Sirio Maccioni, Susan Bennett and Tony Bennett (Photo - Dustin Wayne Harris/Patrick McMullan)

A restaurant opening in the chandeliered halls of The Pierre, flagship of Taj hotels, held much promise for some unrepentant gorging, but we were tragically left empty mouthed at Sirio’s grand unveiling on Wednesday evening, with not a crumb going spare.

“We have a lot of dear friends, and a lot of people who love us,” revealed handsome and ever-so-modest director of Le Cirque Mauro Maccioni, one quarter of the Italian-American epicurean dynasty.

Flanked by the new restaurant’s namesake, his father Sirio, and restaurateur brothers Mario and Marco, the quad were undeniably the toast of the food-less feast, palpably excited about the newest extension of their empire. With the patriarch first working in The Pierre’s La Foray some 50 years ago, there was much to celebrate, with celebrities and the nipped and tucked of New York popping in to offer their cheeks for much congratulatory air kissing.

Mayor Bloomberg generously graced the party with his presence for a fraction of a second before making a quick exit, apparently having to dash to the scene of a shooting in the Bronx. Fitting so many events into one evening can be such hard work. But at least his fleeting visit actually took place within the event’s scheduled timeframe, which is more than can be said for tardy Martha Stewart. America’s favorite foodie and home perfectionist eventually arrived to lend her support to Sirio, and reveal her excitement to The Observer about her upcoming Halloween celebrations.

“I’m looking forward to Bette Midler’s annual Hulaween, of course, and am dressing up as an organic sea.”

No, we’re not too sure either. In fact, we're not even sure she remembered to invite us!

Ms. Stewart was full of praise for the Maccioni family’s restaurant kingdom, particularly given some of her own culinary misadventures. “The worst food I’ve ever eaten was fried worms,” she revealed, although this unpleasant dish was served up to her in Mexico, and not prison, as we first thought.

Leading the parade of air kissers out of the door was Ivana Trump, who was hanging languidly on the arm of her perma-tanned boy toy throughout the evening.

“I know Sirio many years,” she drawled, having forced us into a secluded corner of the room to impart these words of wisdom.

The man of the hour, the elder Maccioni, clearly had quite the selection of groupies, although repeatedly forcing him out of his seat and into photos at times felt like a little bit too much. But the octogenarian remained reasonably upbeat throughout the evening, more so than we managed, although we might have fared better had we actually been given something to eat. Instead, we gobbled up all the people watching moments, which with the likes of Tony Bennett, Jean Shaffirof, Amy Fine Collins,  Somers Farkas, Sophie Theallet and Amy Sacco, left us pretty full anyhow.

It was none other than Alain Senderens, the populist papa of the nouvelle cuisine famous for renouncing all three of the stars Michelin awarded his Paris restaurant, Lucas Carton, so that he could reopen as Senderens, which is French for “a restaurant that we can actually afford to eat at.”

Mr. Senderens was in town for the opening of Maimonide of Brooklyn, a.k.a. M.O.B. , the self-proclaimed “avant-garde vegetarian” restaurant, in which he is a partner with French hipster hotelier Cyril Aouizerate. And it couldn’t be further from the Place de la Madeleine.

M.O.B's red and yellow façade is a colorful addition to an under-populated stretch of Atlantic Avenue in the shadow of One Hanson, where the growing-daily Nets stadium promises future foot traffic. But it remains to be seen whether sports fans will mob for M.O.B.’s esoteric fare, which combines the popular borough principles of veganism and localism with the dietary suggestions of twelfth century Jewish philosopher Maimonides.

Ms. Sheraton, for one, had in mind less restrictive times.

“I remember your lobster with vanilla,” she told Mr. Senderens.

The kitchen run by Pure Food and Wine’s Neal Harden sent out Yucca fries with artisan ketchup, tangy sun-dried tomato saucisson, frothy corn soup, and chickpea-mushroom “nuggets,” to a francophone-heavy crowd.

And, in a cruelty-free twist on Brooklyn vernacular, resin vegetables adorn the walls like all those taxidermy bucks, on wooden plaques painted with solemn painted messages. “RIP Mister Avocado, he died for guacamole.”

The honey in the honey mustard dipping sauce is the only animal product on the premises, a waiter wearing a one-armed apron not unlike the toga Maimonides himself might have worn told us. And despite the Jewish associations, he explained, nothing is blessed.

