Antica Pesa.

The particular stretch of Williamsburg real estate on which Antica Pesa, a tremendously impressive Roman restaurant, opened in October is no stranger to cucina rustica. Restaurants where Italian food is served in charmingly ramshackle conditions are manifold. Between Fiore, Aurora, Osteria Il Paiolo and other vowel-heavy trattorie too legion to mention, wandering around the neighborhood can feel like stumbling about Cinecitta’s Palermo back lot. But that’s not Antica Pesa.

Whereas those restaurants, whether by design or default, offer a homogenized view of humble Italy, a nation of casalinghe and clotheslines, Antica Pesa—Italian for “the old scale”—presents the Italy of Loro Piana, Fiat, Brioni, Trussardi and Ferragamo. This is the Italy of oligarchs.

On a recent Saturday night, the scales were fully loaded with richesse. Every table in the high-ceilinged room was occupied by patrons who smelled nice and looked nicer. Men wore thick gray sweaters with shawl collars. Women wore Carven frocks and Isabel Marant shoes. Scarves for all, Moscots for many, New Balances for none.

The bar was crowded, but its patrons civilly spaced. Out of a silver cup, a woman sipped a Piazza di Ricci, a cocktail made of vodka, fresh raspberries, mint, lime juice, homemade ginger syrup and ginger beer. Next to her, a man nursed a negroni and checked in on Foursquare.

Even the leather settee in front of the fireplace was occupied by a warm if silent couple. The man had made the mistake of wearing a hoodie. Man that I am, I could tell that he felt insecure in the company of so stylish a crowd. The woman, sensing trouble, drank a cocktail called Goodbye Lovers (Tequila 8, agave sec, yuzu juice, lime juice; $14) to steel her nerves.

That fire, set in a fireplace with an immense burnished-wood frontispiece, imbued the restaurant with a golden light. The fixtures at Antica Pesa are custom-made brass tubes in which bulbs are recessed. They consequently cast a soft brassy glow that seems beamed in from mid-century.

This is not the first Antica Pesa. To find its progenitor, one must travel to Via Garibaldi, 18, in Rome’s Trastevere, the neighborhood of that ancient city that lies west of the River Tiber, and climb up the family vine four generations to 1922, when the Panella family opened the restaurant in a former Vatican tollhouse.

Today, Antica Pesa is to Rome what Cipriani is to New York, a tollhouse for the cavalcade of big-name stars whose brilliance is only burnished by plates of high-priced pasta. The walls are lined with photographs of Hollywood celebrities like ScarJo, Matt Damon and Jessica Alba arm-in-arm with the owner, Francesco Panella, taken in front of a wall full of photographs of celebrities arm-in-arm with the owner, Francesco Panella. It’s a mise-en-abyme of celebrity and cuisine. And that star has not diminished. In early January, the Roman mothership hosted a premiere party for Django. Quentin Tarantino, it turns out, loves the spaghetti cacio e pepe.

The Brooklyn outpost of Antica Pesa is primarily the work of two of the four Panella brothers, Francesco and Simone. But when I arrived, both were in Rome, where they live, and I was met by Lorenzo, the only one of the brothers who lives in New York full time—who, like a Roman colonist of yore, had set off from the shores of Latium to seek his fortune in distant climes.

Suave and handsome, Mr. Panella looks like Johnny Depp impersonating Robert Downey Jr. He is given to cashmere sweaters and high-quality blazers. His goatee is unparalleled in lushness. The menu is expensive—pastas start at $16 and main courses range up to $30—and the presentation of its content is fittingly elegant, the result of its owners having run a very successful restaurant for 90 years. I don’t think it would even occur to them not to serve their fresh baked grissini, foccacia and pane casareccia in a wooden box with a brass clasp or to decant the olive oil—from the family orchard, no less—without a flourish of the hand. They don’t, for lack of a more graceful term, peasant-up their cuisine.

