Dan Levin, Jon Gray, Malcom Livingston and Lester Walker. (Photo by Emily Anne Epstein)

IT IS AFTER MIDNIGHT in the kitchen of Le Baron, a Chinatown dance club. The chefs we have come to meet are squeezed shoulder to shoulder in the tiny space, chopping and frying for the throngs outside. Jon Gray is giving two waitresses in crop tops a pep talk, telling them to get as far into the crowd as they can before distributing the food. The doors have closed and the venue is over capacity. It’s going to be tough, he tells them. Hold the trays high.

Tonight is the inaugural event of his catering company, Ghetto Gastro, which draws on the talents of rising chefs who have earned their stripes at Le Cirque, Jean-Georges and wd~50, among other big names. “How many can we fit on a tray?” chef Dan Levin interjects, referring to the four-bite portions of chicken and waffles.

We pluck one from the trays and the flavor comes in waves. First the sweet crust. Then the feisty curried chicken. The cool heat of scotch bonnet mango butter. The creamy calm of the coconut waffles. And there are two more varieties to go: a fig waffle with chili chicken and foie gras butter, and a Belgian waffle with buttermilk fried chicken and maple butter.

(Photo by Emily Anne Epstein)

Once the food has gone out, Mr. Gray takes the stage and thanks everyone for attending. He hopes you like the food, and he hopes you’re having fun. Now, he says, the “ghetto” part of the party is about to begin. He steps down to reveal a stripper pole, and with it, an obviously enhanced young woman gyrating to the booming bass. She spins around, casually flipping upside down. The music moves faster and so does she, her clothes slipping off as the crowd yelps in excitement.

“Ghetto means raw, uncut, unadulterated, unpasteurized,” Mr. Gray says after the party. “It means beautiful. It means fresh.” It’s not about class, race or geography. To be ghetto is to hustle. Ghetto Gastro began as a passion project in August of last year, but it’s turning into a full-time enterprise for Mr. Gray. When the company had its first party in February, there was no website, no business cards, no real plan for the future—only a single party for Solange Knowles to the company’s credit. Now clients include Ralph Lauren and Jack Daniels.

Sway Calloway, an MTV VJ, sees Ghetto Gastro as pioneering hip-hop food, in its blending of the real and the refined. A$ap Ferg and Raekwon of the Wu-Tang Clan are also regulars at Ghetto Gastro’s Freestyle Friday events, where the chefs test recipes on friends. There, fish and chips becomes delicately fried blowfish served with blue potato crisps. Droplets of chickpea puree dot the plates to look like peas and give the dish a pop of color. General Tso’s is similarly deconstructed: the Styrofoam staple is transformed into a confit of cubed poultry beside pan-fried ginger hair, all over creamed vegetables arranged in the shape of the yin-yang symbol.

THE MISSION TO RECLAIM “ghetto” comes from a sense of pride. Mr. Gray, along with Ghetto Gastro chefs Malcolm Livingston and Lester Walker, grew up a few blocks from one another in the Bronx. (Mr. Levin hails from Florida.) Mr. Walker had a particularly challenging childhood. His father was absent and drug dealers were an enticing influence. “People on my block, they were cooking other things,” Mr. Walker says. “Not food.”

(Photo by Emily Anne Epstein)

Mr. Walker got into trouble of his own on occasion, and found sanctuary from the chaos outside in his mother’s kitchen. She was not a chef who started from scratch, favoring Ragu over a ripe tomato, but always put her own spin on the store-bought. To a young Mr. Walker, her lasagna was mythical. The smell of garlic would often waft into his bedroom and he would join his mother stoveside. “I would just put down whatever I was doing and run into the kitchen and open up pots and taste stuff,” he remembers. “She hated that.” His own palate evolved quickly, and in 1998, in his senior year at his fourth high school, he won a prestigious scholarship from the Careers through Culinary Arts Program (C-Cap).

