By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
By Roy Edroso
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
By Zachary D. Roberts
Over at Barton G., owner-showman Barton G. Weiss threw a lavish "Dance of the Naked Chefs" lunch consisting of a giant martini glass filled with raw seafood followed by a massive "mixed mini meat grill" right out of The Flintstones. Over dessert, four male strippers danced out in chef's aprons, which they promptly dropped, revealing huge maxi meat platters that they gleefully used for utensils. One guy stirred an ice cream bucket with his schlong and served the dessert to my friend, while another rolled a maraschino cherry around in his foreskin, then rammed it into my mouth as I gagged, terrified of the red dye number two. But from now on I'll never be satisfied with a mere cherry without a dick attached!
More reservedly, Bal Harbour's the place to go to gawk at the label ladies, while Lincoln Road Mall is where you push past the tourists to nab a table at Touch or Sushi Samba (a poppy place right out of a Romero Britto painting, with two kitchens and a live DJ). Another Gotham-to-SoBe spin-off, Cafeteria, is opening right across the street, and I hear a recent session where local celebs were photographed for the menu turned into the biggest press-whore orgy since the glory days of Donato Dalrymple.
After your third (and best) Chilean sea bass of the dayat the tastefully named The Hotel's indoor/outdoor Wish restaurantyou thump-thump at Crobar's gay Sunday, though it was on a recent straight night that Tara Reid bobbed out of there, oblivious to the fact that one boob was hanging out. Ishould talk; by this point, a hustler had joined my entourage, flashing his dick at whim and fleecing strangers for money in between explaining the knife wound on his forehead. (But at least he didn't wield a maraschino.)
On New Year's Eve, Susanne Bartch's poolside bash at the Raleigh (which Andre Balasz just bought) had stilt walkers and trampoline boys prancing about a giant blowup dinosaur, which didn't only look phallic to the drunk. Several minutes after midnight, Bartsch emerged on a balcony, encrusted in balloons, and kookily counted down to the New Year. "Make a vish," she said. I vanna go back.