Starters like crudo e bufala croccante ($17), a treacherously addictive ball of imported mozzarella baked in a jacket of filo dough, or arzilla confit ($15), silky confit skate sautéed with escarole, pine nuts and spelt bread, aren’t presented on heavy, chipped porcelain with a floral border. They are, rather, accompanied on broad white plates by an entourage of fussy dots of balsamic vinegar, in one case, or draped, painstakingly, over a hillock of escarole in the other. The rack of lamb ($30) is perfectly frenched, very well cooked and served, not with mashed potatoes, but with a dainty potato gâteau.

Even the pasta, which is hard to present in a way that gives proper credit to the effort needed to produce it, comes across well. The cacio e pepe, in which pecorino and Parmesan bind themselves to thick al dente strands of homemade spaghetti, is phenomenal. Disagree as you will with Mr. Tarantino’s taste for violence, his taste in pasta is top-notch. The schiaffoni all’Amatriciana, little fat rigatoni with guanciale and pecorino, is equally addictive.

In short, the food is presented with pride. It’s a pride that, unlike in many other prideful restaurants, is presented in an entirely unforced and unself-conscious way. The Panella brothers are stars in their own world; their food is lionized in its own town, their charm is unimpeachable and it does not occur to them that it might not fare as well in a foreign land.

Their confidence, I hope, is justified. But, it must be said, confidence has an overweening side and can well swoop perilously into silliness. When I asked Lorenzo why his family opened in Williamsburg, as opposed to, say, the West Village, he told me that the neighborhood reminded him of the scruffy charms of Trastevere. “We wanted to open here,” he said, “before the neighborhood blossomed. Before,” he said, looking at me earnestly, “it was too late.”

So deep and puppylike were his brown eyes and so soothing the little massage he gave my delts that I couldn’t bring myself to say, “What the fuck are you talking about?” Instead, I sipped a Manhattan that a man in a turtleneck had made for me and nodded. In fact, Williamsburg might be the apotheosis of a neighborhood whose scruff had been shorn by capital and condominiums—the very condominiums, I wager, from which these patrons had issued.

And yet the more I thought about it—aided and abetted by a terrific bottle of teroldego ($35), one of the many stars on an all-Italian wine list, and by the ministrations of a waitress born in Osaka and raised in Sydney, who had moved to Greenpoint only five months earlier and who, she told us, had a passive-aggressive boyfriend—perhaps Mr. Panella was correct. It was just a matter of scale.

Ten years ago, Antica Pesa would have been the restaurant to which Williamsburgians brought their parents in order to prove they didn’t live in a dangerous hinterland. Now, those erstwhile children have grown up, grown richer and grown unashamed to eat well. They can, in fact, eat Lucullan feasts, not in faux grubby diners with egalitarian waiters who nestle next to you, but like mini-captains of industry. And now the burden of parental soothing has fallen farther out on the L, to places like Roberta’s, Northeast Kingdom and Dear Bushwick. Only a fool would call Williamsburg hinter anything.

And so, Lorenzo was right. One flower had withered, and another bud, made of richer stuff, had formed. It was this, the secondary, tertiary and probably quaternary harvest, that Antica Pesa had come to reap. Here I was, a constant gardener, mourning for a petal long since made dust. But now, thanks to Antica Pesa, the scales have finally fallen from my eyes.

Kelly Ripa and hubby Mark Consuelos gettin' frisky!

Given that it was our second evening in a row at Cipriani's – albeit at the midtown franchise on this occasion – our usual penchant for the venue had been dampened somewhat, and the inclement weather certainly wasn’t helping. But the UNICEF Snowflake Ball managed to turn our well plucked frowns upside down in a glittering evening of philanthropic revelry, with celebrities in a multitude of fields pitching in to lend a hand. The sumptuous menu was designed by revered chefs; the entertainment led by a veritable swing legend, and the auction prizes donated by some of America’s hottest talent. It is fair to say that UNICEF, like the bartenders, got the mix just right.

