby people believing it’s chic to dress homeless!” wrote another. But one Speccie faithful hit the nail on the head: “Contrary to other commenters, I am thrilled to see youthful energy and the Speccie buzzing in the same room – in downtown Manhattan no less. Is there hope for independents and conservatives living in this often obnoxiously blue city?”

NYC does not need another restaurant but it needs a good British one – and Thomas Straker is the man for the job. Straker’s opens in September at Keith McNally’s old Lucky Strike. Tom, the latest enfant terrible of British cooking, cut his teeth in London’s best restaurants, but his work went “viral” when he began posting home-cooking videos to TikTok during lockdown. Then came the butter making videos – chicken skin butter, honey skin butter et cetera – which have racked up billions of views. Tom’s cheeky-chappie nature and good looks are no small part of the charm, and going out with him in New York is quite the experience. After Palo we partied at Lounes Mazouz’s Ella Funt: “You’re the butter guy!” squealed a gaggle of girls as we walked in, followed by the inevitable selfie requests.

On Thursday night I headed uptown to Maxime’s, Robin Birley’s new club on Madison Avenue. Robin, known as London’s King of Clubs, has exquisite taste and the service at 5 Hertford Street and Oswald’s is unmatched: a touch he learned from his father Mark Birley who once revoked the membership of an important member at Annabel’s because the man was rude to a waiter: “I can always replace you, but not the waiter,” he remarked. Maxime’s, the work of flamboyant Turkish designer Rifat Ozbek, is a dreamscape of rare marble and Murano, with every picture selected and hung by Birley. What’s more, it feels like a “club,” making the city’s other new members clubs look like glorified airport lounges. At least Britain still exports good taste.

Friday night we encamped to Bar Bianchi on the Lower East Side, the latest venture from the team behind the Nines and Le Dive. Here, dinner for six became dinner for 12 as the charmingly bedraggled Gratin gallery sensation Lorenzo Amos showed up with numbers. I sat next to the model and actress Keeley Hazell, of Page 3 fame – the Sun newspaper’s racy feature which until 2015 provided a daily dopamine hit to builders and lorry drivers up and down the UK. Keeley transformed her career by moving to Hollywood and starring in the popular show Ted Lasso. This summer she publishes her aptly-titled memoir Everyone’s Seen My Tits.

When I first met Keeley, I mistook her for an Aussie. She called me the poshest boy she’d ever met and surmised, correctly, that I’d never been to Bromley. I had neglected to inform my younger brother of this egregious faux pas and, sitting on the other side of her at Bianchi, he opened the conversation by asking her if she was from Sydney. “Did your brother tell you to ask that!” she cried, incredulous. After dinner we passed by Monsieur, Baz Luhrmann’s new bar, which, unsurprisingly, for the man who gave us The Great Gatsby and Moulin Rouge, is all tapestries, stained glass and candelabras. A Napoleon bust above the bar is camped up with a Chanel brooch reading “peace not war.”

Dinner Saturday was at a strip club in lower Manhattan. I don’t usually dine at strip clubs but I was on an assignment to interview a dancer. It so happens my Austrian friend had dated one of the girls, Dizzy, named after the debilitating effect she has on her clients. We sat in the back room, ordered chicken wings and chatted to the girls. Anastasia, from the British seaside town of Hastings, left her day job and started dancing when she realized she could make £800 per night “which, in Hastings, was good money.” But New York, where you can charge $2,000 for an hour-long session in a private room, was a no-brainer.

As Anastasia rose for her turn on the pole, another girl took her seat beside me – bad etiquette in stripper circles as you’re not meant to approach another girl’s client during pole duty. Before leaving, I tucked a wad of bills into Anastasia’s waistband. We had spent such a delightful evening that when we arrived at the new San Vincente members’ club afterward, my housemate immediately regretted having submitted his membership application. For a fraction of the price, he could have had the night of his dreams with Anastasia.

Sunday I spent with my brother at the Sail GP Championship on Governor’s Island – an event given some extra pizzazz by the presence of the British Ambassador, Lord Peter Mandelson. I had several questions for the Prince of Darkness but was too hungover to seize the moment. My poor brother, despite being told how to properly address the Rt Hon. peer, momentarily forgot his wits and called him “Pete.” Fearing another family faux pax I gave the Ambassador a wide berth and resigned my eyes to the yachts gliding over the water. Just hours after Carlos Alcaraz had notched an astonishing comeback at the French Open, the Spanish team sailed from behind to steal the world title from New Zealand and France under the patient gaze of the Statue of Liberty.