Richard Grausman, the celebrated educator and founder of C-Cap, remembers seeing Mr. Walker cook for the first time. “He had good hands,” Mr. Grausman says. “He used his knife well and he was comfortable in the kitchen. He moved well.” He has watched Mr. Walker make the jump from a cook to a chef, finding his way into the city’s premier kitchens.

But it wasn’t a straight line for Mr. Walker. “I always had one foot in the streets, one foot in the kitchen,” Mr. Walker says. He was torn between the world he knew and the rush of the restaurant world, the tightly packed bodies and strict leadership of the chef. He found the chaos comforting and, in many ways, familiar. In 2006, he made a choice. He started working at Spice Market and Jean-Georges became his “big brother.” The food was foreign, Mr. Walker says, and the work was tough, but worth it. “The only Chinese food I grew up with was chicken wings and fried rice. I didn’t know there were so many different ingredients: lemongrass, Thai chili, Thai basil,” Mr. Walker says.

AFTER SPENDING MANY YEARS unschooling themselves in street talk to move up in the restaurant world, there’s a sense of marvel among Ghetto’s chefs that they can be themselves in the kitchen.

Dan Levin, center, in Le Baron. (Photo by Emily Anne Epstein)

“I don’t think anyone is cooking the way we’re cooking,” says Mr. Walker. “We’re young men from the Bronx, pretty tough neighborhoods, you would never expect us to do the food that we do. You’d see a picture of us and you’d say, ‘Those guys? They can’t be good chefs. They look like street guys.’” Their downscale presentation pays homage to their roots; Arctic char will hide inside a Crown Fried Chicken box. A table will be covered in newspapers in lieu of linen. Wonder Bread is favored over French baguettes—and, for a certain kind of client, that’s what they want.

(Photo by Emily Anne Epstein)

“We did a dinner party once and we used Olde English 40 bottles as carafes,” says Mr. Livingston. “People didn’t think twice about it. We just took the labels off and they loved it.” This summer, they plan to host a series of riffs on the classic fish fry, featuring hopscotch courts, double Dutch ropes and stickball.

The high-low vibe is what attracted Daria Brit-Greene, who hired the fledgling company to cater a dinner at the home of street art collector Natalie Kates for a SCOPE event. The caterers were charged with creating dishes inspired by Ms. Kates’s reserve of urban art as well as her home’s Bowery location. “They’re bringing in the Asian culture of Grand Street with a foie gras dumpling and the Jewish culture of the Lower East Side with a deconstructed Reuben,” Ms. Brit-Greene tells The Observer. The chefs are genuine, she says, and their food is ridiculously good.

They’re also trying to seed a food scene uptown. They’ve led nutritional classes at local grammar schools and hope to soon have cooking programs for single mothers and at-risk youths with the help of C-Cap. “You don’t hear about the Bronx as being an oasis of food,” Mr. Grausman says. “The Bronx is wide open.”

THE CROWD AT THE Le Baron event is a mix of old friends and friends of friends who seem to have discovered Ghetto Gastro’s style for the first time. Partygoers get close and kiss on the dance floor. When the stripper performs an upside-down pole maneuver, a woman with a pixie haircut seizes the opportunity to participate in the act and gets handsy.

Mr. Gray is flanked on both sides by people wanting more.

“Where is your restaurant?” one man asks. “Do you have a card?” A woman demands, “When is your next event?”

“We don’t have a card or a restaurant,” Mr. Gray responds, smiling. He had just ordered a sample pack of 25 cards, but had already given them out. “We try to keep things underground,” he says, “not unnoticed.”

(Photo by Emily Anne Epstein)

Roasted Baby Beet Salad with Chive Crème Fraiche

By Lester Walker

2 cups multicolor baby beets
1/2 cup roasted shallots
2 roasted garlic cloves
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon blood orange zest
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 pinch ground black pepper
Maldon salt to taste
1/2 cup creme fraiche
1 ounce chopped chives

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

2. Wrap whole beets in foil with olive oil and salt and place in oven until fork-tender, approximately 30 to 35 minutes.

3. Wrap whole shallots and garlic in foil and place in oven until golden, approximately 10 to 12 minutes.

4. While hot, use a hand towel to peel skin off beets, shallots and garlic.

5. Cut beets into 1-inch dice.

6. Finely dice shallots and garlic.

7. Place beets, shallots and garlic in mixing bowl along with rest of ingredients, mix well and let marinate in fridge for at least an hour.

