call from his old roommate, Chris Weitz, co-director of American Pie . A decade ago, the two men, then in their early 20's,

had lived in the Police Building on

Centre Street.

"I'm working on a pilot for DreamWorks," Mr. Weitz said, "kind of

loosely based on our time together."

"What's the character called?" Mr. Rellie asked.

"Umm …. " Mr. Weitz said. " Euan ?"

"Really?" Mr. Rellie said.

"What does he do?"

Replied Mr. Weitz: "He's a

British banker."

And now, Sundays at 9 p.m. on Channel 11, you can see the

adventures of Euan and Chris (renamed "Mike" in the show) in Off Centre , a WB network sitcom

co–executive produced by Mr. Weitz and his brother, Paul. The premise: randy, good-looking Brit and uptight American pal

share posh pad in a celebrity-filled Manhattan building called the Hadley on

Centre. The show has a distinctly late-90's feel-wild parties, wild women,

wildly bad sex jokes. For example:

EUAN:

You're being very G.O.P. about this, Mike. In European cultures, love triangles

are an accepted part of life.

MIKE:

So is gonorrhea. [Laughter.]

Mr. Rellie-despite having his TV self described by TV Guide as "the season's most obnoxious

new character," and in one episode as having "the sexual morals of a ferret in

heat"-is thrilled about his

pop-culture immortalization. "When the show was first commissioned, he e-mailed

everyone in his Palm Pilot," said the author Toby Young, who lived with Mr.

Rellie in the West Village in the late 1990's. Mr. Rellie's fiancée, Lucy

Sykes, the style director of Marie Claire ,

said: "He'll tell anyone who'll listen, 'Well, have you heard that Chris-Chris Weitz -has written a TV program all about

me ?' I'm bored as hell . At least

you'll listen. I can't anymore. You've made his year. His century. His life."

Why Euan? Friends of Mr. Rellie-a founding partner of Business

Development Asia, a mergers-and-acquisitions boutique -alternately describe the

blue-eyed, spiky-haired Eton and Cambridge grad as having "an insatiable

appetite for life," being  "charmingly

opportunistic" and "a complete cad." In other words: perfect for TV. "He's

pathologically gregarious and totally fearless in any social situation," said

Mr. Young, who further exposes Mr. Rellie in his book, How to Lose Friends and Alienate People . "However famous an actress

or beautiful a supermodel, he'll ask them out to dinner. He's incredibly flirtatious. My cousin sat

next to him at a dinner once, and she said it was like sitting next to an

octopus on crack."

"The guy who plays him [in Off

Centre ] is not as subtle in his charm," said Susan Welsh, a senior editor

at W magazine and longtime friend.

But, Ms. Welsh acknowledged, TV Euan's "tactics are pretty much by the

book-like Euan finds himself having dates with three women at the same time,

but he convinces them to sleep with each other and it all works out.

"The classic sad part," Ms. Welsh said, laughing, "is the reviews

say he's an obnoxious character, but I think he's actually very similar in real

life."

Over lunch at the Great American Health Bar, a health-food diner

near his West 57th Street office, Mr. Rellie tried to play down his recent

Kramerization.

"So as not to sound

self-indulgent, I only watched the first episode," Mr. Rellie said. "It's not

very British to stay in every Sunday to watch a show loosely based on you." ("I

helped him to be more self-deprecating with you," Ms. Sykes said the following

morning. "It doesn't last long. He goes right back to it the next day," she

said, sighing.)

What did he think of Off Centre ? "I found the pilot funny," he said, alternating between sips of a

strawberry smoothie and carrot juice. But "I'm not surprised the reviews have

been patchy-I mean lousy. And the actor is much

better-looking than me."

Still, Mr. Rellie admitted that he could recognize himself in

some of the show, but found TV Euan's exploits (getting crabs, dating

prostitutes, juggling women) to be " wild ly

exaggerated."

"I may have affected the air of a rakish playboy, but it's only

an air," he said. "I'm a nice, well-mannered young man."

-Christine Muhlke

THE LOST CLOTHES OF SEPT. 11

Marden's Surplus & Salvage is an unassuming discount

establishment nestled in a strip mall between an Ames department store and the

Great Wall Chinese Restaurant on the outskirts of Portland, Me. On the Saturday

after Thanksgiving, the store was busy and dressed for the holidays, with

99-cent tinsel displays and a crowd of baseball-capped lobstermen checking out

long-sleeved, tie-dyed N.H.L. shirts. 

Elsewhere, a noisy group of shoppers buzzed around a recently

arrived shipment of fine suits and assorted men's wear. Spread over a dozen

racks, these clothes had impressive (and authentic) labels: Armani, Gucci,

Hickey-Freeman, Brioni, Zegna, Donna Karan, Hugo Boss. Most of them had

originally been priced at well over $1,000 and reduced by half at another

discount store. By the time they'd hit Marden's, they were selling for around

$300-a steal, even in Maine.

