Apparently, new State Liquor Authority (S.L.A.) commissioner Jeanique Green is a big Post reader.

This morning, Ms. Green cast the deciding vote to accept a $500,000 penalty in lieu of yanking the licenses, thus allowing the Cipriani empire to stay in business.

While "it's very difficult to overlook" Cipriani's recent tax violations, Ms. Green explained that she was concerned about "the impact of our decision on the individuals who are working there."

"This is unfortunate," remarked SLA Chairman Daniel Boyle, who had streadfastedly opposed showing any leniency to the wealthy banquet behemoth.

"They can't buy their way through the system," Mr. Boyle had said earlier, adding that the liquor board was "not the Department of Labor" and "to disregard these charges is unbelievable."

Believe it. The bellinis are safe. 

A shabby block just off Seventh Avenue between the garment and theater districts is not where you'd expect to discover the cuisine of ancient Rome. But when you walk through the front door of Culinaria, you are immediately reminded of those chic, austere restaurants that are tucked away on narrow streets around the Piazza del Campo serving wonderful food.

Culinaria has that aura of restrained, understated good taste that's particular to the Italians. An elegant, long black bar has been installed in the restaurant, which has a ceiling two stories high and ivory walls hung with giant mirrors and two enormous Renaissance tapestries depicting the Trojan War. Burlington fabrics, which was the previous tenant of the space, has left as its legacy a polished brown-and-beige tile floor dating from the 1920's that would look right at home in a centuries-old building in Rome. Rows of halogen bulbs (each one wired slightly differently) cast a soft glow over the dining room in the back, which is set with black banquettes and tables with white cloths. There is more seating upstairs on the mezzanine, where not long ago you could pick up a bargain in silk or brocade if you were lucky.

The minute I sat down, the young chef and owner, Vincenzo Pezzilli, popped out of the kitchen like a jack-in-the-box, sporting a toque that was almost as tall as he is. A native of Rome with Southern Italian heritage, he previously worked at Coco Pazzo, Mad 28 and Osteria al Doge in New York. At Culinaria, which opened just two months ago, he is serving what he calls "modern ancient cuisine," with many of the dishes on the menu inspired by the first-century Roman gourmet Apicius.

For peacock brains, lamprey roe and flamingo tongues, there is no substitute. Nonetheless-mercifully-the busboy set down a tray of modern hors d'oeuvres sent from the kitchen: croutons topped with truffle paste, carpaccio of salmon, and bocconcini of fresh buffalo mozzarella with balsamic vinegar and basil oil-all gifts from the chef that you can nibble on while you look at the menu. Mr. Pezzilli is very fond of carpaccio, which he says was invented in 1963 by the venerable Harry Cipriani, who dedicated the dish to the memory of the painter. Cipriani used raw beef. At Culinaria, you begin instead with thin slices of seared swordfish marinated in black sambuca, which gives it a rich anise flavor, and topped with exotic micro-greens, including popcorn shoots and baby cress. Octopus is marinated in white wine and herbs (with a handful of corks to make it soft) and sliced like salami in very thin strips, marinated and served with frisée and baby arugula. Lobster carpaccio comes with micro-greens and a blood-orange dressing with orange pieces and capers. They are all delicious. I like them better than the sautéed sea scallops, which were stuffed with a roulade of porcini and spinach mousse and served over a sauce made with prosecco and truffle oil. The idea was interesting, but the flavors were pallid.

The seasonings of the ancient Romans were anything but pallid, however. They were very fond of a powerful fermented fish sauce called liquamen, which was made with fish, such as anchovy or mackerel, fermented in the sun for as long as a year and a half (a brew not so far removed from the fish sauces of Asia, or even Worcestershire sauce). It's commonly thought they used this sauce-which must have been ferocious-to mask the taste of spoiled food. But most Romans suffered from lead poisoning (which some even say led to the fall of the empire). They ingested the lead from the water that ran through lead pipes, from the linings of their cooking pots and from the powder women used on their faces. It even contaminated the wine, since the coarser ones were simmered with sweet grape syrup in lead-lined pots to improve the taste. So they went to great lengths to create dishes that would stimulate their appetites and kill the taste of lead in their mouths. One of Apicius' great culinary triumphs was wild boar alla Diane, named after the huntress of mythology and seasoned, of course, with the dreaded liquamen. Mr. Pezzilli uses suckling pig instead of wild boar, which he coats with a much less lethal concoction that's loosely based on the original recipe, using white wine, honey, garlic, anchovies and lemon. It's a wonderful dish: The meat is delicate and juicy, and comes with crackling fronds of skin and garlicky spinach.

Another ancient Roman specialty on the menu is more of a challenge: lamb baked with eggs. The meat is first roasted, then stewed and, finally, baked in a casserole with beaten eggs, spinach, garlic and raisins. The waiter spoons it out of the dish in one piece, like a baked custard. It's interesting, although the lamb is a little dry. I'm glad I tried it, but I don't think I want it again. The roast duck, on the other hand, was excellent: It is first seared to make the skin crisp before it's flambéed with grappa and served with juniper berries, sunchokes and enoki mushrooms.

They must go through a lot of cans of anchovies at Culinaria. (Anchovy haters should know that the taste of the fish is transformed completely when cooked-it's unrecognizable.) Bucatini, hollow strands of spaghetti, comes tossed in a sauce made with anchovies, garlic, raisins, toasted fennel seed, pine nuts and bread crumbs. Sardines are traditionally used in this dish, but Mr. Pezzilli substitutes fresh fennel, which he feels is more acceptable to the American palate. It's fit for an emperor, with a subtle, mysterious aftertaste.

Other more modern pasta dishes include spaghetti alle vongole and ravioli in langoustine consommé. Spaghetti chitarra comes in a zesty sauce made with roast duck, which is a little dry. Potato-wrapped swordfish is paired with bitter broccoli rabe and orata (imported sea bream), with a caponata that gets a Calabrian accent with eggplant, green olives and capers, blood orange, lemons and olive oil. The short wine list is almost entirely Italian, with interesting choices that complement the food.