8. Finely slice chives and fold into crème fraiche in separate mixing bowl and add salt to taste.

9. Place beet salad in bowl and add small dollop of crème fraiche to top and garnish with micro cilantro.

10. SWERVE THAT WAVE UP!

eepstein@observer.com

DvF and Mitch: lovers once, buddies forever!

As we sloshed, caked with snow flurries, into the Mandarin Oriental for the 2012 Phoenix House Fashion award dinner last Wednesday evening, we couldn’t determine whether it was the way-too-early winter outside, the Sandy-forced relocation or the early start after an endless election season, but at first glance, things looked a bit quiet. (In retrospect, we appreciated the venue upgrade, considering it was originally slated to take place at Pier 60.)

“Well there’s Linda Fargo, at least ...” we uttered to a weary-eyed publicist as she sashayed passed us in a crisp black sheath dress, before we sauntered downstairs to cocktail hour.

Below, on the 35th floor, the considerably more lively and notable fashion crowd imbibed, heedless of the blizzard-like winds that howled without mercy on the commoners struggling to get around Columbus Circle.

With the exception of Glenda Bailey, this didn’t feel like a typical fashion event; nay, it was considerably more corporate—a bit cliquey, but not necessarily in a bad way. Dashing executives (well mostly dashing) in flamboyant tailored suits sipped scotch and red wine, while a more demure population of women squawked about recent highs and lows.

This reeked of powerful retail and media industry figures rather than overcompensated stylists and over-photographed fashion mavens.

The Observer wasn’t feeling particularly social, but we decided to meander aimlessly about the lobby, gorging ourselves with vegetable spring rolls every time they passed.

Eventually, someone had the brilliance to ring the dinner gong and get the show on the road.

“You’re stuck with me,” laughed Rose Marie Bravo, the fashion branding and commerce star, as she welcomed the Phoenix House patrons now enjoying their first plating around candlelit tables. She apologized for emcee Ali Wentworth, who was “lost somewhere in the city.”

“This past week has been a tragic one,” she continued. “Many of our friends have been left homeless or without power.” She went on to explain what Phoenix House does: it helps thousands of people struggling with substance abuse and addiction through its pioneering treatment program. For a second or two, The Observer stopped sipping. But only a second or two.

Seated before us was honoree Jim Gold, president of The Neiman Marcus Group; Tory Burch, evasive and on high alert with her pending lawsuit against ex-husband Chris Burch still ablaze; and Calvin Klein’s Francisco Costa. The weather was most likely to blame for the empty seats, and there was substantial mention of Hurricane Sandy and its affect on the Phoenix House community.

“Substance abuse is an epidemic that plagues the USA,” began Phoenix House CEO Howard Meitiner.

He was followed by a young client of Phoenix House, who spoke of his history with drug abuse, dealing and violence. It was simple, honest and very effective. He said he is now rightly on track, working toward a degree in social work.

“Drug abuse can happen to anyone’s child,” said Mr. Meithner, then diving into the politics and ethos of the drug culture in America.

“But recovery is achievable and sustainable,” he concluded, just as Ali Wentworth, our long-lost emcee, finally stampeded in.

“I’ve got a husband who said, ‘I’ve just done 36 hours of ABC election coverage! You’re gonna get into bed with me!’” she blurted to our disbelief, about her hubby, George Stephanopoulos.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, not only was the fabulous hostess late because she was having a roll in the hay, she announced it to us all! Our kind of gal. And poor George, election aside, he must have still been shell-shocked by his co-host’s odd drunken-like behavior on election night—Cheers, Diane!

“They messengered this to me,” Ms. Wentworth continued, exposing a shiny Olivier Theyskens for Theory blazer that kept her décolletage in check.