As for the corn used in the kitchen, according to “The Awesome Genesis,” a comic book manifesto starring Mr. Aouizerate distributed in lieu of menus, the use of America’s favorite subsidy was “in memory of the Native Americans who used to grow corn on Boerum Hill in Brooklyn.” Their memory was further preserved by a Navajo headdress in the front of the restaurant.

“We don’t get a lot of corn in France so it’s always…special,” Le Fooding’s New York chief Anna Polonsky remarked, as she finished off hers.

From left, Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone. Via Getty.

THE TWO MEN The New York Times anointed the "darlings of the New York culinary set" and the "future of Italian food in America," Mario Carbone, 32 and Rich Torrisi, 31—along with their business partner, Jeff Zalaznick, 29—do not flatter easily.

Having opened two wildly buzzed-over restaurants (Torrisi Italian Specialties and the barely two-month-old Parm), not to mention a Yankee Stadium outpost, in just two years, they're well aware that they are having a moment.

Indeed, it's their detractors who seem to really amuse them—at least when the judgments, rendered anonymously on various food blogs, are read aloud.

"Glad to hear that it sounds like these guys are embracing the douchebags they really are. (Actually, just Mario)," wrote one anonymous commenter on Eater, a line that had the trio cracking up.

"Mario is actually a pretty decent guy ..." countered Guest #3. Mr. Torrisi looked at the floor, unsuccessfully suppressing a grin, while Mr. Carbone shrugged.

"... compared to Rich, at least."

At that, the three men lost it; they keeled over, cackling.

"Which is true," added Mr. Torrisi, catching his breath.

The Torrisi boys, as they are generally known despite the fact that only one is named Torrisi and none are all that young, don't often read such comments. "I think if you go on any single topic on Eater," Mr. Carbone said, "you'll find a comment like that about its owner."

"If every single person loved you," Mr. Torrisi added, "you wouldn't be making art. They're just armchair critics. That's just what they do."

It was a Monday morning in Little Italy, and the three partners behind the Torrisi Italian Specialties dining phenomenon—the scruffy, sleepy-eyed Mr. Carbone, the slim, Matt Damonish Mr. Torrisi and the boxy-framed Mr. Zalaznick—were sitting with their coats on, huddled around a four-top in the middle of Parm, the newly opened restaurant next door to the original spot.

The sniping came via comments appended to various blog posts concerning the newest addition to the Torrisi family: In November, the partners signed a lease for a Thompson Street space that, until now, housed the old-school red-sauce Italian joint Rocco Ristorante. The original owner's rent was more than doubled by the space's landlord. Rocco's owner threatened to take the landlord to court, and the classic neon red ROCCO sign with him.

The new restaurant, which won't open for "a while" (per Mr. Zalaznick) will cap an extraordinary growth period for the Torrisi empire, which seems to have struck a nerve by bringing a modern sensibility to Italian-American staples.

Still, the idea of the buzziest new restaurant group in town replacing a 90-year-old standby has generated a certain amount of controversy.

"This space was going to be available whether we took it or not," Mr. Carbone noted. "And hopefully we're going to be able to get in there and honor its history."

"People want to talk about New York vanishing," Mr. Torrisi piped in. "I think we're rebuilding it."

They don't yet know exactly what they're going to do with the space—no plans as of yet for the concept, the menu, the design, or even the name.

One thing about the Torrrisi boys' growth into the old Rocco space is certain, however:

They are definitely keeping the sign.

MR. TORRISI AND MR. CARBONE are native New Yorkers, from Westchester and "all over" Queens, respectively. The two met in 1998 while attending the Culinary Institute of America upstate, in Hyde Park. They weren't in the same classes, but were students at the same time, Mr. Carbone said, before Mr. Torrisi could interject, "Those two girls."

"We ran into each other because the two girls we were dating were friendly," Mr. Carbone explained. "They forced us to go out together."

They didn't actually become close friends until after school, when they met up again working together at Cafe Boulud. "The circuit is small when it comes to cooking in New York and being at a really great place," Mr. Torrisi explained.

Mr. Carbone jumped in: "That was known as the best kitchen to work in at the time. When you asked around, it was, ‘You gotta go work for Andrew right now,'" he recalled, referring to Andrew Carmellini, who headed up the kitchen at Cafe Boulud at the time, and has since gone on to open A Voce, Locanda Verde and, most recently, the Dutch.