But there was, one might say, a slight catch. As a friend reached

for a blue three-button Kenneth Cole suit, he noticed that the suit and the

smooth plastic hanger on which it hung were covered with a fine white dust.

Strange, we thought. A few minutes later, he noticed the same thing when he

grabbed a suede Ruffo jacket. Curious, he inspected the tag-and under a slash

of iridescent permanent ink, we spied a barely visible logo, printed in that

trademark swirly script every good New York City shopper knows by heart:

Century 21.

Century 21, of course, is the glorious Manhattan

discount-clothing chain whose flagship store is located just across Church

Street from the World Trade Center site. Though it's still standing and plans

to reopen soon, the store suffered damage during the Sept. 11 terrorist attack

and has been shuttered in the interim.

To this Century 21 loyalist's eye, the merchandise at Marden's

looked to be from Century 21's main floor and balcony, where many high-end

men's suits were located. Though the suits appeared in fine shape-nothing a

good dry cleaning couldn't solve-the dust and inked-out tags gave them a rather

haunted, mournful look. These clothes, needless to say, had been through a lot .

Of course, this feeling was pretty much lost on Marden's

customers that day, since there was no indication whence the dressy mother lode

had come. An ad in The Portland Press

Herald on Nov. 16 had touted the suits as a "Portland Exclusive!" "Just

arrived!" read the copy. "Over $1,500,000.00 worth of men's famous name

designer suits, dress shirts, ties & coats." Then, in big red letters:

"From one of the biggest salvage

deals ever!"

It certainly was some sale. Careful inspection showed that a

Brioni three-piece lightweight tweed originally priced at $2,800 had been

marked down at Century 21 to $1,499. Marden's was selling it for $750. That

blue three-button Kenneth Cole wool suit, originally priced at $1,100, was

selling for $200. And the Ruffo suede jacket, originally $1,700, was $250.

Still, employees of Marden's were tight-lipped about the source

of the price-slashed suit deluge. Portland, of course, was a pre–Sept. 11 pit

stop for some of the terrorists. (The local Wal-Mart was Mohammed Atta's

notorious last stop, and he dined at a Pizzeria Uno not far away.) Given the

heightened sensitivities locally, it was understandable that the store might

not want to give precise details about the origin of the designer threads.

"We're really not supposed to say anything about that," a blond

salesclerk told me when I asked her where the clothes came from.

Why not? I asked.

"Because it might hurt people's feelings."

Later, on the telephone, a woman named Claudia-the manager of

Marden's clothing division, who declined to give her last name -wasn't much

help, either. "I can't give out any information," she said. Instead, she

directed the call to the Marden brothers themselves.

John Marden, who owns and runs Marden's with his siblings Harold

Jr. (Ham), David and Nancy, and their father Harold (Mickey), could not confirm

where the suit collection had originated.

"Contractually, we can't say either way," he said, adding that

companies like his could get blacklisted by retailers and insurance companies

for revealing the source of their merchandise.

Still, Mr. Marden did say that when a store goes out of business

or has its inventory damaged, a third party-called a "salvor"-takes over and

brings the merchandise to stores like Marden's. Calling his company "one of the

top two or three salvage houses in the country," Mr. Marden added: "We're

almost like buzzards."

A telephone recording at the Century 21 corporate office in

Secaucus, N.J., informed callers that the store's Manhattan location was

temporarily closed, but that the Brooklyn and Long Island stores were still

operational (the company also has an outlet store in Secaucus). A spokesperson

for the company said that Century 21 had not redistributed from the Cortlandt

Street location to its other stores.

"We're not reselling the merchandise," the spokesperson said.

"It's not in the Brooklyn or Long Island or Secaucus locations."

Raymond Gindi, Century 21's chief operating officer, said that

the department store's insurance company, which he declined to name, assumed

responsibility for the clothing in the Cortlandt Street store. He said he

didn't know where it all wound up.

"I don't want people to think I'm selling the clothes in Maine,"

Mr. Gindi said. "Century 21 has nothing to do with it anymore. It's all gone."

-Rebecca Traister

they were on the other side of the cash register. At the cavernous Hermès store

on Madison Avenue and 62nd Street, a saleswoman was propping herself up on a

cash register, bored. At Prada on Fifth Avenue and 57th Street, an employee was

listlessly petting a fur stole. Over at Barneys, three salespeople in the

designer-shoe department were leaning against a display, looking lonely.

"It was really, really slow for the first week-God!" said a

saleswoman at Prada, who wished to remain anonymous. Her eyes swept across the

sales floor, which was empty save for overdressed actress Brittany Murphy, who

was asking if she could pay for a pile of clothes with a check, as four Prada

employees fawned around her. "Then, starting last Saturday, it picked up," the

saleswoman said. "Little by little, every day is better. Kind of."

As if fall sales weren't slow enough, the terrorist attacks of

Sept. 11 shook the foundations of the city's retail industry. Fearful of

recession, shoppers stayed home, sending the nationwide consumer-confidence

index down in its biggest tumble since the Gulf War.

