FRANCESCA: The rooftop bar of Hotel Gansevoort was exquisite – sunset, cool breeze, bp everywhere. Among them: my New York posse of girlfriends – out to celebrate and lament the imminent end to my single life. But after a couple of rounds of bellinis and passionfruit cocktails, it was time to move on.
Alas, the elevator down was off limits due to an unexplained fire alarm. The choices were: either remain on the roof poolside with bellinis and the man in green who kept taking photos of us… or clatter down how many flights of stairs in heels?
We chose the stairs.
Clickety-clack. With lights and sirens, the FDNY heralded our arrival on the streets!
Kathleen and SASCHA.
Half a block over and we were at SASCHA restaurant. It just so happens that I knew Sascha before he was SASCHA – one of New York’s most eligible male chefs. Sascha and I met each other when we were teenagers. We were in Santa Barbara. It was summer vacation…
SASCHA personally seated us immediately in the brasserie.
I told him I was getting married. “Oh that’s too bad,” he said. “Drinks?”
Yes, strawberry – rose petal – champagne drinks called “Aphrodisiacs,” towers of oysters and shrimp and plenty of attention from the head chef.
Who needs a stripper when SASCHA’s serving Aphrodisiacs?