Vogue

Conde Nast, with its seemingly limitless assets, does not cater. I can't say I'm surprised that a magazine that takes pride in pushing unattainable products, services and physiques on the general populous wouldn't. But when the Best Friend lets me tag along to one of her fancy media shindigs, we usually descend upon the trays of upscale hor'dourves like vultures and leave feeling quite satisfied. So when she told me about the Vogue party tonight and the invitation indicated that there would be hor'dourves, I was anticipating little Kobe beef sliders that melt in your mouth, delicate salty-sweet caviar blintzes, chicken skewers and some variety of dumpling served on Chinese soup spoons.

Instead, we walked in to find models. A lot of models. A lot of foreign models, doe-eyed models, pouty models, bored models, tall models and the realization sank in: there will not be any food at this party. So we gulped down our glasses of Moet, collected our gift bags and went to eat dumplings at Mandoo House in K-Town. Then we had a deep discussion about prosciutto di Parma and various other cured meats over a heaping tub of Pinkberry.

Moral of the story: If you want to lower your self-esteem, a Vogue party will do so in ten minutes or less.
Moral number two: Vogue parties are le wack. (pout)

-L