Speculation has been rampant on how Jay McInerney broke his foot. How could he who carries the mantle of downtown literature do his job when hobbled by a mangled gam? Dana Vachon weighed in unhelpfully when Radar nosed around. And finally McInerney himself explained. We should have known, it happened at the Waverly Inn. It involves summer truffles and for some reason, the dropping of 16 names and nearly as many acute accents. (Bernard-Henri Lévy, a French TV fellow named Frédéric Beigbeider.) Did you know that the Waverly is something of a buffet of literary-star-fuckers?
First the visiting Frenchie Beigbeider, working on a Salinger documentary, lures some young ladies back to McInerney's 9th Street penthouse. (Chances that the girls were NYU English freshman? Nearly 100%!)
Feeling festive, I decided to invite them all over to my apartment, and before too long their group, along with the Fisketjon/McGrath table and several friends of Frédéric's, were on their way out the door to my place on 9th Street. Trying to flag a cab for one of the young ladies Frédéric had been chatting up, I ran out into Bank Street, putting my foot down on the very edge of the curb and wrenching it nicely.
That's right. McInerney broke his foot athletically defending the honor of a retinue of young ladies. That is to say, crutches are the accoutrements of leading the good life.