"It's a debacle," said Howard Davidowitz, chairman of Davidowitz

& Associates Inc., a New York–based retail consulting firm. " Everything is in a funk, from Duane

Reade to Bergdorf Goodman. The department stores are going to have to change

their operating plans, reduce inventory and help and lower prices, because

expectations are lower. So much of Madison Avenue sells things you buy to go to

parties, but no one feels like going to a party anymore. That's going to impact

jewelry, couture and designer businesses. Business was not good to begin with,

but now it went off a cliff." He added that he was confident New York retailers

would bounce back in time.

New Yorkers have also been forced to radically reassess their

personal relationship with fashion. While fashion has always been a love-hate

affair, its ability to arouse passion and consume paychecks suddenly seems

suspect to even its most ardent practitioners.

"It's just not the same," said Carrie Ellen Phillips, a

25-year-old partner in the fashion public-relations firm of Bismarck

Communications. "I went to Kirna Zabête, where I would have mortgaged a small

house before, but I couldn't even get interested. I almost felt bad shopping,

like, 'You should be doing something better with your time. Is this what you're spending your money

on?'"

Ms. Phillips and her roommate cleaned out their closets and

donated clothes to the Red Cross center near their West Village apartment. "I

don't have to have the 'thing of the moment' anymore," she said, sounding

slightly incredulous.

On the day before the W.T.C. attacks, Liz Morgan Welch, a

32-year-old freelance writer, took a break from a story she was writing about

shopaholics for Mademoiselle  magazine to splurge on a $500 Tracy Feith

dress for a wedding she was to attend that weekend. The next day, she said, "I

literally wanted to flush it down the toilet. It just didn't matter . And it's persisted, that feeling …. My Tracy

Feith dress could have fed a fireman's family for a month. And I can't forgive

myself." (Meanwhile, Mademoiselle announced

on Oct. 1 that it would be folding.)

Reexamining their shopping habits-the fact that it had become

normal for some to pay $970 for a pair of Jimmy Choo boots and join a waiting

list for $1,500 cotton peasant blouses at Yves Saint Laurent-many women are

overcome by guilt.

Ms. Welch, who said she nearly dressed her way into debt as an

assistant at Vanity Fair four years

ago, was cured overnight of her taste for Prada shoes. "I'm still in the place

where shopping feels disrespectful," she said. "I was in Starbucks on the Upper

East Side last week, and there were these women in jewels talking about the

cute shoes they'd just bought. I wanted to dump a latte on their heads."

One of the first signs of trouble in the racks was a Sept. 20 Women's Wear Daily article which

reported that Bergdorf Goodman had canceled its remaining portion of fall

orders, with the exception of special orders. (Bergdorf Goodman spokespeople

did not return calls by press time.) Saks Fifth Avenue projects that sales for

its Manhattan flagship store, which accounts for 17 percent of the chain's

sales, will be down approximately 30 percent for September. Asked if Saks is

canceling remaining fall orders, spokeswoman Lori Rhodes said, "Canceling

orders is a natural part of business. We're monitoring the New York situation

very closely." Sales at the Manhattan flagships of Bloomingdale's and Macy's

are estimated to be down 15 to 20 percent for September.

Asked about Barneys' sales, store publicist Dawn Brown said some

days had been strong, others less so. "This store reflects the mood within the

city: It fluctuates," she said. On the day after the attacks, Barneys actually

did relatively brisk business, selling to stranded tourists and fashion press

who were in town for Fashion Week. (Barneys salespeople had the added stress of

a bomb threat, which emptied the building during the week after the attack; it

turned out to be groundless.)

Strangely enough, store buyers must now think spring. Bergdorf

and Saks did not send buyers to the European collections, while Barneys sent

considerably fewer staff.

Just as Republicans and Democrats are being forced to work

together in Congress, the stores, designers and suppliers will have to come

together and pool their resources. "These stores will have to work with

manufacturers to develop a strategy where no one party takes all the pain,"

said Arnold Aronson, managing director of retail strategies at Kurt Salmon

Associates. "Value-concept stores like Wal-Mart will fare best, while luxury

stores got hit harder, because it's hard to combine grief and mourning with

going out and making conspicuous-consumption purchases."

But some are trying,

takingMayorRudolph Giuliani up on his suggestion that shopping in a time of

crisis is every New Yorker's patriotic duty.

"When he said to support the city, I thought, 'I'll do what I

can: I'll get some fall clothes,'" said Stacy Nathan, a 31-year-old vice

president for advertising sales for Nickelodeon Online. "You want to be

helpful, dumping money back into New York. I live in Tribeca-I go home to it

every day. I want some bright spot in the day. I'm a little depressed, and

shopping-not that it makes me happy, but I like it. It's worked for the time

being."

"People come in here and say, 'I'm going to do the patriotic

thing and go shopping,'" said Anna Kimtz, co-owner of Hedra Prue, a Mott Street

boutique.