After four years at Cafe Boulud, Mr. Torrisi went to Europe for six months and trained under various chefs before coming back to New York and opening A Voce with Mr. Carmellini, where he remained for a year and a half. Mr. Carbone went to work for Wylie Dufresne at molecular mecca WD-50 before moving on to Mario Batali's Del Posto.

The idea to team up and open a place of their own began to take shape around this time, when they shared a Greenwich Village apartment (the two bachelors now have separate places in the same building in the Village). Friends and family put up the money, and a business plan soon became evident: During they day, they'd operate deli-style sandwich shop, with the sort of high profit margins that could subsidize a more ambitious dinner menu.

"We figured the deli would be a great way to introduce ourselves," Mr. Torrisi went on. "We weren't going to come out and force our ideas about food on everyone."

That deli introduced New York to what Eater founder Lockhart Steele emphatically described to The Observer as their "flat-out triumph" of a turkey sandwich. It's where they also began developing the chicken- and eggplant-Parmesan sandwiches that recently became the signature offerings at Parm. The beloved heros are indicative of the Torrisi boys' appealing take on the downmarket comfort food of their youth. Not only does the kitchen utilize Progresso bread crumbs, it does so proudly; empty boxes line the walls.

Although they'd originally planned to serve high-end Italian food, the idea bored them. "One day we just got really annoyed with those menus," Mr. Carbone recalled. "We thought, well, why we are just cooking things that we've already done? The first word that really triggered it for us was pastina, which is it's a huge part of Italian-American culture."

"But you never see it on menus," Mr. Torrisi interjected. "The culture of the city and Italian restaurants are so strictly set upon being authentic Italian. That's not us."

Until the recent opening of Parm, the sandwiches were served up at Torrisi during lunch only, doled out personally by Mr. Torrisi and Mr. Carbone. Lines were regularly out the door. For those not vigilant about staking out a table, sandwiches would often be eaten upright in the neighborhood, sometimes "on a dumpster," Mr. Torrisi said. At night, the sandwiches went away, and out came the prix-fixe menu.

In April 2010, only a few months after the restaurant's opening, the partners received their first major review, from New York's Underground Gourmet team: five stars. The magazine heralded the four-course, eight-dish meal as "nothing short of revolutionary." Others followed suit. Bloomberg's Ryan Sutton called the food "ethereal," and dubbed the use of store-bought bread crumbs "awesome." Sam Sifton of The Times saw their dishes as "edible paintings" that are "towering in ambition."

The ingredients are all sourced from America, as is the attitude: a mischievous eagerness for sneaking tastes considered pedestrian or tawdry into a fine dining experience, the culinary equivalent of bringing your teenage graffiti crew to the Oscars.

Spaghetti alle Vongole gets licked with a fiery splash of Tabasco. Grilled lamb shoulder with fried Jerusalem artichokes is a tribute to Roman cooking crossed with a Jewish joke: a Manischewitz glaze. Oysters Rocafella? Named after Jay-Z, of course, whom they quote when referring to those mourning for the "old days" of Torrisi ("Buy my old album").

In addition to almost every critic in New York City, the Torrisi boys are beloved by their culinary contemporaries. David Chang, who spent time in the kitchen at Cafe Boulud with them, was emphatic with his praise: "These guys are extraordinarily talented cooks, and decided to cook something that was meaningful to them," he told The Observer. "They could've opened up anything, and it would've been fantastic."

"They're just really solid cooks that love to eat," Andrew Carmellini said. "They have a passion for the business, and inherent talent, too."

In 2011, Torrisi Italian Specialties was a James Beard Award finalist for Best New Restaurant. And they recently appeared in an episode of HBO's Treme, a rite of passage for some of the country's most critically lauded chefs (the show's primary food-related plot consultant is Anthony Bourdain: another fan). Mr. Torrisi laughs at the mention of his appearance, recalling his lines: "Tim!" And then, more seriously, "Tim. How is everything?"

Getting the Torrisi guys to laugh is, admittedly, oddly gratifying. Yet, as they're read aloud the penultimate passage of their June 2010 New York Times review—a two-star love letter crowning them "The Fusion Kings of Little Italy" —we come to a line that gives them pause.

"Mr. Carbone and Mr. Torrisi are in a burst of creative excellence, and reinventing themselves daily," Sam Sifton wrote. "And how long can that last? The Torrisi project as it stands surely must run its course, the way any performance does, the way any combination of kinetic energy and art must eventually fall off its axis."

After a brief moment of silence, Mr. Torrisi scooted his chair back and looked up.

