In this weekend's New York Times 'Style' section, LA Weekly's 'Deadline Hollywood' columnist Nikki Finke looks back the Plaza hotel, the Peach Pit for a previous generation of Preppies. (Or should we say "U.H.B."s in deference to Whit Stillman's Metropolitan?) It's the sort of old sepia-toned old New York nostalgia piece that makes non-native New Yorkers swoon:
My cliquish world consisted of the ladies and gents from Manhattan's exclusive private schools and preppies down from New England boarding schools who played bit parts on weekends and holidays. Walking anachronisms, we continued traditions handed down from previous privileged generations: we met under the clock at the Biltmore, kissed on the St. Regis roof, came out at the Waldorf-Astoria and married at the Pierre. Yet we did all that and much more at the Plaza, because the hotel was woven into the fabric of our upbringing, as seamlessly as the tartan plaids of our school uniforms.
For Hollywood types who consider Finke a hard-hitting journalistic scourge, the writer accidentally reveals her own kryptonite (or, in Hollywood journalism terms, her MSG.): marzipan. We suspect that if she didn't operate from an undisclosed location somewhere in Los Angeles, she'd be receiving a big gift basket of the sweet stuff right about now.