Kim France, editor in chief of the Condé Nast shopping magazine Lucky , said that while the Mayor's

exhortation was powerful-"If he told them to jump on one foot right now, they'd

do it"-it might not translate. "As for the whole Sex and the City status-shopping moment, it's a tough thing to

swing right now," she said. Ms. France added that empty stores would impact not

just the designers but also the city's economy. "Shopping is seen as girlie

Trivial Pursuit," she said. "But right now, it's not trivial, it's primary."

Retailers are actively trying to bring status shoppers back,

using charity donations as bait. On Sept. 28, Diane von Furstenberg opened her

West 12th Street studio for a one-day sample sale, which raised $50,000,

proceeds of which went to the Children's Aid Society, which has established its

own Sept. 11 fund. "If it hadn't been for charity, we wouldn't have had as many

people," said Maureen Cahill, the design company's director of marketing.

"People bought more because they wanted to help out."

Designer Nicole Miller helped organize "Pump Up Prince Street," a

block party for local merchants on Saturday, Sept. 29. Outside her store, an

impromptu fashion shoot was taking place, with store employees and models

"donated" from the Wilhelmina agency prancing to a D.J.

"We're busy today, actually," said Nicole Miller store manager

Demi Mouyiaris. "It's been sad-pathetic! People think 14th Street and below is

like a war zone." As she spoke, proprietors of nearby restaurants and stores

stood in their doorways, staring blankly into the street as neighborhood kids

hung the pictures they'd painted on butcher paper on every available surface.

Around the corner on Wooster Street, Patagonia had set up a tent with a band

and vendors from the Union Square Greenmarket selling "Apples for the Big

Apple."

Those who do venture out are finding a full range of fall

fashions to choose from; little was bought before Sept. 11, and thousands of

cartons of European clothing were stuck in customs until recently.

After being evacuated from her office following a bomb scare in

the Condé Nast building on Sept. 13, Glamour

editor Alexandra Marshall said she was feeling "disconnected." So she went

home, got online and ordered a pair of J. Crew jeans and some used Manolo

Blahniks. Asked how she felt, she laughed: "I felt … really glad to have scored

those shoes for a wedding in Italy! It had me thinking ahead: You fantasize

about an item, and it takes you out of your reality. I was just the girl with

the perfect jeans-not just the girl slugging through the misery of New York

City."

But the fashion-as-cure philosophy is wearing a bit thin with

some New York shoppers.

"I realized I don't need it, I don't want it, it can't improve my

life right now," said  Christine Shea, a

31-year-old freelance beauty writer and former editor at Vogue and Harper's Bazaar ,

who related a surreal trip she took with friends to the Michel Perry shoe store

on Sept. 22, where women "talked about which 9/11 fund to donate to, and going

online to liberty-unites.org while deciding whether or not they should buy

these 'classic' $350 black pumps. They did."

Donating one's clothing allowance to one of the various

disaster-relief funds seems to help some feel better. Others, like Ms.

Phillips, are editing their closets for the cause (though it's doubtful that

rescue workers need a laser-cut leather McQueen dress). Some are doing it for

profit: Medea Juhasz, the manager of Ina, a designer consignment store on

Prince Street, said they are booked solid for the next two weeks as women look

to offload their excess bags. "People are starting to get rid of things; it

makes them feel better," she said. "We have one rich person who said, 'I feel

really guilty. I have so much I don't need.'"

Of course, there's little chance that New York will become a city

of people attired in Gap and track suits-fashion is a vital part of how New

Yorkers announce who they are, and any abandonment of the higher reaches of

fashion is a temporary reaction. The closets that are being earnestly cleaned

out will eventually be filled again. If anything, the changed mood now

engulfing the city will find its way into fashion, to be repackaged and sold

back to us at a mark-up next fall.

In the meantime, fashionistas and shopaholics are finding new

ways to fill the void.

"Before, talking about

shopping was a way to bond," said Ms. Marshall. "Now there are more genuine

ways of bonding. People are more open and genuine." She said she was rethinking

her trip to Italy. "My friends' wedding is 20 minutes from the Gucci outlet,"

she said. "Before, there were visions of double G's dancing in my head. Now I

want to experience being in a foreign country. I don't want to go there and

just get lots of tote bags."

 - With additional reporting by Tom McGeveran

Donna Turro, 34, the director of Soho Sanctuary on Mercer Street, said she hatched the idea in November. "We were just sitting around brainstorming one day about, you know, what was something new and fun that we could do," she said. "I'd seen the Swarovski crystals when I was shopping, and I just started experimenting with them. I said, 'Hey, this is something fun, this is something unusual–nobody else is doing this right now.' We put out a press release with my P.R. firm, and no one had heard of it before."

But Cindy Barshop, the owner of Completely Bare on Madison Avenue, made a similar claim: " We pretty much started the whole thing." She said that a "rock 'n' roll star" suggested it to her when she was getting prepped for her wedding last September, and that rock stars–she wouldn't say which ones–come in a lot for her crystal tattoos, called Completely Bare with Flair (the Completely Bare bikini wax being self-explanatory). "In all honesty, if [Soho Sanctuary] wants to claim it, that's fine," Ms. Barshop said. "They came up afterwards with a follow-up on it. I didn't do a press release."

Actually, fashion-magazine sources told The Transom that Completely Bare not only did a press release but mailed it, with sample crystals, to a number of beauty editors.

The resulting press helped the crystal-tattoo wax become quite popular. You now have to wait about a week to get one in Manhattan. (Those willing to travel to Completely Bare's Scarsdale location face only a three-day waiting list.)

Ellen Taracido, a 34-year-old who works "in sales," said her recent Completely Bare butterfly crystal tattoo was worth the wait. (Waxees can choose from butterflies, starbursts, flowers, hearts, lips or a custom design in clear or colored crystals.)

"It's, you know, not exactly pain-free," Ms. Taracido said. "Anyone who's had any waxing done, it feels the same. It's like Ow! and then it's gone." Like ripping off a Band-Aid? "Well, maybe like a really big Band-Aid … with hair underneath," Ms. Taracido said.

The main thing for Ms. Taracido is sharing her butterfly with that special someone–in this case, her 34-year-old boyfriend Tom. "It's great when you're in a relationship," she said. She thought for a second. "I guess maybe if I was a slut, it would be fine, too. It's such a fun, sexy thing to do."

Tom concurred. "Every guy should have his girl get one," he said, while Ms. Taracido tittered in the background. "I love it!" The crystals, he said, are relatively flat and don't cause chafing.

"It's a novelty thing–a cute idea if you have a special night," said Vanessa Penna, 28, senior beauty and fitness editor at Elle , who had little orange stars affixed to her not-Completely-Bare bikini line at Ms. Barshop's suggestion. "In a way, it's like wearing nice underwear for your boyfriend–to surprise him, make him interested in, like, that area." While her boyfriend was indeed surprised, Ms. Penna said that, after two weeks, "he was like, 'Could you take it off?'"

"When it comes to the random crystals at issue, Ms. Turro and Ms. Barshop should be focusing their energy on devising the next "fun" wax, since the crystal tattoo is clearly a trend–and a niche one, at that. For evidence, they have to look no further than the J. Sisters Salon on West 57th Street, the Brazilian-bikini-wax factory that has had a two-to-four-week waiting list since it started the Brazilian seven years ago. "We've had the crystals here for a couple of months, but no one is interested!" co-owner Jonice Padilha said. "Most of our clients are high executives–they don't want that."

Tarrying with Gehry

On June 2, the lines to get into the Guggenheim Museum's Frank Gehry retrospective wound around the corner of Fifth Avenue and 89th Street. Yet those who endured the long wait to get inside the museum were greeted by a baffling sign at the ticket desk: "Due to the continued installation for Frank Gehry, Architect, the rotunda and certain ramps are closed. We apologize for the noise and any inconvenience."

Continued installation? The Gehry exhibit had officially opened two weeks earlier, on May 18–and yet, on June 2, Guggenheim-goers found dirty white sheets masking portions of Frank Lloyd Wright's internationally famous rotunda.

You would think that an exhibit glorifying the works of one of the Guggenheim Museum's favorite sons would be a well-oiled affair. But according to spokespeople for both the museum and Mr. Gehry, the manufacturer of an integral part of the exhibition's design–long sheets of wire mesh meant to hang from the museum's ceiling to the ground floor–missed its deadline. So, as a red crane merrily peep-peeped and workmen struggled behind the makeshift curtain to install the mesh, museum-goers discovered that they weren't going to get the full Gehry. At the very top of the rotunda, the section devoted to Bilbao, Seattle and Los Angeles was shut off. "We've seen M.I.T.," one woman said to the cross-armed security guard blocking her progress. "Now how do we get up there?"

The guard explained that no one would be going up there because, in order to install the mesh, more havoc was being wreaked at the top of the rotunda.

"So we'll have to come back?" the woman asked huffily. "I'm asking for a raincheck!"

"According to the guard, visitors had been complaining all morning about the off-limits sections of the exhibit. But no one at the ticket desk seemed to be offering rainchecks.

Publicly, at least, Mr. Gehry seems to be taking the snafu in stride. "These things happen in life," a spokesman for the architect told The Transom. "We're looking forward to the finished project." Those who decided to return when the full exhibit is open should wait a while. The Guggenheim spokeswoman said that, though there was no set date for the completion of the project, work will probably continue for another seven to 10 days.

–Elisabeth Franck

Bush Patrol

Geordie Greig, the spry, Gucci-loafer-wearing Tatler magazine editor, was looking particularly chipper as he surveyed the crowd inside the Globe restaurant on June 4. "It was a conscious strategy to make a statement," he said of his decision to put the aspiring model and Presidential niece, Lauren Bush, on the cover of a special U.S. edition of the Condé Nast glossy. "We deliberately went after this 16-year-old sweetheart who is part of the most controversial, talked-about political dynasty of the 20th-slash-21st century."

Just as deliberately, Mr. Greig & Co. had thrown this party at the Park Avenue South restaurant, where Ms. Bush could mingle with a New York crowd and generate some copy for Tatler. "With a certain amount of pride and a certain amount of mischief, we call Lauren Bush a great American icon," Mr. Greig said with a grin. "And that's the reason 400 people are here tonight."

Despite Mr. Greig's attempts at mischief-making, however, the Globe crowd–which included Brooke de Ocampo, Chris Blackwell, Hamish Bowles, Tom Wolfe and Stephen Sprouse–was not inclined to regard Ms. Bush much differently than any other teenager who uses her family connections to launch a career.

Among those who attended, there was speculation–unavoidable in the wake of her twin cousins' headline-making escapades–as to whether the glass Ms. Bush was clutching contained anything with a kick. The ever-enterprising Page Six editor Richard Johnson even offered to get Ms. Bush a drink. (According to sources familiar with the situation, she alternated between flat water and Sprite.)

But beyond that, no one made any great effort to fraternize with the Texas contingent, which included Ms. Bush's sister Ashley, their parents. Lauren's father, Neil Bush, was heard introducing himself to strangers as "the father of Lauren, who is George Bush's niece." This prompted an aside from Ann Dexter Jones, the madcap matriarch of Manhattan's own Ronson dynasty, to say: "That's like saying I knew the man who knew the man who danced with the Prince of Wales,"

The impression that tonight was simply business as usual on the cocktail circuit had been reinforced earlier by the arrival of Gotham's equivalent of the Bush twins, the ubiquitous Hilton sisters. The Hiltons gladly vamped for the requisite photo op with the guest of honor. Lauren Bush herself looked less like an icon than a pretty Texas high-school student, albeit one with the figure to carry off a body-hugging, beaded gold Celine by Michael Kors dress. She showed poise far beyond her 16 years as she gracefully evaded The Transom's attempts to elicit a sound bite. Did she share her uncle's and her grandfather's antipathy toward the Big Apple? "No, I love New York," she said, though she conceded that "I don't know if I could ever live here, but I love coming to visit."

In a final attempt to discover the deeper meaning of the night's events, The Transom approached Tom Wolfe, who was attending in his capacity as Tatler 's star contributing editor. Had New York's media elite shown up tonight in a veiled attempt to gain some access, however marginal, to the Bush White House? The great social commentator answered quietly but emphatically: "They came because it was a party."

–Dirk Standen

Musto Gusto

Don't mess with Michael Musto's image! One of The Transom's trusty scouts was jewelry-shopping on Fifth Avenue on June 3 when he spotted a sight more interesting than anything in Bulgari's display cases. The Verizon phone kiosk on the Southwest corner of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street currently features one of those priceless Fortunoff posters that depict the Village Voice columnist, moon-eyed in a tiara and bridal veil, above the tagline "Suddenly, everybody wants to be a bride." And the Sunday shopper noticed that astraddle a bicycle in front of the poster was– Michael Musto! –more conventionally attired in a black blazer and gray slacks. Mr. Musto was not admiring his image, at least not in an obvious fashion. Rather, he was furiously trying to scrape off a sticker that someone had applied over his mouth–the one on the poster.

"I've formed my own decency panel," Mr. Musto said when The Transom contacted him the following day about his clean-up efforts. He then assured us that he was not patrolling the city in an effort to keep the Fortunoff posters graffiti- and handbill-free. Mr. Musto said that the sticker he had removed advertised a group called the "Society Against Breastfeeding," which, he said, "doubly offended me because I'm a big supporter of breast-feeding." The columnist was also annoyed because, he said, "they really glued that motherfucker on." As a result, although the sticker is gone, the poster of Mr. Musto now has a rectangular adhesive mustache that might cause some people to confuse the columnist with Today show movie reviewer Gene Shalit. Now that's offensive.

–Frank DiGiacomo

Liev & Let Die

Actor Liev Schreiber left an indelible impression on the film crew that worked his latest picture, Kate & Leopold –just not a good one. According to a source on the set of the recently wrapped romantic comedy, the 33-year-old thespian was nicknamed "Marlon Brando" by the teamsters for his "brooding and serious actorly poses."

But Mr. Schrieber's most memorable performance may have come on May 25, the final day of the 13-week shoot. The film's stars, Meg Ryan and Hugh Jackman, had already departed, and Mr. Schreiber was cooling his heels by the Hudson River on the Yonkers set when a passing speedboat pulled up. The craft's driver asked the milling crew whether there were any famous people around. According to the source, "a 19-year-old kid from the electric truck" standing yards from Mr. Schreiber yelled back, "Nope. Everyone who's famous has already left." As the boat sped off, the source said that an awkward silence ensued as other members of the crew awaited Mr. Schreiber's reaction. According to the witness, the actor did not disappoint. "He stood up and was really pissed and yelled at the kid: 'I'm not famous? What, you've never seen Scream 2 ? You've never seen Sphere ? You've never seen The Hurricane ? I'm not famous?'"