"He's a hundred percent right," he said.

The Torrisi Boys are already building a dining dynasty. In addition to the Rocco space, there's a plan in the works, Mr. Zalaznick admitted, to "hopefully open Parms around New York and elsewhere, and open more formal restaurant concepts in the years to come."

Of course, it's difficult enough for a great restaurant to maintain the level at which it rose to prominence. With only three partners and soon, three restaurants, the Torrisi boys may find themselves spread a little thin.

The cynics will line up, too. The former editor of NBC's The Feast, Ben Leventhal, fired off a series of Tweets in October: "Huge mistake to change-up lunch program at Torrisi. Lunch-dinner, hi-low contrast big part of its edge. Also fairly comical that a place built on value and under-promise-over-deliver rule is now offering lunch as $60 prix fixe."

With all the growth, are they concerned about the possibility of "falling off," as Mr. Sifton put it?

"Not at all," replied Mr. Torrisi.

Mr. Carbone stepped in: "There's an air of challenge in it."

On Tuesday, they appeared to have met Mr. Sifton's challenge. The New York Times's review of Parm went live on the paper's website. Pete Wells, Mr. Sifton's successor, handed the restaurant two stars, the same as Torrisi.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

The only question here is how much of this sandwich can I shove in my face.

I chose not to take the hint.

But earlier this year, my significant other and I were dining at an expensive sushi restaurant in London when I had what I’ll simply call a faux-raw. I was attempting to bite a piece of unagi in half, but was thwarted mid-nibble by an errant fiber of fish-something, and so wound up desperately shaking my head back in forth like a honey badger in order to bisect the eel before the whole delicately created masterpiece fell apart in my plate. The look on his face was one of such surprised anguish that I thought he’d accidentally swallowed a tablespoon of wasabi.

So when Shirley Schoonmaker, my Beacon's High Society Etiquette Coach, asked me what I'd like to fix about myself next (having recently mastered the art of not walking like Samara, the scary dead girl from the horror flick Ringu), I gamely replied, "Let's do brunch!"

Schoonmaker chose the venue: the acclaimed Cafe Boulud, a French restaurant I would normally never set foot in. There was more than one fork, for example, and way too many vegetables that I didn't know how to pronounce. It was also quiet, too quiet.

My first crisis occurred two seconds after I walked in and realized that I had brought no cash with which to tip the coat check. I considered running coatless to an ATM after the meal, but would the coat-check lady break a twenty? Or was it better etiquette to throw down a few quarters, mumble an apology, and run like hell?

When Ms. Schoonmaker arrived, I was already seated in a corner table, facing a mirror so I could take in the full effect of my gastronomical horror show. At the very least, I was sitting up straight.

"So, what do we do with our napkins?" Ms. Schoonmaker asked while taking her seat. I held out my napkin, studied it, and then wiped my nose. (Did I have an errant booger?)

"No...napkins go on the lap," she informed me.

"Oh,” I replied, wiping my nose with my sleeve. (Still had to get the snot off!)

When our amuse-bouche ricotta balls arrived, I reached over the table and gently tried to spear one, instead succeeding in mashing the sphere into a mound of fried grits. Mindful of my sushi fail, I then proceeded to stuff the entire, burning ball of carbs into my mouth.

"Too hot?" Ms. Schoonmaker asked, as my eyes watered and flames shot from my nostrils. "For little plates like these, you never want to reach over the table, but bring the container to you." She demonstrated. "Now, see, I'd cut it in half. Look at all that steam! These things must be very hot!"

Brunch, I soon discovered, was my least favorite meal of the day. Apparently it lasts three hours (so was that technically lunch?), during which time I learned several important lessons. One, you must not eat the bread by first turning it into a butter sandwich but rather pick off tiny little chunks and delicately pop them into your mouth (a crumb disaster waiting to happen). Two, the polite way to slurp Pho noodles in a French restaurant is to not do it at all, because while it is apparently acceptable to dunk one’s head into a bowl in Eastern cultures, the Europeans aren’t down with it. And three, when spearing food, turn one’s fork and just stab a morsel rather than frantically chasing it around the plate in a would-be scooping motion. Got it!

