Even if we knew where David Chang partied, we wouldn't tell.

The James Beard Awards, which took place last week at Lincoln Center, have rightly been described as the “Oscars for the Food World.” But because they reward chefs and not good-looking people, and because many in the food world are functioning alcoholics, the whole point of the Beards isn’t the ceremony itself, which is boring, but the parties that follow.

This year’s circuit followed thusly: as the gala ended, the really important OGs—Thomas Keller, Jacques Pépin, Daniel Boulud—headed to Per Se, which was closed for the event. Sad people not invited learned as much from a sign on the door. And even though Mr. Boulud stopped by Per Se, he opened Boulud Sud, which is right across the street from Lincoln Center, to welcome the hoi polloi. Vive la différence!

Next, half the crowd went to Del Posto, which won a Beard Award for Outstanding Service. Lidia Bastianich stood on the stairwell and gave a speech. Bartenders were manhandled and the place was packed. The other half of the revelers—the cooler half?—went to Mission Chinese. That was a hot and sweaty tangle of glory and champagne, because Danny Bowien, who had amazing multicolored hair and wore a white Dries Van Noten suit, had won Rising Star Chef.

Across town, the third floor at The Spotted Pig—yes, there’s a third floor; it’s where Jay-Z eats gnudi—was essentially a hot box, packed with chefs like Ignacio Mattos, formerly of Isa, Frank Falcinelli, one of the Prime Meats Franks, and Michael Schwartz of Michael’s Genuine in Miami. A bunch of Mission Chinese people were there too, somewhere.

David Chang was almost certainly getting drunk somewhere as well, and likely encouraging others to do the same, having won yet another Beard Award (this year, it was for Outstanding Chef). A few years ago he had a party bus with a stripper pole and a nondisclosure form. That’s all we’ll say about that.

On this night, all roads eventually led to a Garment District loft where Will Guidara and Daniel Humm of The NoMad and Eleven Madison Park were throwing an invitation-only rager. By invitation-only, of course, we mean there was an invitation that said “invitation only,” but anyone could show up, and everyone did. GM Jeffrey Tascalrella stood at the door on a deserted stretch of 27th Street. “We have Manhattans on tap,” he said excitedly. “It’s an experiment.”

Anxious not to trash their very nice restaurants, Mr. Guidara et al. had hired out a Spartan flat, filled it with Christmas lights, bottles of Maker’s, kegs of Manhattans and a deejay and opened the doors. I saw Andrew Zimmern, not drinking but wearing Stubbs & Wooten slippers. Brian Canlis of Canlis, the best restaurant in Seattle, exuded a combination of excitement and sweat. Even though Mr. Canlis had lost, he said, “This is the best weekend ever. I never get to see all these guys.”

More and more people showed up until you couldn’t move or breathe, but you were so drunk it didn’t matter. Was it the disco ball that spun, or did everything spin? Was there even a disco ball? Was that Jacques Pépin dancing dirty with Stephanie Izzard? (No, he wasn’t there.) Did we get into an hour-long conversation about Tumblr with someone who works at Tumblr? (Yes.) Was it time to go? (Certainly.)

In the elevator, Paul Bartolotta congratulated the Transom on our Beard Award, which is something he made up, while his wife complained that she was hungry.

But even as we left, more arrived. Kate Krader, restaurant editor of Food + Wine, was there with an entourage that included Sang Yoon from Los Angeles’s Lukshon and Chris Cosentino from San Francisco’s Incanto. Around 2 a.m., some more people showed up who weren’t dressed in tuxedos at all but in NYPD uniforms.

That’s when the party ended and a yearlong hangover began.

Anne Hathaway, Reynold Levy, Audra McDonald.

As many high-style New Yorkers were fussing over how to select the perfect punk couture for The Met’s Costume Institute gala last week, another social set was breaking out its summer hats and Chanel bouclé, because while punks may get their chaos, ladies will have their lunch!

Never willing to miss a fancy plate of food, Shindigger joined in the festivities at City Harvest’s On Your Plate luncheon last Monday in the ornate Metropolitan Club. There, Martha Stewart dished healthy lifestyle secrets and tips while promoting her new book, Living the Good Long Life.