“I thought I was chic, but maybe I’m just a shoplifter!”

We decided right then and there that we all wanted to leave and go home with Ali Wentworth.

Our hostess extraordinaire thankfully kept the pace brisk as we cruised into the awards segment. Monsieur Theyskens gave a poignant and astute speech before plopping a Phoenix House award in the hands of Andrew Rosen. The CEO of Theory then delivered a heartfelt personal story of his own family’s struggle with addiction and praised the Phoenix House for its wonderful work.

Tina Brown, editor in chief of Newsweek/The Daily Beast, made an anticipated handoff to Diane von Furstenberg. We never got to pester her with our gossipy questions about her publication’s demise.

“Diane is a vision broker,” Ms. Brown professed.

Once DvF accept her award, she dove into a tale of how she first met Phoenix House Founder Mitchell S. Rosenthal. Apparently Ms. von Furstenberg had mistaken the addiction innovator for ’80s star Chris Sarandon, whom she mistakenly referred to as Chris Rock. “He was hot,” she said.

“Then I got to know more about Mitch Rosenthal. I’ll spare you the details ...”

The romantic jaunts of the fashion queen brought the crowd great delight.

“This young, smashing man who looked like Chris Sarandon—created this place where shame was not an issue,” Ms. von Furstenberg gushed.

“I really want to make sure that we all raise our glass to this special man!”

At that flawless declaration, we lifted our glass, emptied it, and dashed downtown, to partake in rowdier action at Le Baron—alas, without Ali Wentworth.

And oh, does it ever.

As duly noted and quietly documented by a friend of the Observer who was on the capital-S Scene, this may in fact be the centerpiece of the exhibition:

As endless as the captioning possibilities are—rather than take our own hand to this*—we simply asked our correspondent if they had, in fact, taken this thing for a spin:

I did not ride it. I didn't have to! Anyone who walked into that gallery was effectively riding Andre's cock.

And so it was! Andre Saraiva’s "cock" may be taken for a spin by you, at The Hole (312 Bowery), Tuesday through Saturday, 12-7PM.**

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

[*Sorry, had to.]

[**Also, at 32 Mulberry Street, generally anytime after 11.]

Julie Ragolia and Carlos Campos at his autumn 2011 presentation.

Julie Ragolia has seen more stars in their skivvies than you could dream of! After sinking her teeth at MTV and a slew of glossies eons ago, she moved up the nasty and competitive ladder of fashion editorial... These days, she serves as the fashion editor of 7th Man Magazine and styles mega-stars, such as Rihanna and Sean Combs. Despite his Napoleon complex, street photo Scott Schuman even made her the cover girl of his treasured tome, The Satorialist. The Observer tried to find out if she gets to sleep with any celebs and what exactly stylists do aside from playing with clothes and acting bitchy in the Prada showroom...How did you become a stylist?

It just sort of happened, really. I didn't intend to become a stylist, but I guess it was meant to be. A series of steps toward an academic future in philosophy, with a deep concentration on aesthetics, mixed with some youthful curiosity and a story to tell, led me to a very extended study of fashion as an art form, with clothes as my medium.

Fashion week must be chaotic for you-- what does this season bring?

This is the most fun chaos. I feel lucky everyday for my job, and styling shows is the icing on the cake. This season I am styling two shows: Carlos Campos, with whom I have been collaborating for four seasons now, and TheGreenShow. TheGreenShow is especially exciting for me, as it's the first time designers working in a decidedly conscious, ethical manner are showing at the tents. It's a group show of 8 women's designers, including United Bamboo, who are creating beautiful clothes in consideration of such things as environment, fair working conditions, artisan craft and local production. Hopefully this show will take some of the stigma out of terms like "eco" or "bio", so that such considerations are no longer even a part of our thinking...they just are.

Being a stylist isn't all parties and glamour—what do people not understand about the gig?

That it's a lot of work! You're right, it's not all parties and glamour; it's consideration, and research, and a deep, constant study of the craft, not to mention keeping on top of art, music and all things political in order to keep viewpoints continually fresh and interesting. And sometimes there's a lot of stuff to lug around. Being a stylist is my gym.