Stealing a peek at myself out in the mirror, I looked like Sloth from The Goonies, demanding a Baby Ruth. But Ms. Schoonmaker wasn’t fazed, moving on to more advanced lessons, such as the differences between a white-tie dinner and a black-tie dinner. Apparently, white-tie—for instance, a reception for the Royal wedding—involves each woman, wearing elbow-length white gloves, being escorted by a strange man she’s paired with. These pairings are written down on little slips of paper, which the men pick up on a table during the cocktail hour. Since I doubted I'd ever be invited to something that fancy—it sounded like an upper crust key party to tell you the truth—we moved on to black-tie affairs, dining out, "family style" dining (never ask for seconds unless they are forced upon you, never take more than you can eat, finish everything on your plate), and finally, my favorite: "home meals."

"This is one of the few meals you can eat with your hands, because what you do in the privacy of your own home is your own business," Ms. Schoonmaker told me. "By the way, why did you order coffee before your meal?"

Well, because I was tired.

"Coffee is served after a meal," she chided. "Also, dining out is a social activity, not a time to make yourself full. If you're hungry, eat before you go out, or after. You should be so socially engaged that your soup gets cold."

I guilty slurped the last of my Pho.

After several more minutes of difficult small talk about our New Year's plans, Ms. Schoonmaker suddenly remembered that she had to leave for London in several hours.

"See you soon! Next time we'll work on how to make polite conversation!" she promised (threatened?), sliding out of the booth.

On my way to the office, I bought myself a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese Meal.

Now if only I could find out what to use the napkin for.

Milk Street Cafe

Oh, what a vicious circle this is: Occupy Wall Street comes to picket the banker fat cats in New York, the NYPD forces streets to close and erect metal barricades near the entrances of certain streets and subways to prevent random marches of the protesters, leading to even more unemployment in the area as the local Milk Street Cafe is forced to lay off a quarter of its workstaff because the police structures prevent people from entering the establishment. Consider this a case of a snake not eating its own tail, but firing it.

According to Milk Street Cafe's owner Marc Epstein, he was forced to lay off 20 employees in his eatery because of the 30% decline in sales due to police barricades. Yet he does not blame the NYPD for the recent budget cuts, but the Occupy Wall Streeters themselves:

"What are [the protesters] trying to accomplish here?" Epstein asked Monday. "The end result is that I and all the wonderful people who work for me are collateral damage...

"Now, Wall Street is deserted," Epstein said. "The only people who walk down Wall Street are people who have to walk down Wall Street. It's transformed from a beautiful pedestrian mall to a police siege."

Mr. Epstein, Wall Street was never a "beautiful pedestrian mall" and the only people who ever walked around there were people who had to. Let's not pretend that the area surrounding Zuccotti Park is like some beautiful wonderland: it's full of narrow streets and constant construction at Ground Zero.

Luckily, his former employees won't have that far to go before joining up the ranks of the disenfranchised and recently dicked over.

Howard Wolfson, the chief deputy mayor, dined at Milk Street today -- perhaps to commiserate -- though he said that the decision of where the barricades were placed were ultimately in the hands of Police Commissioner Ray Kelly.
Update: Chief Deputy Mayor Wolfson's office called and clarified that the lunch their employer took today was with New York Assembly Speaker Shelly Silver, one of the lawmakers  who wrote in to Mayor Bloomberg asking for reduced noise from Zuccotti Park, as well as a removal of some of the barricades. Now that the Mayor seems to be doing his part in removing the barricades, Wolfson's lunch at Milk Street and the removal of the barricades in the area can be seen as a symbolic gesture...though a much better statement might be the re-hiring of all the former Epstein employees.

Brett Anderson—the James Beard award-winning dining critic at The New Orleans Times-Picayune—is currently being floated by many a rumormonger as the leading candidate for the top Times dining spot. Earlier today, Eater noted "half a dozen" independent sources that Anderson was a "shoo-in" for the job.

Furthermore: Eater co-founder Ben Leventhal noted that Anderson hasn't filed anything at the Times-Picayune since September 20th. Anderson didn't deny speaking to the Times or if he had knowledge of being short-listed for the job to New Orleans alt-weekly Gambit, and as John Koblin reported for Women's Wear Daily in September, Anderson was a finalist for the job the last time it was open.

For what it's worth, Anderson is well-liked by many of his contemporaries; the comments section of Eater's post is filled with a few hopes on his appointment.

From Bloomberg critic Ryan Sutton:

Getting a New Orleans critic to take the reviewer job at the New York Times would be a seriously awesome development. Would help bring in a more national perspective (and readership) to NYC restaurant reviewing, one would think. And bringing in a critic from New Orleans, a city that represents one of America's greatest and most unique regional cuisines (and one of the birthplaces of America's cocktail culture), would hopefully result in some solid reviewing reflective of "outside the tri-state area" context and culture. The Tocqueville approach, of sorts (the French writer, not the Union Square restaurant). SUTTON approves.

