Always wanted to know, secretly, where you could go to see and be seen, the way you were really meant to be seen? Want to act like a real-life or maybe a "self-proclaimed socialite"? Want to attract men who will walk by and say charming things like, “Hell yeah, I’m going to come in here!" The New York Post's Dana Schuster has a hot tip (or perhaps an anthropological study) for you. All the gals are hanging at Garlic, a Murray Hill pizza joint, on Thursday evenings. This activity is called, apparently, "Girls Night Out at Garlic." Don't let the name fool you: These ladies smell like dollar bills. Fresh ones. Or maybe like new cars. Or the unsullied insides of Birkin bags. In any case, things, important things, are happening at Girls Night at Garlic. A few glimpses:
- “'Hottie alert!' screams Esther Silber, a self-proclaimed socialite."
- A man in a suit walks in. He is known as "The Doctor." He drives a Bentley.
- In fact, if you hadn't noticed, "the sidewalk...is lined with a fleet of high-end cars."
- “'Oh my God, when my girlfriends come it’s all Birkins and Chanel. Birkins everywhere!' explains Silber, who says she focuses on her philanthropy full time."
Eek! In other salt-of-the-earth knowledge gleaned from the upper crust, “A Birkin always gets its own chair, and that’s the truth.” The heavy hitters hang in St. Barts. And one should never refrain from calling oneself a one percenter in the pages of a local newspaper when one is deciding the right time to open one's high-end clothing store for children in Manhattan. Per Schuster:
Silber, a mother of two boys, isn’t convinced that the time is right to strike. “We’re also a very small percentage . . . [most] people shop at Target. We’re the . . . what was it called? Occupy ? . . . occupy?” She stops, searching for the word.
Someone jumps in: “Occupy Wall Street!” “Wall Street. Yes,” says Silber. “We’re the 1 percent.”
To give these self-proclaimed one percenters credit, they determined that it was not the right time for the fancy kidwear store, but it was the right time for special-order $200 black-caviar pizza. And to have an article about their typical Thursday night in the Post, pegged, of course, to Occupy Wall Street. You be you, ladies. The fake Carrie Bradshaw dream is not dead after all.
Image via Shutterstock by Kiselev Andrey Valerevich.
This article is from the archive of our partner The Wire.