Katy Perry was the evening’s surprise A-List attendee, swishing through the foyer’s revolving doors in a fishtail dress designed by another of the evening’s guests, Naeem Khan. The couturier’s wife, jewelry designer Ranjana Khan, recently ventured into reality TV land with several appearances on The Real Housewives of New York and was quick to dispel her involvement with any of the cattiness the show has become famed for.

“Being on RHONY was fun, but I didn’t get caught up in the drama,” she told The Observer on the red carpet. “My friend Carole [Radziwill] wanted me to be involved with the last season, and she’s returning for the next one, so I know she might want me to do something again.” Did Mrs. Khan just let an inside secret slip, perchance? Ms. Radziwill is yet to officially confirm her involvement with season six, but you heard it here straight from the jeweler’s mouth. The Observer 1, RHONY 0.

Indeed, spilling secrets seemed to be a trend throughout the evening, with Manhattan’s favorite crooner Tony Bennett revealing: “Lady Gaga called me last night from Peru. She wants to do an album together and we’re going to do it, just me and Gaga. It’s going to be a big swinging album with a big hot band.” Well, perhaps it wasn’t quite the juicy nugget we initially imagined, given that Mr. Bennett has been quoted as saying that the "Poker Face" singer called him the previous night from New Zealand with the idea for a collaborative record. That quote happened three months ago.

Given that Mr. Bennett is at the ripe old age of 86 and still put on a glorious show – some of which was without a microphone – we’ll forgive this little slip. But please be more careful next time, Tony, when toying with our Gaga-fueled emotions.

From genuine secrets to recycled ones, there was one couple on the red carpet who weren’t attempting to hide a thing – step forward Kelly Ripa and Mark Consuelos. The fruity pair didn’t miss a beat when volunteering to talk about their ahem, romantic interludes, with Ms. Ripa divulging: “We have an Indonesian holiday themed bedroom, and a bed from Bali. Which may or may not have broken once.” Quick, somebody call Poirot, we’ve got a cryptic case of too much information on our hands.

After the duo’s domino effect of smut polluted The Observer’s innocent mind, we went in search of some good clean fun at our table, where we dined with the chefs who put the menu together. Best-selling author and UNICEF ambassador of 12 years Marcus Samuelsson had drafted in help from fellow restaurateurs Michael Anthony and Marc Murphy, who co-created a meal trumped in deliciousness only by their company. As they wined and dined us with a feast of truffle lobster salad and Wagyu steak, the flavors of the food were perfectly enhanced by the Wynton Marsalis Quintet, whose jazzy tunes rose to the very top of Cipriani’s lofty ceilings.

Just edging out the edibles in terms of success was the auction, which contributed to the event's staggering $2.5m raised for the very deserving charity. A backstage pass with Selena Gomez, who was decked out in a floor length Dolce & Gabbana number for the event, scooped two high bids of $20,000 apiece, contributing to the money raised by other high bidders on lots for Lady Gaga tickets and a day on the Knicks’ court as player Tyson Chandler’s personal guest. The guests were not left wanting when it came to an eclectic mix of goods, and spunky auctioneer Courtney Booth of Sotheby’s coaxed the cash from the crowd’s pockets with ease.

There was just time to honor Harry Belafonte before the evening came to a close, and he undoubtedly made a deserving recipient of the Audrey Hepburn Humanitarian Award for his commitment to the charity over the past quarter of a decade. With the audience on their feet as he took to the stage, the emotion in the room was palpable.

It was clear that UNICEF was close to the hearts of all of the evening’s attendees, including Uma Thurman and Téa Leoni, and as we slunk out of Cipriani’s once more, the prospect of returning didn’t seem quite such an imposition.

Is magenta one of the rainbow colors? (Wikimedia Commons)

Ginger Rogers and Howard Hughes, two years after the Rainbow Room opened. (Getty)

The Rainbow Room, like Tavern on the Green or Chumley's, was one of those New York institutions no one ever visited, until it was gone, at which point the lamentations became unceasing. The fate of the restaurant atop Rockafeller Center remains a mystery, since it was abruptly closed by the Ciprianis three years ago amidst a rent dispute with another of New York's august families, the Speyers, who control Rock Center.

