Last but not least, the crystal palace called Baccarat. I forgot people still buy crystal, and apparently the storeowner did, too, since the design of the shop seemingly has not changed since the eighties.
Grey carpet, white walls, and metallic surfaces abound; for a moment I thought I spotted Al Pacino and Michelle Pfieffer snorting coke off a millefiori paperweight. Gaudy and decadent, glassblowers have been churning out chandeliers for the firm since Louis XV. Never have I seen such hallowed out cheeks on a person, and I’m not talking about the video of artisans sweltering away, paid slave wages to create a three hundred dollar crystal decanter. No, it was the patrons of old-money establishment, stuffing their faces with canned crab cakes and what I contend to be imitation lobster.
To live like these people: with their busy calendars of soirées and luncheons, wine and cheese parties and trips to the Vineyard, easily satisfied with the very best, I myself felt satisfied to leave their company and never look back. Then again, until I get desperate and am forced to smoke the menthol butts of Upper East Side dames. You know what they say: one woman’s trash is another man’s treasure.
