Mediaite reports the latest gossip: That Graydon is offering laid-off VF staffers jobs at Monkey Bar. The restaurant he owns!

You got laid off from Graydon Carter's magazine but now you can go and be a barback at Graydon Carter's restaurant! Allegedly.

You know just how Graydon likes things, eh? It'll be perfect!

And when Monkey Bar goes under Graydon Carter has some housework he needs done. Allegedly.

[Pic: Getty]

So says a Page Six item:

The hockey hunk, who knocked up Bristol Palin, was at Monkey Bar on Thursday night with "two of the biggest, burliest bodyguards I've ever seen seated to either side of him and another guy at a back booth," said our witness. "One even accompanied him to the bathroom!"

This is funny (funny: ha-ha) for, like, nine reasons. My favorite three:

1. Levi Johnston needs two bodyguards. Schwah? Also, how can he pay for hired goons to hold his dick while he pisses? I mean, it's very Monkey Bar, but really: are these guys on sale? And didn't he used to play hockey? Why would he need protection?

2. Because this is Monkey Bar we're talking about, and by short extention, Graydon Carter. G-funk, who oversees the media bastion of everything Liberal, Famous, and Awesome: Vanity Fair - also personally oversees the reservations list for Monkey Bar every night....

3. ...Which means that he was the one who let Johnston in, and gave him one of those infamous back booths, for a party of three. Chances are, Levi (or his bodyguard/flack) noted that he'd be coming with "protection" or something. So either Carter's looking for a scoop from Levi, or he couldn't get anyone better in there. Cindy Crawford was sitting nearby. Take that for what you will.

Most of all, however, this represents a stunning discovery in the mysterious algorithm on how one descends into one of Graydon's Caves of Awesome. It's beauty lies in how - yes - downright primal the entire thing is: even mediocre fame - especially the infamous brand - when dressed up to look like the Real McCoy makes the Graydon Grade.

Otherwise presented without comment, here's a video of how to peel a banana like a monkey. Okay, fine, comment: Monkey Bar is aptly named for the people who try to get in. Better get moving:

Laws of the Jungle Apply [NYT Dining]
OVERPROTECTED [Page Six]
Photo illustration "The Missing Link" by Foster Kamer, Mixed Media, 2009.

In yet another probing piece from Allen Salkin, the Seymour Hersh of the New York Times Style section, Salkin uncovers the mysteries behind Carter's seating madness. You see, each afternoon, right around 4:00 or so, one of Carter's man-servants will sheepishly enter his office, making sure never to make eye contact or speak without being spoken to first to avoid being flogged mercilessly about the torso with bamboo reeds dipped in Tabasco sauce, and hand Carter a list of names of those who have been deemed worthy of a table at Waverly Inn and Monkey Bar by Carter's other assorted underlings. Then the magic happens.

A sunken area in the center of the dining room that you see when entering is known as "the pit." It is important to have "young, attractive people" at the first of two round tables in the pit, Mr. Carter said. "It gives a certain energy."

Pointing to the two tables on an elevated area to the right side of the room, he said these were for people looking for a quiet meal.

On the opposite side of the room are four nice booths. "This is fashion and literary and young," he said. That night, Cynthia McFadden of ABC news; Liz Smith, the gossip columnist; and Marjorie Gubelmann, a socialite, were in those booths.

Elevated over the pit opposite the entrance are a line of banquettes, which that night included a group of 20 or so guests of the socialite Jennifer Creel who were celebrating her debut as a designer of sunglasses sold at Bergdorf Goodman.

And behind them was the most-prime real estate, a line of booths on the back wall overlooking the whole scene. "This is young and media moguls," Mr. Carter said, pointing to the booths, "and sort of single-name people." On that night, Calvin Klein, Rupert Everett, Prince Andrew, Ron Perelman and Louise Grunwald were in those booths. When Madonna comes in, she gets a back booth.

But it doesn't end there—During the course of each evening, Carter and his spies will observe each guest and make notes about their behavior. If they should, say, pick their nose or pass gas or dare to complain about anything, they are issued demerits in Carter's little grade book. However, if they drop to their knees and offer to fellate King Graydon upon his entrance, they are given a coupon for a complimentary serving of flan on their next visit. Or something.

Whatever—We will never eat at any of Graydon Carter-owned establishment on principle alone, so we don't really care.

Many Called, But Few Are Seated [New York Times]

We already heard from one patron that the Vanity Fair editor's West Village fixture (of the past few years) has been c'mon in! welcoming of late, and now another tipster tells us much the same:

I just took a stroll over to the Waverly Inn to make a reservation for my boss for tonight. I walked in, sat down, talked to the very friendly reservationist who worked off her laptop, and got a reservation. It's that easy! My boss isn't even a celebrity. Is the Waverly slipping? I was expecting to have to beg/cry, and was fully prepared to do both. I guess the recession has trimmed down their list of regulars so that the plebes may have a taste of greatness.

Hmm. Used to be that there was a certain strict set of rules one had to follow to get seated at the little haunt. But that was back in dusty old August, before we blotted out the sun with our econo-missiles and everyone turned out their pockets.

And to hear the New York Post's remaining batty old gossipeuse Cindy Adams tell it, Carter's new uptown venture, the be-muraled Monkey Bar, is basically as exclusive as the Red Lobster on a Tuesday afternoon:

Unlike superprecious Waverly, this place will actually have a phone number, eventually open for lunches and happily feature comfort food like chili, scrambled eggs, Meatloaf Nora from Nora Ephron's recipe. Prices are reasonable. And with a candle in a glass at each table, lighting's good.

Sounds like an old people place! I mean, with like a telephone and everything! Is this the end of clubhouse dining?

One of our foodiest friends, erstwhile Gawker Joshua David Stein, recently spoke with Ed Sorel, the fellow who crafted the large, backroom mural. Per Carter's request, Sorel created an olio of various 1920's and 30's notables—society scenesters, publishing demigods, and showbiz types. He told JDS:

we decided essentially on a who's who of who is in New York between the wars. We have Fred Astaire, this is the Fred Astaire who appeared on Broadway with his sister. There's also Henry Luce, Herb Ross, Conde Nast, Blanche and Adolph Ochs, the Fitzgeralds—Zelda and F Scott, Billie Rose, Dorothy Parker and Edna Ferber.

So basically the type of people who just won't ever exist anymore because instead of somehow (knew a guy!) getting a table at Monkey Bar and sitting in proximal awe of these storied people, we can just lie on our couches in Brooklyn and type incessantly about them, thus rendering them kinda unfabulous, so why would we want to stare at them at Monkey Bar in the first place? It's kind of a Lost-style time loop sorta thing.