Art-Star West

I dragged Moonshine, Jeff Dickinson and Nick Nace to the opening party for Metropol. The place is on a weird corner, where 4th St. crosses 10th St., and our cab driver ratcheted up a $10 fare taking us a few blocks away, dropping us off and suggesting we walk to the right. Metropol is supposed to have a kind of art-star theme, so I wanted to see how the clientele would take to three 23-year-olds who perform constantly and drink way too much.

At first we were depressed, noticing a plate with some cheese and few of the free hors d'oeuvres we'd been enticed with. Then a plate of something round went by that turned out to be onion tarts, followed by scallops, shrimp and medium-size chunks of juicy lamb. The boys quickly got the hang of the open bar, and I ran around asking everybody what they did. Normally I'd find this a bit crass, but it was the West Village, so I didn't really care.

Most people told me right away what they did, including Neil Wolfson, who went to high school with former Press owner Russ Smith and had just returned from an all-expenses-paid trip to South Africa for a wine showcase. I refrained from sharing that my cab ride across town would most likely be reimbursed-it wasn't like he was boasting or anything.

I introduced Jeff to a model called Patience Amber, telling her he was an actor, but I knew his chances were slim when she asked if there was anything she might have seen him in. "The 6 train," I restrained myself from saying; Jeff can make up to $50 a day crooning to the commuter crowd. "At least it's an audience!" he always says.

"I like those little lamb things," Jeff said, clutching his free drink. I charged up to another attendee: "Who do you write for?" I chirped.

"I don't write for anybody," the tall fellow replie, in a British accent. That accent always brings out my latent national insecurity, and I furiously tried to build myself back up to this complete stranger.

"I write books! Two of them!" I blurted out, figuring he probably had penned some deep literary work on the metaphysics of GameBoy or something. "What do you write?"

"I write about the Royal Family," replied none other than Andrew Morton, an expert on Princess Diana.

"I love infotainment!" I raved.

"Well, I don't do infotainment. I do the Today Show," he elaborated.

"I was watching you," said Moonshine, popping up behind me. "So I just asked everybody what they did, too. They were actors and models, but they were pretty friendly because they were just out of work and at an open bar."

I went back to Metropol the next week for a proper meal with Nick, part of a duo called A Brief View of the Hudson.

"I was on Vioxx, Oxycontin," I heard a man say at the next table. A lengthy recounting of prescription medication-my kind of conversation.

Nick's such a hick he'd never even heard of foie gras, whereas I'd had it once before.

"Isn't that like baby duck they do something weird to?" he guessed, but didn't like it when it arrived, layered with caramelized pear. "That's what I get for trying something new!" he complained. I gave the foie gras to the people at the next table. "It's sweet and greasy! I like it!" the woman said.

"What's steak frites?" Nick asked ignorantly, which is surprising, since he's from Canada. "Steak with fries," I explained, suggesting he order the penne arrabbiata because I'd overheard it was delish. Our waitress, Tequila, asked if we wanted bottled or tap water. "I've never been offered a choice of water before!" he said, impressed. "Bottled," I replied. Who would choose tap?

I let him have about one-fourth of my steak, which was large and good, and a few of the perfect fries, freshly made, crispy and just salty enough. We loved them.

"I hate those frozen fries," Nick said. "Yet I eat them, constantly, dressed in mayonnaise." I ordered creme brulee, which I'd had once before.

For those of you who've never had it, it has a crusty top that tastes like the skin of a toasted marshmallow, but better even, and a kind of custard underneath, in this case flavored by a largish amount ofÊbrandy. Nick found it to be a new thing he liked, possibly loved, and we ate in silence as Edie Sedgwick looked down on us from the wall. "Who's that?" he asked. "Twiggy? The model?"

"No, she hung out with Andy Warhol and did speed-Ciao! Manhattan," I explained, but it didn't feel all that relevant.