My alma mater hosted a beautiful alumni reception at The Lotos Club on East 66th and Fifth Avenue last week.
I didn't really take photos. Even if I had, I doubt that the photos would have done the elegant setting justice. I only wish that I captured the evening cocktail—appropriately named "The Vanderbilt," it mixed together a holy trinity of champagne, pomegranate and St. Germain.
Founded in 1870, The Lotos Club gets its name from Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, "The Lotos Eaters." The private club is held in high regard for its devotion to the arts and intellectual finesse, accompanied by elegant functions and lavish State dinners.
According to The Lotos Club's history, it is one of the older literary clubs in the United States—it's mission is founded on a more inclusive philosophy, something that certainly stands out amongst an elite neighborhood and its exclusive premise. Notable members include Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain), President William Howard Taft and a number of Nobel Laureates, political figures, historians and artists.
The Lotos Club is a part of an elegant list of reciprocal clubs—both domestic and international—such as the Hope Club in Providence, Rhode Island; the University Club in San Francisco, California; Le Cercle de l'Union Interalliee in Paris, France; and Sallskapet in Stockholm, Sweden.
After two difficult years, this summer has made up for time I thought I already lost.
It was the first summer that I wasn't either living or spending an extended period of time in Rhode Island—I thought I was going to be stuck in suburbia, perhaps make the occasional trip to New York City. I was concerned that it was going to be a bore.
I was wrong.
Caught up with friends who I haven't seen in a while. Finally went to the Westport Duck Race. Found a speakeasy in New York City while celebrating Cara's birthday. Flew to the West Coast for the first time to visit Steph in California. Read a few books. Tried new restaurants. Spent a few weekends in Rhode Island—not just in Newport and Narragansett, but also Watch Hill with my family. Went sailing. And probably tried every Pimm's Cup and prosecco cocktail between New York City, Westport and Newport.
Looking through these photos, I am grateful for having amazing friends and family that have made this summer—and the rest of seasons—an absolute dream. There are a lot of moments that are not captured in pictures, but I try to take snapshots of the best of them.
Time to switch from Pimm's Cups to spiked hot ciders...
My brother Dylan and I planned to meet for lunch in the city, but didn't decide where until the morning of.
"Have you ever been to the Belgian place?"
You know your brother knows his francophile sister when he suggests "the Belgian place" a few blocks away from his office.
BXL Zoute stands proudly on West 23rd Street like a carefully tended floral garden in the middle of concrete jungle. Its interior boasts a polished urban aesthetic with relaxed, European charm. The soft teal and bark color scheme, as well as the wave art spanning across the bar, evokes a longing for the coast (Biarritz, perhaps?).
Dylan and I chose a table outside and decided to order the moules frites prix-fixe for $17 each. There are several options for the lunch prix-fixe and I would be surprised to find a more simply decadent mid-day meal for under $20 in Flatiron.
My friend Cara took me to a hidden gem for bottomless brunch in her neighborhood.
We ventured a few short blocks from Upper East Side to check out Effy's Kitchen towards the outer edge of Spanish Harlem. The restaurant's bottomless brunch special--one main dish with endless mimosas--costs only $20.
If you're trying to find a brunch spot to catch up with your friends, take your sweet time at Effy's and enjoy the fresh omelettes with your orange bubbly.
Meanwhile, if you're looking for brunch in the West Village by Washington Square Park, check out this popular pub.
I went to NYU last Sunday to see one of my best friends from college present a policy framework proposal for the 2016 Policy Case Competition.
Before Steph and her teammates arrived, I walked around NYU, Washington Square Park and found a place to grab Sunday brunch at a great bar called The Half Pint. I was happily enjoying my delicious farmer's market omelet and mimosa when one of the bartenders told me that bottomless brunch was only $18—if a mimosa was $9 each, it only makes sense to do it up.
I thought I was done after two, but then Steph and her teammates met me at the bar. So I had another while I waited for them. Then another when they got there...
Several things happen when you find the bottom of bottomless brunch.
First, the denial that you found the bottom—isn't it supposed to be bottomless?
You look up from your #? mimosa and notice the bartenders kind of judge you.
And then you wonder if you're being irresponsible.
But then you realize that it's Sunday. And it's your day off.
And then you don't really care that the bartenders are kind of judging you.