From Time food writer Josh Ozersky:

I'm actually surprised that this came to pass. I said on the day Sifty left that this wouldn't surprise me. Great pick if it happens.

The other frontrunner for the job is supposedly Times dining editor Pete Wells. Wells filled in as a temporary critic between Frank Bruni and Sam Sifton, though Wells certainly earned his fair share of controversy over his short tenure of four reviews, which were mostly negative. Tough gig if you can get it.

Know anything more? We'd love to hear it.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Miss Lily's

A week ago, The Observer took a look at Miss Lily's, a Jamaican jerk joint on Houston Street that's unleashed the anger of Anna Wintour. She lives next door, and she was worried it would become an all-night hotspot. And it sort of has. Too bad all the fashion models love the place!

But there's no mention of the Vogue editor's dissatisfaction in Sam Sifton's review of Miss Lily's in today's New York Times. Instead, the outgoing restaurant critic waxes eloquent on the model-heavy spot's resemblance to Florent, the beloved Meatpacking District greasy spoon diner that closed a few years back.

So, does it measure up? Let's see what Mr. Sifton has to say.

The restaurant draws a (mostly!) corresponding clientele that can spur memories of Fashion Week crowds at Florent. Nearly everyone in the place appears tall and casually elegant; friendly, but a little otherworldly, as if resident in a game preserve. Very few people on Earth can eat jerk chicken and look as the people at Miss Lily’s do.

Sounds familiar to us! But what about the food, Mr. Sifton?

Mr. Thompson’s smoked mackerel salad is also impressive: large moist flakes of the fish predominate, with a sweet bed of fresh greens and tangy pickled onions to bridge the two textures. If he served it to you in the main saloon of a yacht tied to a dock in Miami, you would be happy indeed, before pouring another glass of Sancerre and padding barefoot up to the flybridge to watch the stars. On Houston Street, served by what looks like a supermodel, you can achieve a similar state of mind.

But, in the end, he isn't too kind to the menu offerings, saying that "so much of the rest of the food falls short." We happened to like the spicy jerk dishes, but regardless, we don't think a negative review of Miss Lily's will alter the clientele too drastically. Hopefully you're attractive enough to "eat jerk chicken and look as the people at Miss Lily’s do." That's all we ask.

Vogue Cafe, in Moscow.

If you go to 5 Baltschug Street in Moscow, Russia, you'll see a 17th Century building with Maybachs and Bentleys lying idly nearby, all waiting for the men they drive around to return from a certain smoke-filled lounge. It's a place where the rich men of that city can enjoy cocktails and bottles, all while ensconced in dark wood and soft leather. It's one of the hottest spots in the city.

It's called GQ Bar, but there's no copyright infringement -- Conde Nast partnered with a Russian hospitality firm and opened the place a few years ago.

Today, the magazine behemoth announced more bars and restaurants branded with one of their publications: a Vogue Cafe in Kiev and a GQ Bar in Istanbul. The plans mark the first Conde-fication of boîtes outside of Moscow, where they've also installed a Vogue Cafe and a Tatler Club.

"Vogue and GQ stand for the best in taste, discernment and pleasurable living," Conde Nast International chairman Jonathan Newhouse said in a statement to WWD. "Nothing could be more natural than to expand these brands into restaurants where our readers and digital users can experience these brands in a new and exciting form.”

But why such a slow roll out? The possibilities here are endless! Take note, Si, because here are some ideas for some new places to get wasted that bear the Conde stamp of approval.

The Bon Appetit Wild Whiskey Tavern and Grilling Bar (Bardstown, Kentucky)

You know who loves drinking cocktails and grilling meat? Bon Appetit editor Adam Rapoport loves drinking cocktails and grilling meat. As long as his Twitter account isn't an imposter, it appears he spent the summer doing those two things exceptionally often. Why not deal with that pesky magazine thing later and open up a place where one can indulge in steak and spirits all the time? The Bon Appetit Wild Whiskey Tavern and Grilling Bar -- in Bardstown, Kentucky, bourbon capital of the world -- will allow him, and his like-minded colleagues, to do just that.

