When Tyler texted "How about People's on Tuesday?" I stopped walking. Middle of Mercer. A bike messenger nearly killed me. Didn't care. I just stared at my phone like it had sent me a medical bill.
People's. PEOPLE'S. Mine and Reilly's church. Where the bartender in archival Rick Owens once told me my Alaïas were "a civic service" before verbally executing two girls in Michael Kors. Where Reilly fell down the stairs in her Khaite heels and Loro cape, diffusing Byredo on impact, and we got free drinks out of pity for the cashmere. Our place for communion, gossip, and debating whether Beaver Creek is for people with kids or people without taste. And now some finance bro thinks he can just walk in?
I called Reilly immediately. Not text. Called.
"He suggested People's."
Silence. Then: "Our PEOPLE'S? That's hate speech. Cancel."
So I did. A clean 4 p.m. work emergency, the golden hour of believable flakiness. He replied, "No worries! Maybe another night?" I left him on read for a week. Figured he'd pick literally anywhere else.
Seven days later: "Still want to try People's?"
I screamed. In a Khaite dressing room.
Reilly said, "Wear something so directional they'll assume he's gay."
So, runway Bottega it had to be. She called in a favor to get it before it hit stores, the fringe piece my brother calls "Snuffleupagus chic" but moves like a very expensive haunting. The Row sandals. Dad's gold Patek 5711 I borrowed in 2021, squatter's right or a birthright, he isn't getting it back.
Tyler was already there. The bartender, still Rick Owens clad, martyr calm, caught my eyes on the walk over and gave me the look. Like I'd brought Diet Coke to Mass.
As he stood for the hello hug, it came into frame--a Guggenheim embroidered Patagonia vest. My heart stopped. The bartender's earlier stare made sense; it had been preemptive condolences. I wasn't about to let that microplastic masquerading as outerwear graze runway Bottega, so I offered a handshake instead. My Cartiers clanked like a distress signal. The bartender looked up again and silently started my usual martini.
I considered fleeing. Instead, I leaned toward him. "Do you have a blanket? He looks cold."
He looked at Tyler, then at me. "He looks fine."
"They always do," I whispered.
They didn't have one. I couldn't cover up that armless atrocity.
The martini arrived crisp, citrusy, pure gin--cold enough to silence bad thoughts. The fries were blistered and perfect; I ate three, whispering "penance." Tyler ordered the burger, which only exists to calm the finance men who panic when they can't find red meat on a menu.
Then he said it.
"So this HVAC company at like tweeeentyyy fiiiiive in..."
Time froze. Airplanes hovered. Oceans paused. He was about to say EBITDA in People's. Our sanctuary. The house that perfect martinis built.
So I did what any devout woman would.
I accidentally spilled my drink. Direct hit. The lemon peel stuck to the word "Capital." For a brief, delusional second I thought maybe people would assume it was merch from the museum. Best case.
"Oh my GOD, I'm so sorry!" (Reader, I was not.)
For a moment the bar seemed to exhale. The bartender glowed like he'd witnessed a miracle. A woman in Khaite mouthed, thank you for your service. Then reality reloaded. Tyler stood there dripping of juniper and humiliation.
The bartender reached out with napkins. "I could also just throw that thing away for you," he said, perfectly straight faced. I almost kissed him.
Tyler muttered something about running home to change, still dripping of juniper and humiliation. "Sure," I said, already waving for another round. He stormed out.
The hostess drifted over, low voice, conspiratorial smile. "I'll tell him we're closed for a private event when he gets back. Enjoy your night. Love the Bottega."
Of course she did. Women know a mercy killing when they see one.
Verdict: People's, five stars. Fries, dangerous. Martini, divine. Bartender, canonized (Rick Owens, obviously).
Tyler, zero stars. Grown men should know better than to wear a fleece vest to church. read more