Ms. Stewart commended City Harvest on its mission of salvaging leftover food for hungry New Yorkers and then plunged into a lengthy yet informative spiel about all things Martha.

Topics discussed: how she became such a queen of the house and home; how she works her 153-acre farm in Bedford, New York; her somewhat bewildering advice that the event’s guests (mostly women, not all that spry) should try standing upside down for one to three minutes a day; and how, after watching the Kentucky Derby, she has now added mint to her daily leafy-green juice blend.

“I don’t use pesticides and weed-killers,” she explained proudly at one point. “I was out mowing this weekend, getting down the dandelions before they went to seed.”

Shindigger had a joyful moment imagining Ms. Stewart mowing all those acres.

“For me, a healthy lifestyle begins with eating right, and I congratulate the Metropolitan Club for serving us such a delicious salad,” she continued. “For dessert, well, my neighbors all had fruit plates. That’s much better. I had one little center of the chocolate molten cake.”

Which elicited more bewilderment from those in attendance. (Aside from Shindigger, it was not a room of dieters.)

A few days later, we headed uptown to Le Cirque, where our gal pal Jean Shafiroff, this year’s chairwoman for the 55th Annual Southampton Summer Gala, was hosting a kickoff luncheon in support of the Southampton Hospital.

The room was alive with the clinking of glasses of Mâcon-Villages and talk about the approaching warm weather.

“Where will you be this summer?” one woman in gargantuan freshwater pearls and an Oscar de la Renta dress cooed to another.

“Saint-Tropez, Capri and Sagaponac,” was the response.

“Usually I’d have you sit with me at my table, but they’re not allowing press,” Ms. Shafiroff said to us with polite disappointment. She added, “There is a lot of poverty in the Hamptons, you know?” And then she went on to explain how important it is for East Enders to give back and support a local hospital. “No one at the hospital is turned away, regardless of if they have insurance or not.”

Of course, luncheons weren’t the only place philanthropists were making a splash last week. Lincoln Center was the place to be for evening merriment, on both Wednesday night (for the New York City Ballet gala) and Thursday night (for Lincoln Center’s own spring gala).

On Wednesday, we ran into designer Joseph Altuzarra, seated in the upper foyer of the David H. Koch Theater, and pressed him for info about the Met Gala.

“I was really pleased with how people dressed,” Mr. Altuzarra said between a first course of lobster and corn salad and a grilled hanger steak with “21 Club” sauce. “I thought people did punk in a really upbeat, not obvious way. I don’t think anyone was really a miss.”

“Alison Williams looked fabulous,” Shindigger interrupted, knowing he had selected the HBO glamazon as his red carpet ambassadress.

“She was obviously my favorite,” he said.

At Thursday’s event, we chatted with Audra McDonald at dinner following her performance at Lincoln Center’s spring gala, which honored outgoing president Reynold Levy and helped raise some $9.4 million.

“I’m always nervous before I do a concert, but because it’s Lincoln Center and it’s kind of a place I’ve grown up, as soon as I step on the stage I go, Oh wait! I’m home,” she said.

The five-time Tony winner said she considers it a privilege to perform in New York. After Ms. McDonald’s beautiful renditions of “Moonshine Lullaby” and “Summertime,” the food became the main attraction. Marcus Samuelsson offered shrimp with dirty rice and lobster rolls, Daniel Boulud served charcuterie, and for dinner, Tim McLaughlin prepared chili and sea salt-crusted filet of beef with fava bean purée.

“I haven’t had a chance to eat a thing yet!” Ms. McDonald said, clutching her James Martin diamonds. “We’ll get some food and free pizza when I get home.”

Speaking of diamonds, we asked her if she had seen The Great Gatsby.

“I haven’t seen it yet. I’ve been rehearsing for this,” she told us. “I can’t wait to see it. Baz Luhrmann always gives you something to look at.”

Kelly Ripa, looking charming in a floral Erdem dress, was also seated at table 27 for dinner. “It’s like wearing pajamas out,” she said of her look. “For Audra, I’ll do anything. She is talent personified.”

Unlike the famed singer, Ms. Ripa did get a moment to enjoy portions of the meal. “I loved the fava bean salad,” she said. “I love fava beans.”

Martha Stewart would be proud.