There's not a lot that evokes ancient Rome in the desserts, which are elegant, light and fanciful, with spun sugar twirls and creamy gelati. Pear carpaccio is made with paper-thin slices of fruit under a caramel sauce; a creamy zeppole di risotto comes with honey ice cream and loquat compote. The chocolate cake is rich, dark and molten, served with pistachio gelato, and a delicate panna cotta is adrift on a coulis of mandarin orange. The chestnut soup, with chocolate gelato, marrons glacé and buckwheat crêpes, is lovely.

Culinaria is a delightful new restaurant, and the loquacious Mr. Pezzilli-who appears at the table with comments on each course-deserves to do very well with it.

Who owns Cipriani International?

The question, which has intrigued members of New York's restaurant industry for years, was put to Giuseppe Cipriani at a bankruptcy court conference at the lower Manhattan office of the United States Trustee on July 14. Mr. Cipriani, the vice president of Vittoria Corporation–which does business as Harry Cipriani, the family's flagship restaurant located in the Sherry Netherland Hotel on Fifth Avenue–was being questioned in the matter of Vittoria's Chapter 11 bankruptcy.

Although he was under oath, Mr. Cipriani was not being deposed, a situation where he could have been compelled to answer the question by the judge presiding over the bankruptcy case. So perhaps it was not surprising that his answer was, well, rather Italian.

"I cannot answer that question," said Mr. Cipriani.

When Mr. Cipriani wasn't being tight-lipped, he was often being vague, even though he had told assistant bankruptcy trustee Gregory Zipes that he was "quite familiar" with Vittoria Corporation's financial affairs.

(When Mr. Zipes wondered why Mr. Cipriani's father, Arrigo Cipriani, did not show for the conference, Mr. Cipriani figlio said only: "He couldn't make it.")

When the trustee asked Mr. Cipriani where Vittoria's books and records were kept, the 34-year-old scion of the Cipriani restaurant empire replied, "I don't know that," then offered that they might be kept at the Ciprianis' East 42nd Street offices.

At other times, the transcript of the conference, which was obtained by The Transom, sounded like an Italian version of the old Abbott and Costello "Who's on First?" routine:

Trustee: "Who owns Cipriani SBA [sic]?"

Mr. Cipriani: "Approximately the majority is owned by an [inaudible] Corporation."

Trustee: "What's the name of that company?"

Mr. Cipriani: "Cipriani International."

Trustee: "You said it's partly owned by that?"

Mr. Cipriani: "Yes."

Trustee: "What is the other company that owns it?"

Mr. Cipriani: "I don't know."

(A spokesman for Mr. Cipriani said, "Giuseppe answered the questions properly.")

Save for a little nugget that Mr. Cipriani dropped about Harry Cipriani's monthly rent (see below), the restaurateur's performance was par for the course in what has amounted to a stubborn and vitriolic standoff between the Venetian restaurant family, which has long catered to the city's jet set and Eurotrash contingent, and Local 6 of the Hotel, Restaurant and Club Employees and Bartenders Union.

The family and the union have been at war since January, when Local 6 claimed that the Ciprianis eliminated more than 200 union positions from the penultimate jewel in their tiramisù tiara, the Rainbow Room. They have been picketing the restaurateurs' establishments ever since. In June, Mr. Cipriani told The Transom that the union's members were behaving like a "bunch of outlaws" and that he had "no intention" of sitting down to negotiate with the union because "they are the wrong bunch."

But on Aug. 17, as representatives of the union and the Cipriani organization held one more sitdown, the perception was that the situation was getting down to the short hairs.

Eva Talel, an attorney for the Sherry Netherland Hotel, the landlord for Harry Cipriani, told The Transom that Vittoria "has until Sept. 8 to either assume or reject the lease." In the latter case, they would give up their lucrative location, Harry Cipriani's, in the Sherry Netherland. Ms. Talel then explained that if the Ciprianis were to "assume" the lease, they would have to "live up to all terms [of the lease], which includes honoring the collective bargaining agreement with Local 6 in all respects."

If the Ciprianis decided to assume the Sherry Netherland lease, they would have to bow to an arbitrator's decision and post a $400,000 bond amounting to three months' wages and benefits for the unionized Harry Cipriani staff. The bond is meant to protect the workers in case the restaurant closes without paying its obligations. Ironically, some union sources contend that the Ciprianis filed for Chapter 11 to avoid posting that bond.

In July, Mr. Cipriani tried to neutralize Local 6 by announcing that he had signed an agreement with another union, Local 810 of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, which represents metal fabricators and warehousemen. When president of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, James Hoffa objected to the deal, it fell apart in two days.

On top of that, Local 6 has been effective in putting a big chill on catering events at the Rainbow Room and Cipriani 42nd Street, which once housed the Bowery Savings Bank. One union source said that, save for a few small parties at the Rainbow Room, there have been few events at either venue. Most recently, the source said, there were indications that the producers of Saturday Night Live were going to move their 25th anniversary show after-party, scheduled for Sept. 26, from the Rainbow Room to another location. A spokesman for SNL said, however, "I don't think they've committed to any place yet."

And on Aug. 28, when Cipriani maître d' Sergio Vacca is married at the Rainbow Room, the union plans to stage its own wedding–of two giant inflatable rats ("properly attired," according to one union source). A wedding register, which features a $350 sapphire-studded rat wheel, will also be distributed.

With the annual base rent for the Rainbow Room at $4 million, the loss of business can't be making the Ciprianis happy. (And Giuseppe Cipriani is said to become especially livid when the inflatable rats are wheeled out.)

Harry Cipriani's lease at the Sherry Netherland is much more affordable, according to statements made by Mr. Cipriani during the bankruptcy conference on July 14.

Asked how much the restaurant paid a month in rent, Mr. Cipriani said "an average of 3 percent of sales," which he said amounted to between $15,000 and $20,000 a month. This would indicate that Harry Cipriani is grossing somewhere between $6 million and $8 million a year.