Actually, you feel great.
You dispel any thought that you're being irresponsible—it's not like you're driving or you're at a networking event—so you tell yourself that you're simply trying to live and make your white everygirl dreams come true.
For the 7th annual Macaron Day NYC, pastry chef Francois Payard has raised the bar with the ultimate hybrid confection.
Meet the macaron donut, lovingly dubbed as the "macaronut" by social media outlets.
It only makes sense that Payard—an accomplished pastry chef as well-decorated and praised as his beautiful pastries—would dream up such a concoction and bring it to life.
If you're a New Yorker, Macaron Day NYC is sweet for your tastebuds and your community—a portion of the profits from the day will benefit City Harvest, a non-profit dedicated to help feeding the 1.4 million New York residents facing hunger each year with food rescue since 1982:
City Harvest will collect 55 million pounds of excess food from restaurants, grocers, bakeries, manufacturers, and farms, and deliver it free of charge to 500 community food programs across the city this year.
Even if you're not in the city and unable to buy one of Payard's macaronuts, celebrate Macaron Day by stopping by your local bakery and picking out a few flavors (*cough* rose, pistachio and lavender)...
A first-hand account of street style hunting in the New York's fashionable tundra
I stood frozen on the corner of West 33rd and 8th Avenue for over an hour and a half. Forget trying to stay out of the way of the cameras, I was literally frozen in place from the numbing cold.
I wasn’t the only one shivering on the street—several photographers stood nearby waiting for the next wave of New York Fashion Week attendees to emerge from the exit.
The photographers are assassins for the getting the perfect picture. If the first show began at Moynihan Station at 11:00 AM, chances are that they had been standing there for hours. The photographers waited for the Herve Leger runway show to let out.
Two things were keeping me warm—the disproportionately large Banana Republic faux fur trapper hat my mother insisted on buying during our last shopping trip to the Danbury Fair Mall and the exciting possibility of seeing a favorite fashion blogger, editor, or celebrity.
There was one moment when everyone held their breath looking at one particularly beautiful woman. With her long, tan legs, bright smile and sexy, slightly irreverent outfit (a sweatshirt, fur coat and high heeled boots couldn’t have looked hotter), she shared a striking resemblance to Rihanna.
When it comes down to it, I thought I saw a major celebrity and fashion icon and almost died.
The most exciting thing about standing on the street corner wasn’t so much the seeing the outfits, but observing the whole process— I could cross-reference several Instagram accounts for NYFW street style from the comfort of my own (warm) home and have more time to see all of the garment and accessory details.
I enjoyed watching how the photographers waited for the candid moments more than anything—asking subjects to pose for the full-length outfit is essential for editorial, but capturing fashion in its “natural state” is the heart of street style photography.
At one point, a group of fashionistas crossed 8th Avenue towards Madison Square Garden looking for a taxi. Then they turned around and crossed back towards Moynihan Station. After a quick fashionable huddle over cigarettes and some heated conversation in Italian, instead of waiting for one to pull to the curb, they ran into traffic—in their heels, holding their round sunglasses in place and putting out their cigarettes—towards one of the taxi vans sitting at the red light.
The lucky photographer who paid attention to this scene shot the fashionistas dashing up 8th Avenue and piling into the taxi in a blur of black leather, blonde hair and fur coats.
I walked towards the official NYFW entrance up the street for a change of scenery. More photographers waited on the street alongside the motorcade of NYFW SUVs. A few more fashionistas (and a poor, shivering Chihuahua at the mercy of her glamorous owner) strutted out of the building before I decided to seek shelter in a Starbucks I spotted on 34th Street.
Still thawing from the five-minute walk, I happened to grab a seat next to a man editing street style photos on his Mac. After some polite pestering conversation, Matt told me he was a photographer on assignment for Getty Images. He came to New York City by way of doing concert photography in Chicago, as well as runway, but admitted that he found street style infinitely more interesting than the traditional fashion show.
As our exchange continued and my nosy pestering curiosity grew, I asked him which shows he was planning to head to next—I envied the lineup on his iCal. I hope he considered my input and made it in time for Banana Republic.
After Matt left, I recognized a few of the well-dressed people at the counter from standing on the street corner—we were the smart ones who decided to take the time to relax and get caffeinated before getting back to work.