The Teen Vogue Totally Virgin Margarita Bar! ( King of Prussia Mall, Upper Merion Township, Pennsylvania)

When you're 15, running around the mall shopping all day can get exhausting. Why not sit down and have a refreshing summery beverage? Everyone loves margaritas -- but don't worry, mom and dad, Conde Nast will make sure these drinks are completely booze-free. Located in the biggest mall in the east coast, The Teen Vogue Totally Virgin Margarita Bar! will sling a warm weather favorite to girls who want to relax, open up a magazine and discover new ways to trick boys with their wiles. Nail polish not included.

Architectural Digest Presents: Simply Kitchen (Westchester, New York)

Some restaurants have the most breathtaking interiors, featuring ceilings of cascading buttresses that burst out from all sides to create spectacular rooms in which to dine. But that's exactly the problem -- the food is too darn distracting. The brains at Conde Nast have the answer: What about an eatery with no food? Architectural Digest Presents: Simply Kitchen is a reprieve from the places that waste gorgeous design on starving patrons. With nothing to eat, you have to focus on how beautiful everything is. Don't you see? Don't you see how fucking beautiful this space is? It's fucking amazing, right? Plus, it works with any diet you might be on.

The Wired Experimental Hologram Food Laboratory (Cupertino, California)

The no-food Architectural Digest restaurant was a hit! Now, in California, those tech geniuses at Wired bring you another place where no actual eating is required. Instead, visitors sit at their silver-and-metal table (come to think of it, the whole place looks like a giant iPod) and after they order, holographic images of the food are beamed down onto their plates. The response on Twitter is ecstatic. Haven't you heard? People don't order their food to actually eat it anymore -- they just take a picture of their extravagant meal with Instagram, and load it onto their Tumblr so everyone can see.

Brides Presents: Bachelorette Pad (Las Vegas, Nevada)

When it comes to pre-wedding bashes, why does it still seem like guys have all the fun? Brides wants to let the ladies know that The Vegas is not just for the grooms-to-be anymore. Bachelorette Pad is a giant space inside the MGM Grand stocked with liquor, food and every kind of male stripper under the sun: firemen, policemen, lion tamers, teachers, lawyers, traders, hot thieves, everything. Whatever fantasy you might have, Brides provides it. But don't blame Conde when you can't remember a thing the next morning

There you go! See you at the grill, Mr. Rapoport. I'll bring the Stoli, you bring the steaks.

Miss Lily's, on Houston Street.

Last Sunday, The Observer was at Milk Studios, in the Meatpacking District, to see a presentation by The Lake & Stars, a Brooklyn-based lingerie line. The models stood with unflinching faces, wearing nothing but nightgowns and skimpy underwear, as a man served rum-spiked horchata from a wooden wagon. Editors chatted up other editors about the next day’s runway schedule. Jared Leto posed for pictures wearing a sleeveless Joy Division shirt. In other words, it was Milk during Fashion Week

After a few more free cocktails, it was late. We made plans with two fashion writers to grab food. We suggested Miss Lily’s, a Jamaican luncheonette on Houston Street. One of the girls texted her friend an invite. Too late: the friend was already there.

Such coincidences have become commonplace at Miss Lily’s, which has accrued no shortage of buzz in the few months since its March opening, despite a modest façade and an interior—tiled floor, Kingston-style counter, framed reggae records on the wall—that’s more Crown Heights than Crosby Street.

And now, with the completion of that annual circus of cocktails and couture that is September Fashion Week, this tiny jerk joint has become a meeting place for designers, models, and kids on the scene, despite never having hosted an official after party.

“There’s not a hundred restaurants in New York like Miss Lily’s—there’s a handful,” Scott Lipps, who has brought models from his ONE Management to the restaurant a lot as of late, told The Observer. “It’s become one of the destination places of the last few months. It’s Bar Pitti, it’s Kenmare, it’s Miss Lily’s.”

The models, they can’t get enough of the place! Fashionistas talking about the Rodarte collection over oxtail stew—how charming! And it doesn’t hurt that all the servers are gorgeous, leggy West Indian lasses, in case you questioned the authenticity of the place.

So it’s funny that Anna Wintour—the week’s undisputed queen and still uncontested arbiter of all that is stylish—wants the place shut down very, very badly.

BEFORE MISS LILY'S OPENED adjacent to Ms. Wintour’s West Village apartment, the connection between the Vogue editor and the island country of Jamaica was limited to her alleged affair with Bob Marley. That changed when she got word that Serge Becker, proprietor of Nolita hotspot La Esquina and its celeb-friendly “secret” downstairs, would be staking claim to the dormant space that borders her building’s private garden.