That's a lot of income for a restaurant that's in Chapter 11 bankruptcy.

In the bankruptcy filing, Vittoria Corporation listed the restaurant's 1998 gross operating revenues at $7,552,979. But the bankruptcy petition claimed the restaurant's liabilities outweigh its assets by more than $600,000. Still, the largest creditor listed in the case is the Venice, Italy-based Cipriani S.P.A., which accounts for more than $728,000 of the restaurant's debt.

When the trustee asked Mr. Cipriani, "How do you expect to take this [restaurant] out of Chapter 11?" the restaurateur seemed to mention an effort, purportedly proposed by the restaurant's employees, to decertify the union at Harry Cipriani. "That would save the restaurant $200,000 a year," Mr. Cipriani said, a comment that seems to bolster accusations that the Ciprianis' bankruptcy filing is directly tied to its union woes.

"Is that the only thing you intend to do?" the trustee asked Mr. Cipriani.

"Right now," he replied.

Lopez Says Basta!

Postprandial pictures are not actress-singer Jennifer Lopez's preference. DMI Photo owner David McGough is still unhappy over the alleged treatment one of his photographers got at the hands of Ms. Lopez's bodyguards. Mr. McGough said that on July 22 one of his shutterbugs, Tom Zubak, attempted to take a picture of Ms. Lopez and the singer Mark Antony, with whom she's occasionally linked, as the couple and a large group of people exited a West 54th Street restaurant called the Iguana.

Mr. McGough then claimed that, as Ms. Lopez and Mr. Antony sought refuge in her limousine, two of Ms. Lopez's bodyguards "jumped" on top of Mr. Zubak and grabbed his camera in an attempt to remove the film. He alleged that the bodyguards also attempted to flip Mr. Zubak, whom he described as "a perfectly nice guy," onto his back.

"They broke his flash and they twisted his arm behind his back," said Mr. McGough. "Then, another bodyguard came out of her car and told the two bodyguards, 'Jennifer says that's enough.'" Mr. McGough said Mr. Zubak did not file a police report. He also said he didn't get the shot. Mr. McGough said he could understand that Ms. Lopez might not have wanted to be photographed, but he added, "We're hardly paparazzi."

"The funny thing is," he said, "we've worked for Jennifer Lopez. We've been hired to shoot her parties."

Calls to Ms. Lopez's publicist at Sony Music went unanswered. A call to her publicist at Rogers & Cowan had also not been returned at press time. Stanley Szambelak, assistant manager at Iguana N.Y., confirmed that Ms. Lopez and Mr. Antony had been in for dinner on July 22, but he said that he worked the door most of the night and did not see the alleged incident. "I would have to say that's probably false," Mr. Szambelak said of Mr. McGough's report.

Of Corso

Beat poet Gregory Corso ("Bomb") was listed–along with musician David Amram and Fugs founder Ed Sanders–as one of the hosts of the premiere on Aug. 16 of The Source , Chuck Workman's documentary about the Beat movement and its core, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs. "He's like the Fourth Beat," said Mr. Workman of Mr. Corso. But the director told The Transom that shortly before the premiere and the after-party, which took place at, respectively, the Film Forum and the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, Mr. Corso called to say he wasn't coming because he wasn't feeling well. Then Mr. Corso copped to the real reason he wasn't coming. "He said to me, 'I do feel O.K., but I don't want to come because there's so much joyfulness around the Beats, and all I think of are all the people who are dead," Mr. Workman recalled. "And it makes me sad, and that makes me drink, and I don't want to drink." Mr. Corso was a very close friend of Mr. Ginsberg, who died in 1997. Indeed, in a new book by writer John Tytell and his wife, photographer Mellon Tytell, Paradise Outlaws: Remembering the Beats , Mr. Tytell writes that when they met in 1950, Mr. Corso and Ginsberg "discovered they were unconsciously accomplices in a strange voyeurism: Corso had been masturbating while watching Ginsberg through the window making love with a woman … who lived across the street."

Mr. Workman said that even though he didn't make the party, Mr. Corso called The Source "a great fuckin' film, except for a couple scenes." Added Mr. Workman: "He meant the scenes that he was in."

The Transom Also Hears

… How many photos of actor Steven Dorff does anyone need? When Mr. Dorff ( Blade ) and some friends showed up at Match 5 of the Bridgehampton Polo Club's Mercedes-Benz Polo Challenge on Aug. 14 accompanied by publicist Lara Shriftman, photographers reached for their cameras. But, according to photographers who were at the event, Ms. Shriftman discouraged any photo-taking of Mr. Dorff and company (even though a number of photographers did not heed this request). Apparently, Mr. Dorff was appearing at an event later that evening, the Polo Jeans Summer Splash Benefit, which Ms. Shriftman's firm was handling, and though she denied this, the photographers opined that Ms. Shriftman wanted to insure that if the tabloids printed any celebrity cheesecake shots of Mr. Dorff in the Hamptons (Yesss, things are slow these days), that the pictures would be plugging one of her events. Still, the situation is a bit complicated because while the polo matches are publicized by London Misher Public Relations (which is not supposed to be on the friendliest of terms with Harrison & Shriftman, the firm in which Ms. Shriftman is a partner), Mercedes-Benz is one of Ms. Shriftman's clients, which means that she should be promoting the polo matches as well. Ms. Shriftman vehemently denied that she discouraged shots of Mr. Dorff (and she encouraged some friends who were at the event to call and vouch for her). "There would be no way that I would bring them to a media event and not expect photographs to be taken and serviced," said Ms. Shriftman. "Mercedes-Benz has been my client for three years, and they're a very important client to me, and this is a most absurd accusation."