What designers inspire you? Who is hot in your mind right now?

I'm inspired by so many designers, but season after season I always come back to Raf Simons and Dries van Noten as inspirations. Both capture the ability to be loud and quiet at once. It's an immense skill, and something I always try to achieve in my styling work.

What's your most awful experience as a stylist? What's stressful?

I'd  be lying if I said I never had an awful experience as a stylist, but they're so few and far between that it's not even worth mentioning. I'm really grateful to be able to tell stories with clothes, and so appreciative that people like what I do that, even if there is a bad moment, I know there will be just as equal a good one to follow. In terms of stress, I think the only real stresses are those I place on myself to always do better, to hit harder. And customs issues at crunch time.

If you had a dream offer to style—who would it be?

That's a hard one! I've styled quite a few from my dream list already...I saw David Beckham in his underwear before he was on the side of H&M bags. I'd love to style someone like Tilda Swinton, who has such powerful presence. She has such distinct style unto herself, that it would be an intimidating but fun challenge. I did tweet recently that I would love to tweak Drake's style. He has so much potential.

Where has the market developed for stylists?

Media has opened the door for stylists to have a greater public presence beyond fashion. We star in commercials, we host events, we collaborate with brands, etc. And as we ourselves become a brand, our images compel some of us to the level of celebrity. It's a crazy phenomenon, really.

What are your social plans? Any good after parties?

I haven't been to Le Baron yet since it opened, even though it's just near my apartment! I'm horrible about going out in the winter, but am looking forward to fashion week pulling me out of my hibernation. I'm also looking forward to celebrating Anna Bauer's book, Backstage, at the New Museum.

Where does a stylist shop?

I think it's more about how a stylist shops, to which I would answer, "unintentionally." I never really go out of my way to shop, but I know I do it because new clothes consistently appear in my closet. I do still get giddy every time I walk through Barney's though.

What sucks about fashion?

If anything, that some of the emphasis has shifted to popularity over content or talent with the infiltration of bloggers or personalities into every aspect of the industry. I'll forever stay a stickler to the analytical thinking of great fashion journalists like Cathy Horyn, Tim Blanks and the likes, as opposed to personal opinions in quips, or anecdotal self-dressing.

He's Andre Saraiva. Who the hell are you?

The huddled masses on the corner of Mulberry and Mosco had waited for a long time. They had waited through 700 days of planning, they had waited outside several hours on this first night, and then they had waited to get the nod from a doorman. They had waited for the opening of Le Baron, the Chinatown outpost of Andre Saraiva’s famous Paris club.

“Stand in a straight line!” a bouncer yelled.

Police cars were circling the block and a few officers took their positions at checkpoints down the street. We were standing outside the club’s entrance late last Friday, where a line had formed behind us longer than we could see.

“When are they going to kick out this guy?” a friend whispered.

He was pointing at a man in a bunny rabbit costume and head.

“That guy,” said another, “he’s the guy who lets you in. Or, in reality, doesn’t let you in.”

Then two men from across the street came up toward the front.

“Hey, fuck you, get to the back!” someone yelled at them.

“Don’t you fucking cut!” said another.

“No, but really,” the man said, brandishing a set of keys. “I live here.”

He walked up to the door to his apartment building, which would never have a quiet night again.

“This is my home,” he said.

Then, a few minutes later, we were let into Le Baron.

There is a jet set that drifts on the art-party trade winds—a crew that moves down that silk road from Basel to Paris to Cannes to Nolita—and at its center is Andre Saraiva. At first glance he seems more of a mascot than a macher. He’s small and uppity, with slicked-back greaser hair, impeccable jeans and a leather jacket in all seasons.

He seems to genuinely like everyone who makes it into his clubs. (“Oh! Lover! I love you! So wonderful to see you!”) How can anyone be so Gallic, so chic, but also so happy all the time? He’s like an orphan kid scooped from the set of from Les Quatre Cents Coups and then given enough money and pretty girls to be giddy forever.