Daniel Boulud

If you happened to be walking along East 65th Street on Sunday night, you might have noticed a gold, person-sized replica of the Oscar statuette standing outside Daniel, restaurateur Daniel Boulud’s fancy French outpost. For the past 24 years, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has hosted a New York Oscars viewing party, and this year, for the first time, it was held at one of Mr. Boulud’s establishments.

Before the screening of the awards ceremony, a cocktail hour was held in the restaurant’s back dining area, giving writers, celebrities and Academy members the chance to mingle as drinks and canapés circulated through the room.

Getting an interview with Mr. Boulud proved difficult as he strode about the restaurant, barking orders in French and English. We followed him to the bar for a short conversation. “You want a cocktail?” he offered. “Wouldn’t hurt, eh?”

We obliged. When in the company of Mr. Boulud, it is unwise to turn down anything, especially a drink containing pear-infused vodka, elderflower liqueur and a splash of champagne. The glass held a big ball of ice with a paper cutout of the Oscar statuette frozen inside.

Mr. Boulud told the Transom he hopes to make the Oscars party a yearly tradition, and insisted we sample some appetizers inspired partly by this year’s foreign-movie nominees: grilled mahi-mahi for Kon-Tiki, for instance, and mouthwatering duck and apple with cranberry gelée for Amour.

As for Mr. Boulud’s favorite movies? Argo—“a real action thriller”—and Silver Linings Playbook—“so genuine.”

Moving on, we sidled up to Geoffrey Fletcher, who won the Academy Award in 2010 for Best Adapted Screenplay for Precious. He told us that he couldn’t say he had a favorite movie from 2012, but added that he has written and directed a new movie, Violet and Daisy, to be released later this year, which he described as a “coming-of-age tale wrapped in a teen assassin’s fable.” We asked him to repeat his description, fearing we’d misheard.

“This is a different experience,” said Patrick Harrison, the Academy’s New York program director, comparing the party with its L.A. counterpart. “You can eat, drink, get up and go to the restroom.”

But while you can pee all you want, you are less likely to stand in line behind many leading ladies. Liliane Montevecchi was in attendance, but Angela Bassett (expected) hadn’t yet arrived when we took off for the West Side.

At KTCHN, the restaurant at The Out NYC—a gay, straight-friendly hotel on 42nd Street near 10th Avenue—chef Dale Schnell had prepared a $75 prix fixe selection based almost entirely on the original menu from the first Academy Awards, in 1929, at the Roosevelt Hotel in Los Angeles. Mr. Schnell said he had modeled the design of his menu card after original Roosevelt Hotel menus he found at the New York City Public Library and sought to create an “old Hollywood” vibe. “A bit of glitz, a bit of glam, without being too complicated,” he explained.

Guests were treated to finger foods like rolls, olives, nuts and celery; for the main course, diners chose either filet of sole au beurre noisette or half-broiled chicken on whole-grain toast, which Mr. Schnell had changed from the original white bread. Other sides and desserts rounded out the five-course meal.

Having found a seat at the bar, the Transom watched the awards ceremony unfold, regaled by host Seth MacFarlane’s old-fashioned song-and-dance routines. We also found much to admire in Halle Berry’s sleek Versace gown and were delighted when the lovely Jennifer Lawrence won the Oscar for Best Actress in Silver Linings Playbook. And we knew at least Mr. Boulud was happy when Argo took Best Picture.

Liev Schreiber. (Liam McMullan, Patrick McMullan)

“Nudes, ladies and dudes! Welcome to the 21st annual Take Home a Nude art auction and party benefiting the New York Academy of Art.” 

It was 7 p.m. on Thursday, and Shindigger was at Sotheby’s on the Upper East Side, trying to take in the 200 works up for auction in five 10th-floor galleries. Next to each was a label with a minimum bid, a buy-it-now price and room for prospective buyers to put down their names and bids.

“All galleries are open. Bid fast, bid quick, because they’re going to be closing in just a half hour,” intoned a man in dark eyeliner, pinstripe pants, a clip-on bow tie, a tuxedo jacket covered in multicolored electric lights and one of the red Take Home A Nude T-shirts worn by attendants throughout the floor.