Reached by The Transom, Mr. Schrieber corroborated the story, but insisted that his response was in jest. "I teased him! I said 'What do you mean, there's nobody famous? What am I, chopped liver?'" he said.

The actor also said that he ticked off his credits only because the electrician had said, "I don't know who you are."

"So I told him what I'd been in…. It happens all the time," Mr. Schreiber added cheerfully. "I wasn't angry that he didn't know who I was. That would have been so silly!"

–Rebecca Traister

Can You Spare A Joke?

The Toyota Comedy Festival arrived in New York on June 1, and if the punch lines offered at Joe's Pub signaled any trend, it's that political correctness is passé. The group of comics, who were assembled by Friars-roast regular Jeffrey Ross, took shots at a host of liberal causes, including the homeless and battered women. Nick DiPaolo, a writer for The Chris Rock Show , tackled both subjects. "[The homeless] have those signs, 'Will work for food.' Yeah, that's what I do, give it a shot," Mr. Di Paolo said.

Later in his act, Mr. DiPaolo talked about a recent train ride: "I got on the subway yesterday, and I got on the domestic-violence car …. You see that picture of 50 women with black eyes crying that says, 'Every 12 seconds a woman is beaten by her boyfriend,'" he said. "They don't say that every six seconds a woman takes a guy for half what he's worth. There should be a picture of 50 guys up there, crying with their checkbooks open."

Comic Sarah Silverman said: "I don't want people to label me as straight, you know, or label me as gay. I just want people to look at me and see me, you know, as white."

–Alexandra Wolfe

The Transom Also Hears

… Lespinasse is not closing. Ever since the St. Regis hotel's four-star restaurant stopped serving lunch and breakfast near the beginning of the year, the foodie world has been abuzz with rumors that the eatery was not long for this world. But the hotel's general manager, Herbert Pliessnig, assured The Transom that that is not the case.

Mr. Pliessnig said that, as it does every year, Lespinasse will close for approximately four weeks in July or August so that its kitchen and dining room can be "overhauled." Then, he said, "come September, we go full-steam ahead." That means, he added, that Lespinasse will resume serving lunch "and breakfast, too." Of Lespinasse's respected chef, Christian Delouvrier, Mr. Pliessnig said, "He's one of the best." But a number of New York restaurant-industry sources are of the opinion that the St. Regis, which is owned by Starwood Hotels & Resorts Worldwide Inc., could do a better job of spreading that word .

–F.D.

That's much of the appeal of Craft, an oddly conceived new restaurant in the Flatiron district launched by Gramercy Tavern chef Tom Colicchio.

Craft, we are told, is built upon tenets of simplicity and selection. Diners are provided with hypersized menus that resemble spreadsheets and list dozens of meat, poultry, fish and vegetable options; the only adjectives on the page are "raw," "cured/marinated," "roasted," "sautéed" or "braised"; meals arrive with ingredients plated one by one, near-naked, on plain white plates or in shiny copper pots.

In essence, Craft puts the responsibility for a high-priced meal not on the fancy chef, but on you , the fancy customer. Naturally, this makes the restaurant something of a haven for control freaks. Are you one of those people constantly pulling the waiter aside and ordering off the menu? Then step to the plate: Craft is your kind of joint.

"It seems like a natural New Yorker fantasy," said Style.com gossip columnist Jill Kopelman. "[New Yorkers] tend to be controlling–what they want, when they want it. Everything [at Craft] is so specific."

But Craft is also about growing up and fending for oneself. This is the perfect restaurant for New Yorkers who have indulged a little too much over the past few years, people who have soaked themselves in oyster sabayon and tripped over oxtail vinaigrette and curried tomato polenta. It's a restaurant with clear psychological benefits for people with attendants and stylists and handlers and in-house personal trainers.

After all, if you've had those perks, there's little doubt you're feeling a tad guilty about it now, in the post-affluent, post-downsizing haze of the New Economy. And so here comes Craft, a nice restaurant that forces you to grab hold of yourself and make some choices, and stop letting others take care of you. And in doing so, it makes you feel good. It makes you feel mature.

"[People] feel very satisfied when they feel that they've tackled the menu," said Craft's service manager, Victor Salazar.

That's a little scary, of course–that people can feel better about themselves merely because they have chosen properly from a menu offering rabbit ballotine, foie gras terrine, prosciutto, dried sausages, duck ham, chicken, porterhouse for two, loin chops of lamb, sirloin, squab, sweetbreads, guinea hen, more foie gras and veal shank (recent "meat" selections at Craft). Or successfully picked from yellowfin tuna, Wild White King Salmon, Arctic char, octopus, sardines, lobster, cod, diver scallops, Wild King salmon, skate, halibut, monkfish and black sea bass (recent "fish" selections).