Unrelenting charm and the ability to throw a good party hide the fact that, when it comes to the worldwide diaspora of the fashionable, Mr. Saraiva is pulling many of the strings. The sun never sets on his Le Baron empire—he’s planted his flag in Paris, London, Tokyo and New York, with pop-ups in Moscow and Miami. He’s been a fixture in this tiny but powerful world for decades, ever since his “Mr. A” stamp began appearing all over Paris.

Graffiti art became gallery art, and Mr. Saraiva went along with it. He can’t seem to ever miss a Fashion Week, too. He’s designed eyewear and clothing for Louis Vuitton and Saint James. Not to mention the short films with former Kids pinup Leo Fitzpatrick, and his role as creative director of L’Officiel Hommes. (He put himself on the cover of the first issue.)

As a proprietor, he accepts paintings for bar tabs—très Gertrude Stein!—hires abstract artists for bouncers and describes his ideal clientele as “poets.” Le Baron Paris was such a hit that pushy Americans began clamoring for an edition of their own. In February 2010, it was announced that Mr. Saraiva would be bringing his globetrotting party to New York City.

“Oh, it will open very soon!” Mr. Saraiva told The Observer in February 2011, at the after party for Charlotte Ronson’s new fashion line.

“I don’t know when Le Baron will open!” Mr. Saraiva told The Observer in June 2011, at the after party for his film The Shoe. “Maybe it will never open!”

“It’s going well, it will be open in the next month!” Mr. Saraiva told The Observer in July 2011, at the after-party for Le Bain’s Bastille Day celebration.

At long last, it has.

It turns out, Le Baron is more French Indochina than magical Shangri-La. It is not New York’s greatest nightclub of all time; not yet, at least. But it’s probably the best thing the city has going right now. It’s a sweeping, pulsating place to drink, immaculately designed and just a tad darker than is comfortable.

There’s a rush of glowing bordello red with flickered little absinthe-hue specks hovering in the nebula of the fog machine. Mirrors jut into the walls, side by side in a box, intimating an empty aquarium that goes on forever. Two rows of status banquettes border the main room, and up a gold-lined staircase there’s cafe-style seating, where waiters bring bottles and fancy cocktails. No one bats an eye when large groups go into the private bathrooms together.

We walked in around 11:15 on Friday to find it scarcely populated, despite the throng outside. Inside were investors, mostly, a few of whom had taken it upon themselves to offer Scarlett Johannson a tour. “This looks great!” the actress exclaimed as the group walked into the basement.

This downstairs dance lounge is darker, redder and foggier, with more lights and bigger music. An unlocked door marked “NOT AN EXIT” seems to be a surrealist joke à la Magritte: this door leads to a packed appliance-laden kitchen where the smoke you see comes not from any machine.

Alexander Wang, flanked by a few of his models, bounced around until he gasped, “It’s great, but soooooo crowded!” and headed out. James Murphy danced in a corner, the elder statesman in regal white stubble. Lily Donaldson, the Victoria’s Secret model, glided through the back room chatting with Annabelle Dexter-Jones, Mr. Saraiva’s effervescent better half. They had come together in a place we assumed would never actually exist.

And if the brass has its way, it’ll stay an elusive locale, visible only in person and in memories. Like at the Beatrice Inn, the cherished West Village celeb sin den also owned by Mr. Saraiva, there is a strict no-picture policy. We stopped by Saturday night after Istanbul ’74’s party for Sandro Kopp, a few blocks away at Pulqueria, with a friend who takes pictures for a monthly fashion magazine. Through the floating velvet, through the smoke, through the crowds of models, he hoisted his camera and snapped away.

We went to the bathroom, but ran into the photographer few minutes later.

“Lemme see the shots!” we said.
“No can do,” he said. “Somebody grabbed my camera and made me erase every last one.”