“The reason all the people with the red shirts are here is to break up the fights,” Greg Unis, senior vice president of men’s merchandising at Coach, told Shindigger, describing the contentious bid-offs that take place as each gallery closes, 15 minutes apart. Last year, Mr. Unis’s sister-in-law had become entangled in one of these so-called “Hot Lots”—“versus, like, a real collector,” Ms. Unis told us. “It worked out.”

With some time left before Gallery 1 closed, we approached Spencer Tunick, a longtime patron who this year donated a photograph of nude models standing in the Dead Sea. “My work is predominantly, almost entirely, working with the body up close, so I would think they know how to find me,” he explained. “I try to make the first hour and then I don’t really like to stay for the bidding. I’m always nervous; if my work doesn’t sell then I, sort of—what would that mean? I feel like I’ve let a benefit or charity down.” We assured him that we had seen some bids and wandered into the live auction room.

There we found Daniel Boulud admiring a George Condo drawing. We asked how the restaurateur, attending for the first time, could make an informed decision in the brief time before lots closed. “Art is about being ... you have to feel either connected, happy, interested,” he said. “I just came for curiosity, and I go back to work right after that. Put a couple of bids here and there on certain small pieces.”

A small concern started to nag at us: not every work was a nude. Many didn’t include humans. Some even depicted clothed humans. Vincent Desiderio, a member of the Academy faculty, had contributed Hitchcock’s Hands, based on a shot from Alfred Hitchcock Presents of the director opening a box containing a glass eye. “I’ve been really interested in the enucleated eye,” Mr. Desiderio explained, pronouncing the adjective e-nuke-yoo-lated, à la George W. Bush. “Georges Bataille and the idea of the eye being just an organ like any other organ in Surrealism, but for the Enlightenment it was an eye of empirical investigation. It was the seat of reason beginning in the Renaissance and then going through the Enlightenment, but with postmodernism there’s this critique of the Enlightenment, a critique of reason, and the eye has been denigrated in regard to its service to human understanding.”

But how did it fit into the rest of the auction?

“I don’t think it does,” he answered. “It’s a naked eye—no, it doesn’t. It’s just something I’m working on, and they asked me for a piece.”

In Gallery 2, Anne-Marie Belli posed for a photograph in front of her Shadows #23, a watercolor silhouette of flowers. “Want to bid?” she excitedly asked Shindigger as we approached. “I’ll get out of your way.” At Princeton, Ms. Belli had studied with current Academy chair Eileen Guggenheim. “Know how this party started? A bunch of drawings, and Eileen was like, ‘We’re going to have a party.’ She called in some of her old students, she came up with the Take Home a Nude idea.”

Noticing Mr. Boulud put down his initials next to the painting, we introduced him to the artist.

“Enchantée,” she said.

“It’s a vegetarian sushi?” he asked.

“Oh no, this is mine, the flowers, Shadows.”

“I bid on the wrong thing.”

Mr. Boulud crossed out his bid and placed one on Matthew Robinson’s Sushi #1.

We made our way back to Gallery 1, where Ms. Guggenheim was escorting Naomi Watts and Liev Schreiber. The three stopped in front of Aliene de Souza Howell’s 3-by-7-foot linocut Ursa Major Lost at Sea (a nude bear).

“I love that, and it’s already sold!” moaned Ms. Watts.

“Guys, I’ll get it for you, don’t worry,” Ms. Guggenheim reassured the couple.

By this point empty glasses covered the tables. “Don’t just stand there, let’s get to it, make a bid, there’s nothing to it!” exclaimed the master of ceremonies, paraphrasing Madonna, the (clothed) subject of a Maripol photograph, lot 264.

An attendant, in full steampunk get-up, walked by carrying a sign that read “Gallery 3 is closing.” In front of Alison Simmons’s Swing—a nude woman falling through space, bent backward into an L shape, with vertical streaks of graphite conveying motion—an auctioneer prepared for a bid-off among Mr. Unis, Ms. Watts and jewelry designer Ippolita Rostagno. Starting at $4,000, three minutes later the bid was up to $10,400, and it was down to Ms. Rostagno and Ms. Watts. “This reminds me of when we sold the Munch Scream!” joked the auctioneer as the price climbed to $11,000. Five more tense minutes and, for $13,200, Ms. Watts got to take home her nude.

jwolf@observer.com

Elizabeth Olsen, home gourmand

While it’s not particularly our forte, The Observer fasted on Monday. Mostly fasted, rather. It was a religious holiday of sorts, indeed more of a pilgrimage, for which we practiced the ancient art of self-denial. Relais & Chateaux’s Dîner des Grands Chefs was our evening’s sacrosanct destination, and we intended to arrive with a pilgrim-pure palate.