… To the amazement of many, the latest reconciliation of Warner LeRoy and his ex-wife Kay LeRoy continues apace. (None were more amazed than this column, which reported that Mr. LeRoy had brought attorney Jay Goldberg on to prepare an appeal of a July court decision that gave his wife approximately 40 percent of his estate.) The Transom hears that Mrs. LeRoy has moved back into Mr. LeRoy's spacious West 66th Street home. And now the organizers of a Sept. 22 party for Peter Maas' new book, The Terrible Hours: The Man Behind the Greatest Submarine Rescue in History , have a real selling point to lure a big crowd. Mr. LeRoy is co-hosting the party, with Harper Collins chief executive Jane Friedman at his home, and publicists are promising–more than a month ahead of time!–that Mrs. LeRoy will be in the house.

From this kindergartner's vantage point a friend and I sat one afternoon over a glass of the house white wine, which was served (rather aptly) in doll's-size glasses. As we observed the rich and the louche at play–the parade of bone-thin women, silk cardigans tossed over the shoulders of their flowing chiffon dresses, and men in pinstripe suits–we tried not to devour the delicious croissantlike rolls, crusty sliced bread and grissini that the busboy had put before us.

"What a wonderful smell!" said my friend, pricking up her nostrils. "Is that a cigar?

Behind her with his back to the wall, a man was puffing on a fat corona. With his slicked-back hair, he was dressed in the sort of white shirt housewives hold up proudly in detergent ads and a very well-cut pale green jacket and dark blue silk tie, and he had none of the furtive, beaten-down look of the American smoker. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, oblivious to the fact that on the wall right by his shoulder it said "No Smoking." After he left, my friend asked the waiter if people were ever required to obey the sign. The waiter laughed. "Not unless they speak English."

My friend ordered the house salad, a desultory mix of shredded carrots, radicchio, lettuce and frisée, which she didn't finish. My salad, by contrast, was delicious: a small bowl of diced avocado and shaved raw artichokes in a lemon-and-olive-oil dressing topped with a few shavings of Parmesan. Unfortunately I didn't finish, either. Before I had a chance, the waiter cleared it away and brought our main courses, which were already waiting on a tray.

"Who's having the fish?" he asked, holding out a fillet of grouper on a large mound of rice. That was hers: It turned out to be a bit greasy but very fresh, served with capers and lemons and a generous mound of nicely cooked rice. I was having fish, too, tuna tartare. This wasn't as good: a small patty of diced raw tuna, decorated in a perfunctory fashion with two halves of tomato, a sprig of green and half a slice of lemon. It seemed to have been seasoned with little else but mustard. But, like the grouper, it was priced at an incredible $37.95.

"Do you mind if I order another thimbleful of wine?" asked my companion as we wound up lunch with a shared slice of lemon meringue pie. It was very good, not too sweet, with an airy pillow of meringue on top and a light pastry shell underneath. Then, as the waiter set down a plate of little cookies and some espresso, my friend rolled her eyes at the next table where a young woman sported a flock of pink plastic butterflies that appeared to have just landed in her hair. (Perhaps they had flown from the large shopping bag from Bergdorf's set by her side.)

Cipriani is a trip. It's crowded and noisy and you're pressed together with your knees under your chin; and when the waiter clears the table next to you, he pulls off the extraordinarily fine linen cloth and–what the hell–reveals the beat-up surface underneath for all to see. The cooking, which can be erratic, is basically comfort food for the rich, and the prices are astronomical. But the waiters are charming and the scene is vintage Fellini. You either like being there or you don't.

I did. And when I returned a few days later for dinner the place was packed, as usual, with a constant stream of people coming and going through the revolving door. They were greeted by the maître d', who bustled around them like a chief of protocol. I began with a few slices of raw salmon as thin as a $100 bill (and not much larger), with two spears of asparagus lurking underneath. The salmon was superb, silky but not fatty, with real taste. Fresh sardines "en saor," a Venetian dish in which the fish is pickled in vinegar, were chopped and heaped in a mound: I had never had them this way and they were rather good. So were the vegetables peperonata in a roasted red pepper sauce, and the celery soup. But when you're forking out 14 bucks for a bowl of soup, I think it should be better than good.

There is no denying that the prices at Cipriani are astounding: $21.95 for the small salad of artichokes and avocado, $47.95 for a sliced veal shank that looks like the daily special from some vestigial Blarney Stone, topped with gravy and accompanied by steamed crinkle-cut carrots and zucchini batons with a standard dollop of mashed potato with grill marks on top.

Whatever its price tag, when the food is not good here it can be pretty awful. Some of the pasta can be first-rate like the tagliolini with ham, with a baked crust and a lovely, creamy interior, but the tagliardi, a wide flat pasta, was served with a veal ragú that was so bland it would not even have passed muster in the nursery. In the past, I've loved the shrimp curry Cipriani makes, but the chicken curry I tasted this time was dreary; the sauce was spooned over mushy chunks of chicken that had obviously been cooked separately.

After dinner, the waiter appeared at our table, bearing a couple of large white cakes covered with cream. One was filled with a light, pale zabaglione and surrounded by meringues, the other was a gooey vanilla cream and sponge. Both were very good, and better choices than the so-so mocha cake and watery coconut sorbet.

"In a sense, Harry Cipriani is a brand name like Louis Vuitton," said one of my friends, gazing idly at the next table where a prematurely gray man in a blue work shirt reached for his constantly ringing cellular phone, apparently doing business on California time (and ignoring the note on the menu that says that the use of cell phones interferes with the preparation of risotto). My friend was right. The people who come here–the older woman toying with a Bellini, showing off her tan with a low-cut white blouse and matching capri pants; the model in a strapless sarong who must have been at least 6 feet tall and left her table halfway through dinner to take her hair down, to the evident delight of her companion–do so not in spite of but partly because of the prices. The price of a dish no doubt is irrelevant to them in monetary terms (they're rich), but it isn't irrelevant in terms of their self-image.

Harry Cipriani is hardly the place to come for a nice spaghetti dinner unless you're a contessa. But like a Vuitton bag or any other superluxury goods, for some people Cipriani is indispensable.