But hey, welcome to New York. After foie-gras foam, truffle fondue and beef-cheek ravioli, it shouldn't be so surprising that this city falls for a restaurant that on a recent night offered 16 different vegetables, six mushrooms and six kinds of potatoes .

Of course, free will can also be daunting. There are those who freeze up when offered such control over their meals, never mind their lives; if your dining motto has been, as McDonald's famously put it, to have others "do it all for you," Craft's menu might roll over you like a 10-foot swell.

"It's a little overwhelming," grumbled fashion publicist Melissa Gellman after a recent dinner there with friends, where their "simple" meal came to $100 per person. "It's aptly named Craft, because you could build an entire housing complex by the time you eat. Adobe would taste good by that point."

Craft has attempted to adjust for these perplexed customers. Since opening in March, the restaurant's menu has been scaled back somewhat, from a staggering 74 items to a still-impressive 50. "Seventy-four's confusing. Fifty's not," said Mr. Colicchio, citing some strange culinary math.

Nevertheless, Craft can still be hell on waiters. If you've ever worked tables yourself, you know there's nothing worse than a table full of blank-faced customers, clueless types who need a sherpa to gently guide them from drinks to apps to entrées to desserts. Because of its exhaustive menu and block-by-block Legoland philosophy, Craft is full of such diners. The restaurant's current turnover rate is a tortoise-like one-and-a-half times per table. (By comparison, Babbo flips a table three times a night.)

One recent night at Craft, we asked our waiter whether it takes people excruciatingly longer to order there than at other restaurants. "It definitely does a little," he said. "I try to help them narrow it down …." He was being polite. A lot of Craft's early customers have indeed been directionless. To wit: After too many tables of inexperienced diners ordered avalanches of food they couldn't possibly eat, Craft is now instructing its staff to keep people from over-ordering. Is there another restaurant in New York that does that?

Even experienced city diners can feel swamped by Craft.

"There's this period where you're thinking, 'You've got to be kidding,' especially by the time you get to the dessert menu," said Mitchell Davis, a cookbook author and director of publications at the James Beard Foundation. He referred to Craft's 48 sweet selections. "It's a bad restaurant for Libras. I mean, who can decide?"

In fact, instead of being a heavenly gift, Mr. Davis thinks Craft is something of a comeuppance for control-freak diners. After all, people who go into restaurants and fussily make changes to the menu don't do it because they want something else, he said. "It's because of power." Craft calls the picky eater's bluff. "When they get so many choices, they don't want to eat anything."

If you do want to eat, however, you first must tackle your fear of screwing up. New York diners forever worry about the ordering mistake, the culinary faux pas (truffle vinaigrette with braised shortribs ?) that triggers a humiliating roar of laughter from the waiter and the rest of the table. With all of its menu options, the potential for screwing up at Craft seems far higher.

But Mr. Colicchio, gruffly handsome in his buttery leather jacket and starched shirt, insisted that such goofs are impossible. "You can't make a mistake," said Mr. Colicchio. "Proteins work with all vegetables. It's only when you start working with vegetable-vegetable that you can start to mess things up. So whatever you decide to take a bite of, whether it's spinach and some truffle jus and turbot, how bad can it be ?"

Clearly, many of Craft's early customers have thrilled to this D.I.Y. approach. Craft's devotees are like newfound yoga enthusiasts who enjoy contorting themselves into crow poses in front of stiff-limbed friends. "There's a feeling of creating something that's so exciting. By the second time, we had it down," said psychologist Susan Burden. "I'm staggered that people find this complicated."

Mr. Colicchio, too, sounded somewhat surprised at the suggestion that Craft was stirring up trouble. "It's funny. I'm not trying to do anything that groundbreaking," he said. "People say, 'Ah, I see what you're trying to do. You're trying to–'And I'm like, 'I'm not trying to do anything! Make good food, that's it!'"

Still, Craft does represent a severe challenge not just to the culture of the star chef, but also to culinary submission–the idea that by entering a restaurant, one tacitly surrenders to a chef and his or her talents. At Craft, Mr. Colicchio's talents are only part of the show; the diner has an equal responsibility in the success of a meal.

"What's funny is the name: Craft," said Mr. Davis. "'Craft' presumes there's a craftsman there making beautiful things. If you want to work your own lathe and make your own ugly chair, then don't call it 'Craft.'"

Whether Craft perseveres or becomes another bump on the New York restaurant road remains to be seen. So far, things are looking very good; the place is bustling. But there is something very now about this restaurant–this notion that, after too much carefree extravagance, improvidence and heavy cream sauces, we want to take care of our spoiled little selves again.

"We maybe need to have a shrink on staff full-time," joked Mr. Colicchio. "It's definitely bringing up some issues ."