As we approached Gotham Hall’s regal colonnade, we were beginning to feel slightly faint. Swaying ever so slightly in our heels, we dashed upstairs, past the congested red carpet, for some sustenance, which, before we could object, came in the form of a flute of 1999 Cuvée Louise Pommery Champagne. We weren’t alone in our pre-sunset indulgence: after a lap around the room, we noticed 25 empty bottles of bubbly neatly (and proudly) displayed at the bar. But a few minutes later, the tally was trente-cinq. At that point, we stopped counting.
The room, a balcony above the former bank-floor at Gotham Hall, had a decidedly Parisian scent: tobacco, liberally, if not effectively, doused in floral perfume. It was heavenly.

As we walked around the space, an ever-so-slightly misplaced spotlight blinded us momentarily. Lost, sightless in this cocktail Zion! As our optic nerve relaxed, little shadows remained on our retina. Were we swimming in a black-tie vat of vintage Champagne? No, sadly not. We promptly accepted a beet-and-goat-cheese canapé to re-moor.

Among the bilingual crowd, Michael and Elyse Newhouse, Greta Gerwig, Debbie Bancroft, chef Daniel Boulud (in his double-breasted chef’s jacket) and various francophilic foodies congregated around the various bars.

We spotted model Coco Rocha from across the room, standing, statuesque, with her husband, James Conran. “I do!” Ms. Rocha exclaimed when we asked who reigned over the kitchen in their household. “I clean,” Mr. Conran admitted. “We just moved into a new house, and she’s like deathly afraid of turning the oven on. She would sacrifice me to the flame. I think she has a good life insurance policy on me,” he joked, with manifest adoration and a knowing nod in his wife’s direction. “The first thing I ever made was broiled salmon,” Ms. Rocha divulged, but admitted a deep-seated love of pierogis.

Elizabeth Olsen soon appeared wearing a floor-length dress in authoritative red. “It’s Valentino. They were really nice and let me borrow a dress for the night,” she said. The efflorescing actress confessed that she was a natural in the kitchen. “I love cooking. I’ve never taken classes,” she told The Observer. “I always make my own recipes, I never follow recipes. I’m literally collecting all the different tools in my kitchen: for every Christmas and every birthday I get a new tool, and it’s really exciting and satisfying.”

Her most recent additions? “I just got the two things I was really looking for, which was a mandolin and one of those blenders that also heats up and makes soup at the same time.”

An omnivore, Ms. Olsen professed her gastro creed. “I just think everyone needs to do everything in moderation and try a little bit of everything.” She gestured to a friend who had accompanied her for the evening. “She doesn’t eat pork because she thinks pigs are too cute.” To be sure, her friend was flush with porcine fondness. “I really want a teacup piggy. Like a 20-pounder,” she declared.

Following the already tottering crowd downstairs, The Observer felt we had been transported to some féerique woodland bower. Each table was garnished with a towering cherry blossom centerpiece, vines and ivy crawling throughout. Encircling the tables, 45 master chefs were already hard at work, preparing 15 individual menus for the eager group.

Just as we were finding our seat, we noticed Gillian Miniter at a neighboring table. Watching the chefs execute their craft, we asked Ms. Miniter if she was a capable cook herself. “You know, I have to be honest, I have not cooked in a long time, and I’ll tell you why,” she began. “I used to be a cook and I used to be into cooking, but I’m married to a man who’s not interested. So I would prepare a meal, and he would say, ‘Yeah, it was O.K., I’d rather go out.’ So, guess what, I make him a cup of tea like once a month, and it’s a big deal!” Our kind of cuisinier!

The theme of the meal was Springtime in New York, and The Observer could verily taste the seasonal motif throughout. After more champagne (bien sûr!) a lobster agrodolce was served, followed by pan-seared Maine scallops.