Ms. Wintour was a bit irked, but if you’d expect the editrix to sic one of her harried assistants over to protest the restaurant, you’d be underestimating how much she cares about this place’s demise. There are just some tasks that can’t be entrusted to an underling.

"I am completely concerned,” Ms. Wintour said at a Community Board 2 committee hearing, held at Shrine Church of St. Anthony of Padua in June 2010 , with her 24-year-old son Charlie by her side. “This is a unique historic neighborhood. I'm also concerned for the safety of the kids here."

The majority in attendance voted with the editor, but in the end, Anna was thwarted—Mr. Becker succeeded in opening his restaurant, and that corner of Houston is a tad livelier because of it. Much to the editor’s continued chagrin, the place did indeed become an eatery by day, party by night, hosting late-nite bashes in backroom, dub jams blasting as the disco ball spins.

And last week, with Fashion Week about to begin, Anna had another run-in with the guys behind Miss Lily’s. Ms. Wintour was lunching with her daughter, Bee Schaffer, at Da Silvano, an Italian place a few steps away. In a Page Six item that ran last week, Binn Jakupi and Genc Jakupi, the brothers who co-own Miss Lily's (Mr. Becker is the creative director), were enjoying a meal when a model walked by (models everywhere! Oh, this week.) The model recognized the brothers from Miss Lily’s and came over to tell them how much she liked the restaurant. Ms. Wintour overheard them.

“Disgusting,” she muttered.

SO WHAT IS IT ABOUT this otherwise innocuous place that’s riled her so? When The Observer walked into Miss Lily’s last Sunday, a striking Jamaican woman in a leopard print dress came to greet us, took our name down, and directed us to the bar while we waited. We ordered a Carib lager, and looked at the men and women. Was that a look sheet from the same show we went to earlier? And that tan girl, in he back room—had we just seen her somewhere, maybe at Milk?

“It’s been a fun crowd—everyone is excited about Fashion Week, of course,” Genc Jakupi told us as he took care of a drink order. He wouldn’t discuss anything about Anna.

In Ms. Wintour’s defense, the past lives of the Jakupi brothers—who have more experience with bottle service than bussing tables—suggest Miss Lily’s may ultimately have more on the menu than cod fish fritters. Binn once manned the door at Meatpacking celeb den 10AK, and his brother Genc did the same at The Box, another one of Mr. Becker’s properties. Though the chef is no nightlife guy: Bradford Thompson trained under dining god Daniel Boulud, and was named one of Food and Wine’s best new chefs in 2004. Plus he’s married to a Jamaican woman, so we assume she’s keeping his cooking honest.

The food is very good—if that matters. The one Carib beer turned into two, and after plates of jerk chicken, a bowl of ceviche, and a creamy dip with ingredients we couldn’t identify even after asking the server, we were more than sated. We paid the check and walked out to find the familiar-looking tan girl outside with her group of friends.

“Oh, that’s Inga Eiriksdottir,” our friend whispered in our ear. “We just saw her, at Milk, in the Lake & Stars presentation.”

We walked up and introduced ourselves, happy but not surprised—I mean, where else would an Icelandic model go after a show, but Miss Lily’s?

And don’t freak out, Anna Wintour, but this isn’t Inga’s first time at the place.

“We’re VIP because of her—she’s a regular,” said Inga’s friend.

“It’s true,” Ms. Eiriksdottir said. “We’re treated like royals.”

Then she said goodbye, and sashayed down Sullivan Street, right past Ms. Wintour’s apartment, as if it were a runway.

It's a Dutch invasion!

Everyone had so much fun at The Dutch this summer! We can hardly remember what sun is like, what with the never-ending rain, but during that warmer season the city flocked to Andrew Carmellini's new SoHo restaurant for plentiful seafood and cocktails, not to mention the wistful  old-turned-new ambiance. Sam Sifton called it the "song of the summer." Gilt Groupe launched Park & Bond there. Oh, summer, come back.

Now, Mr. Carmellini and his crew are opening a branch of the popular place in Miami, The Times' Diner's Journal reports. Florida -- it's always sunny there! And, surprise, The Dutch Miami will be in a hotel.

And don't worry! The place will still get its fair share of New Yorkers. The plan is to open it in time for that city-wide field trip Art Basel. See you guys in November.