Harry Cipriani

* 1/2

Sherry Netherland Hotel, 59th Street at Fifth Avenue

753-5566

Dress: Expensive

Noise Level: High

Wine list: Expensive, some interesting Italian vintages

Credit Cards: All major

Price range: Lunch and dinner main courses $25 to $48

Breakfast: Daily 7 A.M. to 10:30 A.M.

Lunch: Daily noon to 3 P.M.

Dinner: Daily 6 P.M. to 11 P.M.

* Good

* * Very Good

* * * Excellent

* * * * Outstanding

No Star: Poor

Mr. Cipriani was complaining about the messy situation that has escalated since January, when Local 6 of the Hotel, Restaurant & Club Employees and Bartenders Union began picketing the Ciprianis' numerous restaurants and catering establishments in town. Union officials allege that the restaurateurs had eliminated more than 200 union jobs at the Rainbow Room, one of the Ciprianis' most recent acquisitions.

On the phone, Mr. Cipriani, who has led his family's aggressive expansion in New York, did not sound like a settlement would be forthcoming. "I have to say that if I had any kind of will to settle before, after what we've seen-and what we've seen is a bunch of outlaws acting illegally-right now, I have no intention to sit down anymore. Because they are the wrong bunch." Replied Local 6 spokesman John Turchiano: "Discriminating against union workers is in itself illegal. [So is] charging 22 percent service charge and not telling the guests that he's not giving it to the waiters. And he's calling us the wrong bunch?"

Both sides seem to be digging in their heels. On May 26, the Ciprianis' Vittoria Corporation, which operates its Harry Cipriani restaurant on Fifth Avenue, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. In the bankruptcy filing, Victoria Corporation lists the restaurant's 1998 gross operating revenues at $7,552,979. But the bankruptcy petition claims the restaurant's liabilities outweigh its assets-which include a $15,000 Boston Whaler boat, which Mr. Cipriani said his company uses to shuttle out-of-town customers on a round-the-island tour of Manhattan-by more than $600,000. Still, the Chapter 11 filing drew some hoots of disbelief from the union and those in the restaurant industry, because Harry Cipriani is considered to be one of the most profitable restaurants in the city, and because the largest creditor listed in the case is the Venice, Italy-based Cipriani S.p.A., which accounts for more than $728,000 of the restaurant's debt.

The bankruptcy has been portrayed by some as a tactic to evade paying an arbitrator's recent decision that the Ciprianis must post a $400,000 bond, amounting to three months' wages and benefits for the unionized Harry Cipriani staff. The bond is meant to protect the workers in case the restaurant closes without paying its obligations.

When asked about the bankruptcy, Mr. Cipriani replied, "Absolutely, it is a tactic. Chapter 11 is a legal protection against future lawsuits. That's what we're doing. We felt like they could have put our business in jeopardy." Mr. Cipriani estimated that when the arbitration is complete, the restaurant "could be asked to put up another $600,000 bond."

Yet, the Ciprianis, who have always been close to the vest when it comes to divulging aspects of their business, may find that the bankruptcy process requires them to be a little more public than they'd like about their operations. For instance, when The Transom asked Mr. Cipriani for the names of the investors and backers in the Ciprianis' international restaurant operations, he declined to comment. When asked what he would do if he was required to reveal this information in court, he replied: "I have nothing to hide."

Meanwhile, he charged that the union is "trying to boycott Cipriani in every possible way they can. Legal and illegal." At one point, he alleged that the union was "blackmailing" customers, but later in the interview, Mr. Cipriani said he had used the wrong word. Asked to explain how Local 6 was illegally boycotting the family's restaurant operations, Mr. Cipriani replied: "I don't want to go into detail. This is all going to be part of an investigation that is going to be done."

Local 6 certainly has been trying to dissuade customers from patronizing Cipriani establishments. Picket lines set up outside Cipriani 42nd Street have disrupted a number of events, including the recent PEN American Center's annual gala and the premiere of Julia Roberts' new film, Notting Hill . Meanwhile, in late May, the union began sending out letters to elected officials. Signed by Local 6's business manager Peter Ward, the letter asked officials "to sign the attached letter and coupon, and in doing so, to make a pledge not to host or attend events at the Rainbow Room or other Cipriani facilities until the Ciprianis treat these workers fairly."

To date, Mr. Turchiano told The Transom, the union has gotten almost 100 officials to sign the petition, including Manhattan Borough President C. Virginia Fields, Public Advocate Mark Green, City Comptroller Alan Hevesi, and State Senators Tom Duane and David Paterson.

This did not seem to bother Mr. Cipriani. "I don't really care whether they have 93 or 500 officials against us," he said. "The city and the state will never throw a party at Cipriani, they're not really my customers."

There are times when some of Mr. Cipriani's clientele seem to be enjoying the contretemps. According to Mr. Turchiano, when Local 6 began picketing Mr. Cipriani's Downtown restaurant on West Broadway in late May, Mr. Cipriani allegedly gave the picketers the finger, then moved the party with which he was dining to a table by the front windows of the restaurant, so that his group could watch the picketers as they ate. "It was the ultimate let-them-eat-cake scene," said Mr. Turchiano.

Asked about that, Mr. Cipriani first replied: "This is all bullshit." But then he said: "As you know, in the summertime, people like to eat out. Whether they have a union picketing in front of them or not."

Mr. Cipriani claimed that of the 1,100 people that his organization employs worldwide, 920 are union members. That illustrates, he said, that he doesn't have anything against unions, but rather, "I have something against this particular union for the way they act."

Referring to Local 6, Mr. Cipriani said, "This is not a union, it's a family-run business." He pointed out that Local 6's former head, Vito Pitta, is the father-in-law of its current chief, Mr. Ward, and that Mr. Pitta's son, Vincent Pitta, is a partner at the law firm of Herrick, Feinstein L.L.P., which represents the union. Replied Mr. Turchiano: "Next he's going to be accusing George W. Bush of being George Bush's son."

Mr. Cipriani said that hiring back the Rainbow Room workers would require getting rid of some loyal, longtime Cipriani employees, and he said he has been cheered by the way those employees have bonded together in the face of the controversy. "It wouldn't be fair to all of these people who've been working for us for the last 10 years," he said. Mr. Cipriani implied that the out-of-work Rainbow Room workers should not have a difficult time finding other work. "One thing in the United States there is not lack of right now is jobs," said Mr. Cipriani. "We are running at a 3.25 percent unemployment rate, which is at a record low."

Asked if he could see ever hiring back any of the picketing workers, Mr. Cipriani replied: "I don't know. I'm not a magician. I cannot see into the future. If it's up to me, they're going to have a very hard time."

No More Club Ted?

American Hotel owner Ted Conklin is a man used to putting people up for the night. So when the hotelier walked into the living room of his Sag Harbor, L.I., house around 2 A.M. on May 30 and found a man on his couch wearing only underwear and sporting a large bleeding gash on his head, he did not leap to conclusions.

Instead, Mr. Conklin woke his wife, real estate broker Tara Newman. "He said to me, 'There's a man downstairs in his underwear watching television,'" Ms. Newman told The Transom. "Ted was pretty sure that the guy"-whom she described as average-looking and in his late 30's-"did not belong in the living room, but he is so polite that he wanted to make sure." Ms. Newman explained to The Transom that the Conklin home is known among the couple's friends as "Club Ted," because she so frequently invites people to stay over. Moreover, earlier that evening, Mr. Conklin and Ms. Newman had had a group of friends over for dinner, including GQ writer Allison Glock, Philistines at the Hedgerow author Steven Gaines and Metropolitan Museum of Art executive vice president Ashton Hawkins. That left open the possibility that one of the invited guests' friends might have literally crashed for the night.

Ms. Newman said that she realized her husband was not joking when she heard him talking to someone in the other room, and then heard him talking on the phone to the police. Shaking off her sleep, she ventured into the living room to confront the uninvited guest, whom, Ms. Newman recalled, was wearing briefs, not boxers. "I said, 'Who are you,'" said Ms. Newman. "He said, 'What do you mean, who am I?'" Later, as Mr. Conklin and Ms. Newman talked while they were waiting for the police to arrive, the man in underwear "was shushing us because, he said, he was trying to watch television," said Ms. Newman. The couple did not press charges, so when the police arrived, the man was allowed to leave on his own. The following day, Ms. Newman said that the police told them that the man was from Connecticut and had been staying on a boat anchored at the Sag Harbor Marina. Said Ms. Newman: "We didn't use to lock our doors. Now I guess we will."

Four Seasons Faux Pas?

Four Seasons regulars who've received invitations to the restaurant's 40th-birthday celebration have been doing a Jackie Gleason-like, googly-eyed double-take when they see who's co-hosting the soiree on June 24. "Please join Edgar Bronfman Jr. and Graydon Carter," reads the invitation. It is the presence of Mr. Carter, editor of Vanity Fair , which surprises. The thing is, another Condé Nast grandee, GQ editor Art Cooper, is much more associated with the place, given that he lunches there twice a week on average. He even plugged the restaurant in the foreword that he wrote to James Ellroy's Crime Wave . Sources familiar with the event said that the Four Seasons reached out to Mr. Carter because it is hoping he will bring some Hollywood glitz to the party à la Vanity Fair's annual Oscar-night affair.

Mr. Cooper and Mr. Carter are known for being pretty tight over at S.I. Newhouse Jr.'s publishing empire, but Mr. Cooper told The Transom, "I didn't even know that Graydon was involved in this until I read Page Six" on June 1. (The article in the New York Post column said that Vanity Fair is planning a piece on the restaurant.)

Mr. Cooper said he was "surprised" to see Mr. Carter's name on the invitation, given that "I thought it was an exclusively Four Seasons" event. He also noted that the last time he saw Mr. Carter at the Four Seasons was approximately a year ago, "when he and I had lunch with [Condé Nast president] Steve Florio." Mr. Cooper added that he's "fine" with the decision.

Mr. Carter said he had dined at the Four Seasons a number of times within the last month. "I do eat there. And I like the place," he told The Transom. "I was very flattered that they asked me to co-host it." Mr. Carter hastened to add, "Art was the first person on everybody's invitation list."

The Transom Also Hears

… The official Hamptons summer season began at approximately 9:27 P.M. on May 30 just inside the entrance of Nick & Toni's restaurant, when television producer Robert Morton, in from Malibu, and the restaurant's co-owner Jeff Salaway, shared a manly hug with the requisite three pats on the back. Earlier in the day, Barefoot Contessa owner Ina Garten doffed her shoes, declaring "I am the Barefoot Contessa" at the outdoor publication party for The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook book party at her East Hampton home.

The Ciprianis will identify with the premise. A creeping, sulfurous fog has shadowed the Italian father-and-son restaurateurs ever since the announcement last year that they were taking over the lease to the city's vaunted Rainbow Room. As the Ciprianis have pursued a course of aggressive growth–their newest projects include a former Bowery Savings Bank-turned-catering hall on East 42nd Street, two restaurants in Grand Central Terminal, a hotel, restaurant and party space at 55 Wall Street, and a stake in the floundering Fashion Cafe–the storm front of bad mojo has grown, fed by New York's insular and competitive restaurant industry, but also by the Ciprianis themselves. With their bullish growth, the Ciprianis have exhibited a good deal of bullish behavior, with actions and pronouncements that have angered restaurateurs, food critics and the labor unions that represent the food-service industry, who accuse the Ciprianis of trying to freeze them out of their burgeoning empire.

Now, even as the Ciprianis fight to correct what their spokesman, Barbara Archer, termed "a lot of misinformation and rumors" about their plans for the Rainbow Room and other ventures, a physical manifestation of all that ill will is about to collect behind blue police barricades outside Rockefeller Center. On Jan. 22, 250 longtime waiters, bartenders and other former employees of the Rainbow Room, and members of Local 6 of the Hotel, Restaurant and Club Employees and Bartenders Union, plan to amass outside Rockefeller Center wielding bullhorns, brandishing signs and charging the Ciprianis with what the union's spokesman, John Turchiano, called a "mass execution": the elimination of union jobs at the once organized establishment, which has only been open for private events since Christmas.

"They won't even talk to us," said Leo Blokar, a former captain at the restaurant. "It's really an outrage. [Giuseppe Cipriani] is just a greedy restaurateur with no scruples."

The planned demonstration has already resulted in one cancellation: a Jan. 26 fund-raiser for State Comptroller Carl McCall. Clyde Butler, finance director for Friends of McCall, said she moved the event to Tavern on the Green because she did not want to deal with pickets or offend the union. "It was quite an inconvenience. Trust me, it's not something I wanted to do," said Ms. Butler. "But I'm glad they [the union] told me there was a problem."

It remains to be seen whether the Ciprianis' landlord, Rockefeller Center, which is owned by a partnership that includes Tishman Speyer Properties Inc. and Goldman, Sachs & Company, will react to the picket lines marring its upscale limestone shopping mall. Still, as restaurant-guide mogul Tim Zagat pointed out, "I don't think Rockefeller Center is going to want to have pickets around their buildings."

Local 6's strategy does not end with Rockefeller Center. According to Mr. Turchiano, picketing and leafleting is also planned at other Cipriani sites, including 55 Wall Street's monthly "big-spenders" concerts, featuring musicians such as Whitney Houston and Barry Manilow and attendees such as Chris-Craft Industries Inc. chairman Herb Siegel and Tariq Aziz, Saddam Hussein's foreign minister. Natalie Cole is slated to perform on Jan. 27. (Fortunately for billionaire Ira Rennert's daughter Yonina, the picketing had yet to start when she was married at 55 Wall Street earlier this month.) "We consider it a disgrace that [Giuseppe Cipriani is] discriminating against New Yorkers simply because they are union members," said Mr. Turchiano.

It's ironic that the Ciprianis, who are foreigners, are being accused of discrimination. But that sense of discrimination is certainly out there, and it extends beyond the two restaurateurs' labor stance. To many of the city's very close-knit (yet ultra-competitive) restaurateurs, the Ciprianis are relative outsiders who have nonetheless carved out a niche serving $16 glasses of house chardonnay and $20 appetizer plates of prosciutto and melon to a clientele consisting largely of Eurotrash and New-Crowd money.

As long as they plied that niche, they were fine.

But the Rainbow Room has been around since 1934, long before Manhattan was the international playground of the garish rich, and New Yorkers have a proprietary sense about it. Suddenly, the Ciprianis–guys who cater to the likes of Ralph Lauren, Ivana Trump, Ted Forstmann and Henry Kravis in the first place–were leasing it for $4 million a month and telling the press that the restaurant, with its revolving dance floor and panoramic views of the city, would be open to the public only for Sunday brunch, Friday dinner and one Saturday night a month. The rest of the time, this jewel of Rockefeller Center's crown would be used as a fancy catering hall.

Well, the Ciprianis seem to be backpedaling a bit, even though they did not return numerous calls from The Observer . Their spokesman, Ms. Archer, said that Giuseppe, who's credited with spearheading the family's aggressive expansion plans, is "a little gun-shy of the press because he feels that he's taken out of context and not properly quoted." (One defender of the family claimed that the 34-year-old Giuseppe has been misquoted a lot because his English is not very good.)

Herbert Rose, the director of the Rainbow Room, told The Transom, "It's not that we don't want to answer your questions. It's just that we have to make a full presentation to the Tishman Speyer people first."

Mr. Rose's son Louis, managing director of the Cipriani's 55 Wall Street and East 42nd Street facilities, told The Observer that the Ciprianis now plan to turn the touristy Promenade Bar, which is not part of the Rainbow Room proper, into a seven-day-a-week restaurant, tentatively titled the Rainbow Grill. (Mr. Rose said he did not know how many people the restaurant would seat.) The bar, he said, would be kept intact, but would be moved to another location within the room to allow for more window seating. Possibly to allay any additional fears that the Ciprianis would be gutting the place, Mr. Rose said, "The Landmarks Commission is thinking about making the interior of the Rainbow Room a landmark." He added that the Ciprianis plan to continue the Rockefeller Club, a buffet lunch that used to feed the bigwigs of Lazard Frères & Company and other top executives who work in the building. One glitch: The former proprietors did not turn over the membership list.

While the Ciprianis are currently renting out the Rainbow Room, they are also planning a renovation of the space, especially the kitchen, said Mr. Rose, which has a leakage problem. Mr. Rose said that the Rainbow Room was expected to be fully operational by February, but renovations in New York are a tricky thing. Indeed, Mr. Rose had just finished explaining that the two restaurants that the Ciprianis plan to open at Grand Central Terminal are far from opening their doors. Meanwhile, he pegged the opening of the hotel at 55 Wall Street, which was supposed to be in January, at "late March or April."

Asked who was backing the Ciprianis in their bid to become New York's grandest caterers, Mr. Rose replied: "That's a Giuseppe question."

It's a question that many of New York's restaurateurs would love answered. As one veteran of the industry noted, the city's restaurant scene is small enough that "everyone knows where everyone is getting their money." But when it comes to the Rainbow Room and some of the Ciprianis' other endeavors, such as its East 42nd Street operation, no one seems to know. (Speculation has included partners at Goldman and Sidney Kimmel, the owner of Jones Apparel Group, who owns 55 Wall Street. Mr. Kimmel did not return calls, but Ms. Archer said that as far as she knew, he was not involved in any Cipriani venture besides 55 Wall Street.)

In terms of the Rainbow Room, 55 Wall Street and now the East 42nd Street Bowery Bank location (where Mr. Rose said the Ciprianis will set up their corporate headquarters), the Ciprianis seem to have embarked upon a strategy to lease dramatic, large spaces in which the city's high rollers can hold parties. The question seems to be whether, even in 1999, there is enough demand to fill all those spaces–especially when the Rainbow Room's base rent is $4 million a year. According to one real estate source, the rent actually escalates upward if the revenues exceed $4 million. "My sense is they are so naïve, they just agreed to this, thinking, 'Oh, we'll just renegotiate down the line,'" said the source. "But they're dealing with some pretty tough hombres here."

One way in which the Ciprianis are addressing this issue: "We rent everything," said Mr. Rose. "We just bought chairs and are going to be purchasing tables, but we rent all china, linen, silverware and glassware per event." That includes human resources, he said, so that when there are no events scheduled, the Ciprianis' costs are minimal.

Last year, the Ciprianis managed to lure Herb Rose from his 20-year post as the head of catering at the Pierre Hotel. He brought a team of five with him from the hotel, which some local restaurateurs said indicates that the Ciprianis have a good eye for talent. Yet some still seemed to be mystified as to where the Ciprianis will find the staff and management to run their venues. "All I can say is, they must be keyed into some great source of management and staff that the rest of us have yet been exposed to," said Buzzy O'Keeffe, owner of the Water Club.

Louis Rose said that, as far as wait staff is concerned, "We have a service that provides us with top-notch waiters." Using an outside company for waiters is not without pitfalls. In November, The New York Post 's Page Six column reported that the Ciprianis had replaced one such firm with another after waiters were allegedly caught walking out of its Wall Street concert series with magnums of Cristal champagne and tins of caviar. That story also reported, though, that some of the workers who were still there were protesting working conditions that were imposed on them. One of the conditions protested was that the wait staff was served its pasta dinner (the workers dubbed it "penne alla caca") out of bus pans. "No utensils or anything, and they don't even warm the bleep up," the Post reported one worker saying.

After first laughing at the story, Mr. Rose denied that the staff was served out of bus pans. "The best part of that is that we don't have to feed them," he said. "We choose to feed them. We're not that bad."

Asked whether union workers would be employed at the various Cipriani establishments, Mr. Rose said: "The wait staff are union at Harry Cipriani and downtown Cipriani. Down here [at 55 Wall Street], they're not. Ideally, they won't be elsewhere," he said.

Just a few moments later, however, Mr. Rose said: "There's no angst against the people just because they're in a union. We certainly don't want to ask for trouble."

So far, the Ciprianis haven't fared particularly well in their battles with the city's hotel union. They are already tangling with the Hotel and Motel Trades Council over 55 Wall Street. Because they operate Harry Cipriani in the Sherry Netherland Hotel, they are subject to a collective bargaining agreement between the council and the New York Hotel Association that forbids parties from interfering if their workers get the urge to organize at any hotel they operate. But the council was rebuffed by the Venetian restaurateurs last year when it inquired if the Ciprianis would honor the agreement at 55 Wall Street. The labor group cried foul and dragged them in front of an arbitrator who will hear the case this month. The outcome doesn't look good for the Ciprianis. They have already tried without success to thwart the council in the state and Federal courts.

Now the Ciprianis are facing the prospect of a bitter, protracted fight with Local 6. As far as union members are concerned, it was Giuseppe Cipriani who took the first jab last June when he casually slammed the Rainbow Room and its staff in an interview with The New York Times after winning the restaurant's lease. "Right now, it's a little tired," he sniffed. "The service is a disaster."

These were fighting words for the waiters, bartenders and other Local 6 members at the culinary eagle's nest. Many of them see themselves not simply as employees but caretakers of a uniquely American institution. Many of them worship the late Joe Baum, the Rainbow Room's former proprietor who revived the establishment in the late 1980's. And they are fiercely proud of the service they provided over the years to the kings, Presidents, movie stars and other discerning patrons of the 65th-floor eatery.

"We made the place a three-star restaurant, which is unheard of in a restaurant of that size," said former waiter Michael Morana, who spent 11 years at the Rainbow Room before the Ciprianis took over. "I personally waited on [ New York Times restaurant critic] Ruth Reichl twice out of the four times she came up there while she was doing her reviews. So for him to say the service was bad? You'll never get better service anywhere in the world." (By comparison, Harry Cipriani, at the Sherry Netherland, earned two stars, and the Ciprianis' SoHo outpost, Downtown, garnered one star. Ms. Reichl did have nice things to say about Cipriani Wall Street, the restaurant at 55 Wall Street, in a Diners Journal column last December.)

What made Mr. Cipriani's comments even more infuriating was that union members are convinced he never dined at the Rainbow Room before winning the lease. They are certain they would have spotted him if he had. "It would be impossible for him to just sneak in here unnoticed," Mr. Blokar insisted. "Ruth Reichl came wearing a wig, and she was immediately recognized."

In November, Mr. Baum's company held a job fair for its Rainbow Room employee in the space that housed Rainbow & Stars. According to several Local 6 members, the Ciprianis sent a representative (their chief financial officer Jeffrey Vasser, according to some), who told the astonished workers that he was only interested in hiring cashiers and an accountant, neither of whom belong to the union.

In December, the union decided it was finally time to take action. It instructed 190 of its members who were former Rainbow Room employees to send certified letters to the Ciprianis saying they were interested in working at the Rainbow Room and inquiring about the hiring process. All but one of the letters was returned unopened.

Bob Thomas, a former waiter who worked for nine years at the Rainbow Room, thinks he knows why he's being ignored. He's convinced Mr. Cipriani wants to hire part-time workers so he won't have to pay the health benefits that he and other union members receive.

"He's not looking for people who do restaurant work for a living," Mr. Thomas told The Observer . "He's looking for transients. You're going to have people coming in with Tupperware. They are going to be carrying the place out."

Like most of his fellow former employees, Mr. Thomas hopes to get a new job soon. But even if he does, Mr. Thomas said he is so mad that he will picket the Ciprianis any time he gets a spare moment.

"I know I'm just a guppy," he said. "I know I'm just a pawn. But if we're together, we're going to hurt him. He signed himself into a big lease, and he's going to have to meet that final responsibility. That's the only thing he cares about: money." With a $4 million-a-year nut, Mr. Cipriani is going to have to care about money a lot.