During a brief lull in the gastronomic action (sauciers were saucing, seafood was sautéing, and Champagne flutes were, as ever, chiming), we spoke with master chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten. We were curious to know M. Vongerichten’s thoughts on foraging, a new gastro trend in which chefs gather their ingredients from the wild. “I love it!” he said of the movement. “I was tweeting about it this weekend,” he added, producing his cellphone from the folds of his chef’s coat to show us photos of the various flora he had collected. We tried to picture the towering god of gastronomy, back stooped, picking through shrubbery, but our imagination failed.

As we found our seat, veal filet with bitter caramel and endive tatin were being served. The evening was topped off with a selection of fine American cheese, chocolate mousse and a glass of Porto Rozès from 1947.
Profoundly satiated, The Observer finished our last heavenly glass of Champagne (the port lacked that divine pneumatic sparkle) and bid au revoir to our tablemates. Turning around just before we left the space, we couldn’t help but smile as waiters returned to fill the flutes of guests requiring one final dram of the golden draught.

This, and nothing else, is love, we thought as we walked out into the balmy night.

“It does so much good for New Yorkers,” Mr. Boulud told the Transom.

“In this climate, anything restaurants can do to engage new customers or encourage repeat customers is a help,” said Tiffany Townsend, VP of communications at NYC & Company, which administers the promotion.

Not everyone is convinced in spite of, or perhaps because of, the big-name participants. “Going there and essentially asking for less than their best—well, why bother?” asked New York Times food writer Mark Bittman. “I’d rather eat at one of our interesting, less-than-glorious but rather terrific places that are not part of the Restaurant Week formula. God knows there are enough of them.” Indeed, foodie blogs like Wined&Dined have complained that the offensively pedestrian dessert option on most RW menus—it's as if a gigantic molten chocolate cake is oozing over the city—epitomizes all that may be woefully bridge-and-tunnel about Restaurant Week. Mr. Burke acknowledged that the crowd is often “office people, suburban people, and food people from other cities.” These patrons may include Mr. Bittman’s parents, whom the writer has tried to convince that Restaurant Week deals are not all they are cracked up to be.

“They ignore me,” he said. “They just want a 20 dollar lunch at Gramercy Tavern, or wherever. It feels like a bargain.”

A Cuban? Never! “You’re too young to remember, but Ken Aretsky almost went to prison for that!” Mr. Nieporent said, referring to the proprietor of midtown’s Patroon whose well-stocked humidor was raided by customs agents back in 1998.

“[Publicist] Jennifer Baum has arranged for so many of my peeps to be interviewed over there, I have to smoke,” Mr. Nieporent explained, pointing to a tented red carpet area, where fellow culinary heavyweights Daniel Boulud, Jacques Pepin, and a George Hamilton-level tanned Stephen Starr, among others, were lined up for photos and interviews before the start of the 2009 James Beard Foundation Awards.

“This is not the Tribeca Film Festival!” Mr. Nieporent shouted. “One at a time!”

Hosted this year by the actor Stanley Tucci, co-star of the upcoming Julia Child biopic Julie & Julia, the annual Oscars of food invariably draws an eclectic mix of young attractive publicists in slinky gowns and lots of older fat guys in suits--and at least one wearing overalls and a Paul Reubens-style red bowtie. Chef Mario Batali showed up in a tux and bright, traffic-cone orange Crocs.

“I love this event,” said the dapperly dressed Mr. Nieporent, sporting a pink bowtie and yet another (perhaps celebratory) cigar, still wrapped in plastic, protruding from his breast pocket. “It’s really the only time that the industry allows us to self-promote on such a large scale. So why not? Fashion does it, movies do it.”

There are those who take issue with the self-promotion. Fellow restaurateur Keith McNally, for one, previously denounced the flashy ceremony as “ludicrous.” The eccentric operator of Pastis, Balthazar, and the newly refurbished Minetta Tavern, didn’t show up for this year’s awards, despite his nomination for outstanding restaurateur.

“I’ve paid off a few of the judges so I’m probably a shoo-in at this point. NO!” Mr. McNally told the Transom via email. “Can’t be there as I’m working at Minetta Tavern all night. Hope you enjoy it. It’s probably more fun than I’m willing to admit.”