Given the shenanigans going on in the back crawlspace, the ban on pictures is quite prudent. Here’s a mnemonic snapshot: It’s well past 4:00 in the morning on Friday, the DJs and owners in head-to-toe black, Ms. Donaldson trying on other people’s glasses, the bunny rabbit from the front poking his head in, the actor Michael Pitt talking softly into the ears of a young woman. And then there’s Ms. Dexter-Jones, snuggling up to her beau, Mr. Saraiva.

“You have a wonderful bar,” we tell him after the dual cheek kisses.

“Yes,” he said, putting an arm on our shoulder. “You’re home now.”

Andre.

As Eater New York's Scott Solish reports, it is supposedly opening this weekend.

Following Men's Fashion Week in Paris, most of the Le Baron family has made their way to New York, using the last few nights to run sound and light checks in the three story Chinatown club that is supposed to evoke "a gigantic, three-story house party… set in 1970s Vietnam."

A second Observer source who is currently having an aneurysm regarding the assembly of his Impossible Mission Force-level Chloe Sevigny costume corroborated this information. Sound the alarm. It's the closest you'll get to being inside. A brief history of the arrival of Le Baron, if you will:

October 2010: "Le Baron to Open Next Month, Not Let You In."

June 2011: "I don’t know when Le Baron will open. Maybe it will never open!"

September 2011: "I'm a handy man!"

January 11, 2012: "Will it be open for Fashion Week in Februrary? Will it be open for Fashion Week in September?! Will it be open for Robot Fashion Week when the robots eventually take over in due time?!?"

Conclusion: Either Le Baron is opening tonight, or Andre Sariva is a robot sent from the future to eliminate the leader of the resistance by breaking down their will to live by teasing out the existence of a nightclub he or she will never get into anyway. Also, if that's the leader of the resistance to the robot revolution, this game's already been scored.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Andre!

French nightlife impresario Andre Saraiva’s Le Baron—with respective locations in Paris and Tokyo, easily two of the most exclusive nightlife spots in the known universe, the likes of which you will never see the inside of—has been anticipated as the messanic salvation of New York City nightlife. Especially ever since word of its stateside arrival was confirmed...in March 2010.

In October 2010, it was rumored the Chinatown club was going to open the following month. No dice.

Last June, Mr. Saraiva was here to supervise construction over Le Baron, even though he didn't know if it was ever going to open (or so he told our nightlife correspondent, who may or may not have had a panic attack induced by Mr. Saraiva's cryptic answers).

Last September, Mr. Saraiva was reportedly spending much of his time hard at work "relaxing in France with lovely arm candy [socialite] Annabelle Dexter-Jones." Not shockingly, Le Baron has been about as elusive in its pre-natal stages as entry to it will inevitably be once it opens. For those who think they stand even the most remote chance at entry, however, good news:

The 32 Mulberry club's liquor licence has been approved. Scott Solish at Eater reports:

The liquor license for Andre Saraiva's nightclub has finally been approved by the State Liquor Authority, clearing the final hurdle for the club to open. No word on the exact opening date, but the hipsterati are already clamoring for it to open as soon as possible. It took almost 22 months from the time the project was announced for the place to clear all of the necessary hurdles, and from what we hear, expect the new three story Le Baron to offer the tightest door since the Beatrice in its heyday.

Will it be open for Fashion Week in Februrary?

Will it be open for Fashion Week in September?!

Will it be open for Robot Fashion Week when the robots eventually take over in due time?!? Because that's still, at this point, more likely to happen before Le Baron opens. Meanwhile, New York City's nightcrawling scenesters can still spend their evenings attempting to cadge drinks from their moneyed older dates at the Electric Room as Nur Kahn secretly transmits subliminals upon their delicate, desperate psyches. Hold out, young urbanite! You may be roused from your (distinctly French) existential nightmare in due time. Salvation may be forthcoming, yet.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Andre.

It's almost Fashion Week, which means that French nightlife savant and savior should be opening his much-delayed sin den Le Baron any day now. Um, what! We haven't heard of a single after party booked at the would-be venue in Chinatown. And so the wait continues.