Whoever takes over the famous (and famously garish) catering hall in the sky, one thing that is unlikely to change is the decor. Today, the Landmarks Preservation Commission decided to consider the two-story space on the 65th floor of 30 Rock for designation as an interior landmark, one 114 in the city. (Others include the Four Seasons, the New York Public Library and, just downstairs, Radio City Music Hall.)

"This is an important calendaring—they’re all important, of course, truly," Commissioner Robert Tierney said at meeting of the commission at the Municipal Building. "This is notable and important for obvious reasons and we look very much forward to the hearing on this."

That hearing is scheduled for September 11, and should the Rainbow Room be designated, any alterations to the space would require the commission's approval. This would not forbid changes, but it would make them more difficult, and it almost guarantees that the space will remain one for food and drink.

At one time, Tishman Speyer had considered turning the space into offices (so lucrative was the city's office market), and the Ciprianis actually proposed landmarking the space themselves as a route to try and preserve their rents—it would be harder to use the space for anything else. Ultimately, the city rejected the proposal and they abandoned the restaurant anyway, but Tishman Speyer did turn the kitchen, on the 64th floor, over to Lazard, which already leased the floors below and was looking to expand.

The 65th floor would likely require renovations to accommodate a new kitchen as a result, which may explain the eagerness of the commission to protect the space. A similar action took place at the old Manufacturers of Hanover bank branch at 510 Fifth Avenue, which was landmarked then redeveloped, after some hue and cry, into a Joe Fresh clothing outlet.

Tishman Speyer has yet to say what will happen to the space or where it stands on its landmarking, though there are vague plans to do something with the space. "Tishman Speyer continues its planning process for the Rainbow Room, which is an icon loved by New Yorkers and visitors from around the world," a spokesperson said in an email.

What is interesting about this particular landmarking is that it not only celebrates the original 1934 design by Walter Harrison (also the architect of Rock Center) but also a post-modern renovation to it in 1987, commissioned by David Rockefeller to the tune of $25 million and designed by celebrated New York architect Hugh Hardy.

According to the commission's statement of significance presented at today's meeting, the space remains a rare example of an early modernist interior in the city, in a style identified as Stremlined Modern: "Though much of the 65th floor was completely remodeled, similar to various earlier renovations, the Rainbow Room was treated with considerable care, and Hardy called his work a 'true restoration.' A rare and distinguished example of Streamlined Modern design, it retains many of its original features and characteristics, making the Rainbow Room one New York City’s highest and most elegant nightclub interiors."

Diana Chapin, a commissioner from Queens, called it “a place of iconic memories" following the commission's unanimous vote to calendar the Rainbow Room.

“He was just giddy,” said Philip Gourevitch, who took over the Review after George Plimpton passed and handed the reigns to Lorin Stein last year. Mr. Gourevich and wife, Larissa MacFarquhar, had been sitting at Mr. Talese’s table. “All dinner he was the same grumpy Gay, but Jim connected with him.”

Mr. Salter was in town to collect the literary magazine’s annual Hadada award, which is named for its mascot, an African bird. “I can’t pick this up, it’s too heavy,” Mr. Salter said upon lifting the funny avian statue. He spoke at length about his long involvement with the Review, starting with a phone call from Mr. Plimpton asking permission to publish his first masterpiece, A Sport and a Pastime.

The legendary writer was clearly touched.

“This is my Stockholm,” he said before walking off the stage with Mr. Stein.

The ceremony also honored -- and with fanfare! a roaming jazz band! endless cocktails! -- the young April Ayers Lawson with the Plimpton prize and Elif Batuman with the inaugural Terry Southern Prize for Humor.

“I wonder if Terry Southern would have won a Terry Southern award for humor,” said practiced prize presenter Fran Lebowitz. “The answer, of course, is no.”

Ms. Lebowitz also regaled the crowd with one of the many stories she has neglected to actually write down. This anecdote involved Robert Redford, who was slated to appear on stage later and introduce Mr. Salter.

“In the late 1970s I was on a plane with Robert Redford, an L.A. to New York flight,” Ms. Lebowitz said. “As soon as he boarded he was instantly surrounded by all the stewardesses on the plane. The entire flight, all the stewardesses were around Robert Redford. ‘Would you like a drink, would you like a lobster, would you like a steak, is there anything possible we can give you’ -- ignoring every other passenger. They reduced all the other passengers to waving their arms in the air saying, ‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ to no avail. Finally halfway across the country I leaned over, tapped him on the arm and said, ‘I’m very sorry to bother you, but could you please order me a club soda?’”

“Fran, I’m sorry,” Mr. Redford said as soon as he took the microphone. “I don’t remember you, but I do remember the stewardesses.”

After the ceremony, Mr. Stein arranged for an impromptu after party at The Campbell Apartments, an old-time bar in a corner nook of Grand Central Station. Sam Lipsyte and Gary Shteyngart made the trip across the street. We introduced ourselves, and Mr. Shteyngart mentioned an old article about his first novel, which he referred to in the moment as "The Russian Debutante's Handjob." We corrected him.

Then, upon learning The Observer’s age, the author fondly recounted his follies of youth.

“When I was 23 I was addicted to horse tranquilizers,” Shteyngart said.

A veterinarian friend provided the goods.

“It was a disassociated state. Ah, you just sail off into the sky. It’s used to pacify the horse but I ain’t no horse, I’m a 135-pound man!”

He got over it.

“I just started drinking. It’s more treatable. I’m about to treat it now.”

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

If Capitol One goes through with the plan, it could mean the end of the clubby Cipriani Fifth Avenue, a paparazzi stake-out spot that serves $30 pasta, of Cipriani's midtown event hall that hosts several hundred charity benefits a year and of the swanky West Broadway Cipriani outpost. Regulars at the uptown spot include Michael Douglas, Diane von Furstenberg and Simon de Pury.

Cipriani has bars, restaurants, hotels and private clubs in seven cities around the world, but the empire began in 1931 at Harry's Bar in Venice (Ernest Hemingway, a regular, once wrote it was "a sacred space"). Harry's became renown for its signature Bellini made of white peach juice and prosseco and the Italian government named the canal-side eatery a national treasure. But union troubles, so-so reviews for it's food and legal problems dogged the company. in 2007, Arrigo Cipriani and his son Giuseppe pleaded guilty in state court to filing false corporate tax returns, and debts have mounted since.

It's unclear whether Cipriani's foreign operations will be exempt from the forced sale. But the closure of the company's Cipriani private island hotel in Venice, which is the unofficial headquarters of the tony Venice Beinnale, would spark something of a luxury panic in the art-world set.

Cipriani, which has operated restaurants in New York since the 1980s, told the New York Post it will sue to block the auction, currently planned for Sept. 7.

And Peter Orlovsky, Allen Ginsberg's partner, dies at 76. [LAT]

Ted Koppel's son dies after a day of bar hopping. [NYP]

The Fort Hood shooter comes to court. [AP]

What we learn about Ruth Reichl from her extensive tweeting: weird breakfasts, no wasted food, lots of time in bed. [WWD]

Apple lets the Lala music streaming service die. [AllThingsD]

Bees swarm Wall Street, metaphors ensue. [AP]

Girls prevail in New York's gifted programs. [NYT]

Oil spill has cost BP some $1 billion dollars. [Bloomberg]

Fergie's defense in journo sting: I'd been drinking. [The Times]

“It’s very tough right now wherever you look with the arts,” he told the Transom, citing Conde Nast’s closing of Gourmet magazine.

“You just have to hope that the bottom has been hit. I think there is some reason to believe that it might have been, actually.”

Mr. Rushdie said that among upcoming cultural events, he is most looking forward to seeing the new Coen brothers film. “I’m a huge fan,” he said.

As for his ex-wife Padma Lakshmi, who announced last week that she is pregnant? “I wish her the best,” Mr. Rushdie said.

Later in the evening, he was presented with the Kitty Carlisle Hart Award for Outstanding Contributions to the Arts. “Certainly it’s always nice to win,” he said. The crowd chuckled.

Also present was actress Kerry Washington, wearing a long black Dior frock tipped with crimson. The actress will make her Broadway debut in David Mamet’s new play, Race, this December. “That’s the extent of my art world for the next few months at least,” she said.

Billionaire art collector and philanthropist Eli Broad, a co-chair of the event, told the Transom he thinks the current administration could take a cue from FDR’s. “Roosevelt’s WPA did a great deal for the arts,” he pointed out.

Actor Robert Redford was later presented with a lifetime achievement award from House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. Los Angeles artist Ed Ruscha, upon receiving an award for Artistic Excellence, joked that the honorees should team up, pooling their talent on one project. “We could make a movie of The Satanic Verses,” he said.

On Twitter, "I think I was consciously taking the veil up from Nine Inch Nails and letting people know I'm a smartass--often," said Mr. Reznor, singer, songwriter and producer of Nine Inch Nails, who had sidled up to the Observer last night, June 8, outside Cipriani's on Wall Street just before the Webby Awards gala began. He was looking less goth and more posh in a sharp black suit and a skinny black tie; his jet black hair was close-cropped on the sides and slicked into a stylish swirl. The Observer wasn't used to him looking so polished and buff--sans Pretty Hate Machine-era dreads. "It's less precious of an experiment, it was more letting people see my real personality," Mr. Reznor added about his Twitter feed.

Indeed! A recent "less precious" Trent tweet: "BLOW ME! - I'm going to go play a show!" The feed reads like a sociology experiment as the hot-tempered, attention-mongering music artist yo-yos between embracing the power of the online medium one minute and then blasting its fight-picking, anonymous users the next, in real time.

"A couple of my comments became real headlines--like talking shit about Chris Cornell, which I wouldn't have done if I had realized what would've happened," Mr. Reznor admitted, referring to his slam of Mr. Cornell, former lead singer of Soundgarden, when he described on Twitter listening to Mr. Cornell's new record Scream as "that feeling you get when somebody embarrasses themselves so badly YOU feel uncomfortable." That made the music blog rounds, of course.

Mr. Reznor, known as one of the music industry's most digitally savvy musicians, was honored with a Webby Artist of the Year Award last night. His recent album The Slip was available to download for free on his Web site when it was released in May 2008. (Mr. Reznor's five-word acceptance speech last night? "Wait, we didn't charge anything?"). This is also the guy who, in 2007, attacked Universal Music Group's distribution of his own album and told fans at an Australia concert to "steal and steal and steal some more and give it to all your friends and keep on stealin'." He was talking about his own music.

Mr. Reznor told the Observer: "I said, ok people are listening." Yes, more than 630,000 of his Twitter subscribers are, along with the rest of the digital world.

So he decided to do more than bloviate about his feuds and studio sessions on the Web. Mr. Reznor recently used Twitter, the NIN Web site and fan forums to help raise funds for Eric De La Cruz, a 27 year old from Arizona who is in need of a life-saving heart transplant.

"When Eric De La Cruz's story got on my radar, I don't know him, I don't know his sister," said Mr. Reznor, holding a steady stare on the Observer. "My fiance [Mariqueen Maandig, of the band West Indian Girl] tweeted about the story...It was pretty horrifying watching someone die because they don't have insurance. I grew up with no money and terrible insurance, my mom has bad insurance, that could've been us, you know? I thought, I wonder if I can do something other than vanity. What can I do that might help this kid? I retweeted something, maybe made a couple of hundred bucks or something."

But he took it a step further, allowing fans to pay for backstage access and dinner with NIN during their current tour with Jane's Addiction. (Mr. Reznor claims this will be NIN's last jaunt on the road). He raised more than $850,000 for Mr. De La Cruz. "I was amazed that I could do that," Mr. Reznor said. "We want to turn it more into about change in the healthcare system, and these stories, these small stories about people can help do that." Sure thing, Mr. Reznor. You could have it all.

6:30 p.m. N.Y.U.'s Center for Global Affairs' "conversations with global leaders" series will feature Ambassador of Iraq to the U.S. Samir Sumaidaie. At the Center for Global Affairs, Woolworth Building, 15 Barclay Street, on the fourth floor.

7 p.m. Poets House holds a tribute to Reginald Shepherd at Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House, N.Y.U., 58 West 10th Street.

8 p.m. F.D.N.Y.'s "Bravest Boxing team" battles the Dublin Fire Brigade at the Transatlantic Championship. B. B. Kings Blues Club and Grill, 237 West 42nd Street.

8 p.m. The Bacon Brothers will perform at Hard Rock Cafe, 1501 Broadway.

8 p.m. Marty Allen, frontman for multimedia band Uncle Monsterface, hosts a gallery opening of his Sock Puppet Portraits at Sputnik, 262 Taaffe Place, in Brooklyn. Admission is free.

8 p.m. Glasslands Gallery hosts "Bearded Heart Electric Cabaret" featuring performances by: Novice Theory, Max Steele, Glenn Marla, Tanya O’Debra and Prince Rama at 289 Kent Avenue, between South 1st and 2nd Streets, in Brooklyn. Ticket price: $10. Includes a free dinner prepared by chef Christine Buckley.

7 p.m. Authors Deb Olin Unferth, Paul Harding and Jedediah Berry join to read from Mr. Harding's recent work: Unferth’s Vacation is like no otherholiday you’ve ever taken at the Behind the Book Reading Series, KGB Bar, 85 East Fourth Street. Admission is free.

7 p.m. Galapagos Art Space hosts Nerd Nite Speed Dating, an L.G.B.T. singles event that "welcomes boys and girls of the nerdy persuasion to do some quick bonding in the hopes of scoring a date." Speed dating will be followed by "Nerd Nite: a monthly geekfest that tonight features lectures on topics including the genetic engineering of humans." At 16 Main Street at Waterstreet, in Brooklyn. Price is $25.

8 p.m. Bagpipist Matthew Welch will play "Bagpipe Music Old and New" in the Issue Project Room at the Old American Can Factory, 232 Third Street, in Brooklyn. Tickets are $10

11 p.m. NASA holds The Spirit of Apollo album debut party at Le Poisson Rouge, 158 Bleeker Street. Admission is $12.

From an article published today about the Cipriani family's troubles: 

Anecdotally, we've noticed that this general sense of shame has been descending upon New York's society for some time now. Companies and sponsors are afraid to host parties in fear of seeming insensitive. Socialites and celebrities are similarly hesitant to attend them. And for those still going out, seeming as if you might actually be having fun is absolutely, positively unacceptable. All of these factors seem to feed into each other. After all, why would you host even an intimate gathering if no one is willing to show up for the open bar? 

This is precisely why the law firm Fried, Frank, Harris, Shriver & Jacobson LLP, investment adviser BlackRock Inc., the Montel Williams MS Foundation and the Acting Company have all pulled out of holding annual galas at the Cipriani restaurants. And we imagine that other big spring galas and balls—charity-purposed or not—will follow closely behind. (Today New York magazine announced that it is canceling its wonderfully casual Oscar viewing party at the Spotted Pig this year.) 

Bloomberg tapped New York Social Diary's David Patrick Columbia to figure out what it means to the social set for these venues to close down. Naturally, Mr. Columbia seemed most concerned for the financial futures of certain ladies who have come to rely on a money-through-marriage sort of arrangement.

“It has been a go-to place for the smart set and the jet set, for the rich, the chic and the shameless,” Mr. Columbia told Bloomberg. “You see matrons there, you see movie stars there, and you see ladies pursuing a certain matrimonial future. It’s about sex, not food.”