Competing with Mr. McNally for the foundation’s most businessy prize was Mr. Nieporent, who, prior to the ceremony, described it as arguably the most precious. “There’s got to be two dozen chef awards,” he said. “Chef of the north, chef of the south, chef of the east, chef of the west, rising star, falling star, whatever. There’s only one category for restaurateur. One! And the participants in that category, every single one is worthy.”

Mr. Nieporent and his Myriad Restaurant Group--who’ve opened 32 restaurants in 24 years, he noted--have earned numerous James Beard nominations in recent years, though he lamented, “like in the Kentucky Derby, my horse finished last.” (He hasn't won since Nobu took outstanding restaurant honors in 1995.)

His newly opened Corton was also in the running this year for best new restaurant, though, from the outset, he pointed to maverick chef David Chang’s Momofuku Ko as “the Derby favorite.” (Turned out later, he was right.)

Mr. Chang and his self-described band of “young punks” soon arrived in the standard style, aboard a big rented party bus. (Just the single bus this time, not two like last year.) Chef Wylie Dufresne of wd-50 also deboarded the bus, clutching a plastic cup half full of liquid and otherwise stuffed with limes. “Will you sign my ticket?” the mockingly star-struck Mr. Dufresne asked his pal Mr. Chang for an autograph.

A number of other prominent cooks had been invited to board Mr. Chang’s bus of debauchery but declined. “I was shocked that he invited us, to be honest,” said Scott Conant, whose new eatery Scarpetta was also competing for honors against Mr. Chang’s Ko. “I’m here with my son and my wife and I don’t know if I want to expose them to the Chang party bus,” added Top Chef’s Tom Colicchio.

Inside, the awards show would drag on for nearly four hours, as various presenters repeatedly joked about all the food awaiting ravished attendees afterward in the lobby.

“People are so hungry, Lorraine Bracco is biting my ear behind me,” quipped Mr. Nieporent, finally taking the stage to accept his long-awaited medalion for outstanding restaurateur at about 9:30 p.m. (The show started at 6.) “Excuse me one second,” he told the crowd, “I’m Twittering. Don’t you hate that shit? You know, somebody twitted me that, in the time that we’ve been here, [Nashville restaurateur] Jack Arnold and his wife had another kid.”

Mr. Nieporent, who later hosted an after-party at his Midtown spot Nobu 57, had a strange feeling that he was going to win, he said. “You know why? My wife goes to bed very early. The lights were out. I tip-toed to the bed. And, suddenly, I stepped in dog shit--I swear to god! Two dogs! And, I screamed, ‘We’re going to win!’”

"If we go broke tomorrow, at least we'll have gone out in style!" said the jovial chef, speaking to a crowd of friends, food writers and industry colleagues including Gael Greene and Jacques Pepin.

A formerly gilded ceiling had been tamed by a coat of white paint. Campy tents had been replaced by modernist lighting fixtures and massive collage portraits by the Spanish artist Manolo Valdes.

"The dining scene is changing," shrugged Mr. Boulud before a six-course lunch with wine pairings. (Needless to say, we stumbled back to the office slightly dazed.) "I think my cooking is changing over time, and I always keep a lot of excitement about cooking, and evolving without changing my style. And I think everything has to go with it." Mr. Boulud recently joined the casual revolution with Bar Boulud in Lincoln Center.

He opened Maison Boulud in Beijing in June and has since met both the athlete of the hour and a bevy of NBC staffers: "I'm in the picture with Michael Phelps!... I was with him on the Today show. They had the Today show live from Beijing every day, and Al Roker came to my restaurant to celebrate his first day, and all of NBC was there all the time."

Luncheon guests reacted with enthusiasm to the redesign. "I love it!" said Mireille Guiliano, author of French Women Don't Get Fat and a longtime friend of le chef. "I wasn't crazy about the former space.

"I met [Daniel] when he was a young chef in New York City," she continued. "He's from Lyon, people from Lyon are so passionate...He's a happy chef. There are chefs who are grumpy. Like what they said about Pavarotti, why did he sing so well? Because he was happy."

(To his credit, nowhere in the Haute Living piece does Mr. Boulud turn the phrase "Peking duck.")

Above is a YouTube clip of Mr. Boulud in the kitchen of Maison Boulud.