In the meantime, Mr. Saraiva's been relaxing in France with lovely arm candy Annabelle Dexter-Jones. Sometimes, Olivier Zahm takes pictures of them. Good thing, then, that Mr. Saraiva took time out of his schedule to chat up AnOther magazine about the deeper side of fashion.

Would you describe fashion as a language and a discourse, as Barthes did it?
I didn't know Barthes had written about fashion until I passed in front of this old bookstore recently where I saw The Fashion System in the window. To be honest I haven't read it yet… Yes, it is definitely a language for some people, for example like the Hells Angels or hippies use fashion to show they are part of a group. But for others it is just an alternative to being naked.

The word "intellectual" was coined in a time of great political distress. Does fashion have a political role? And in which way?
If you look around at all the extreme groups, from Hitler and his troups to skinheads, or the Black Panthers, all have strong political ideas and a striking appearance.

How would you relate the concept of fashion to the one of style?
Fashion is an industry, and some designers. Style is how the people integrate fashion in their everyday life. Some do it better than others. I just saw the film about Bill Cunningham and I think he demonstrates that better than anyone.

What does fashion have to do with intellectuality ?
I don't know, I'm not much of an intellectual. I'm a handy man!

We like Bill Cunningham New York a lot, too, Andre! Does this mean you'll come back stateside soon? We know a place that could use a handy man, actually, and it's at 32 Mulberry Street.

We kid, we kid. We're just excited, OK?

“andre est a paris … !” the man said, on Twitter, April 21.

“Je suis a paris!” read another tweet, from May 28.

And then, on June 9: “very hot in N Y … !”

The Transom confirmed his stateside presence on that sweltering Thursday when we ran into him at the Boom Boom Room. Samantha Ronson was on the decks (it’s been noted that Mr. Saraiva is dating the D.J.’s younger sister, Annabelle Dexter-Jones), and the Baron Andre sat windowside with a spread of Standard Hotel fries and Champagne. As the party waned, many of the attendees followed their Cognac buzzes from the meatpacking to Nolita, where, until Le Baron opens, Kenmare will suffice.

We stayed late. Around 4 in the morning the Transom was wedged in a booth next to Ms. Dexter-Jones, in a slipover jersey sweater and tiny hot-pink shorts, as we waited for Mr. Saraiva and Nur Khan, the owner, to finish up talking. Ms. Dexter-Jones happened to mention, not casually, the recent article on her boyfriend that had run last month in BlackBook.

“You know, none of that is true,” the 24-year-old Ms. Dexter-Jones told the Transom. She was referring to the bit that equated the sound of the couple’s shower sex—overheard by the BlackBook editor in question—to “someone strangling a crocodile.”

We never believed that, Annabelle, we said. Never even thought about it.

Then Mr. Saraiva returned to our wing of the booth.

“I don’t know when Le Baron will open,” he told the Transom. “Maybe it will never open!”

We pleaded with him to go ahead with his plans. Then, knowing his transatlantic tendencies, we asked where his travels will take him in the next months.

“Well,” he said, plucking out his English words as if from an ill-stocked, cluttered bag. “I have to be New York, to watch over the construction of Le Baron.”

So it will open!

“I don’t know,” he said. “But when it does, you will know.”

Even with a two-person crew working to tidy nightlife impresario André Saraiva’s new Chinatown apartment for the busy weekend ahead, it’s impossible to ignore the high-pitched shrieks coming from the shower in the back room. Saraiva is “having breakfast,” I’m vaguely assured, with his girlfriend, socialite Annabelle Dexter-Jones. It’s Friday, a quarter past noon. [...] “Either André and Annabelle were having sex in the shower,” a partygoer will say to me later that weekend, “or someone was strangling a crocodile."

The upshot, however, is that we all now know what having sex and/or breakfast with a socialite sounds like. Do with that what you will. It's the alternative positioning that matters, though, as if that is indeed what Mr. Saraiva's breakfasts sound like these days, Manhattan should eagerly await Le Baron's arrival on the nightlife scene. 

[fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek]