She arrived for the luncheon at Kaluz in a swirl of designer labels.
She was carrying the Prada bag, a Hermes scarf tied around the handle. Her earrings were diamonds from Tiffany. Her necklaces were Elis Perretti. The diamond watch was a slim Rolex. Her oversized, red, pen was Mont Blanc. Her hot pink, Faconnbale blazer matched her Armani capris. Her shoes were Fendi. She had just left Marco, the genius, at the Blow Bar minutes before. Per usual, she wanted to be seen and noticed.
Will Ferrell had just completed shooting a movie in her fair city that week. The crew had taken over an entire floor of the restaurant for a wrap-up celebration. The restaurant lobby was jammed with the Press, all rabid to score an interview with Ferrell. As she arrived, she was shuffled off to the smaller dining room to meet her friends. Their table, less than desirable, was in a dark corner. Not happy only begins to describe the ire of our Princess. The waiter recognized these fequent-flyer-ladies -who -lunch, and quickly took their order for “martinis, up, dry, two olives.”
Several martinis later, the ladies decided to crash the Ferrell party – in a stealth manner. They barely made it towards the elevator, before security guards stopped them and guided them back to their dark corner.
A flood of “Do you know who I am?” did not stop the Men in Black/with holsters, from asking the ladies not to bother them again.
The women all decided they hated “Elf.”