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

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

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

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

“I can tell you one thing,” said Mr. Maccioni. “For me, a world without women would be impossible. But also I’ve never been stupid. I respect myself and I respect my wife and I respect my children. When we were at the other restaurant on 65th Street, we had the most beautiful women in the world. You know what was my satisfaction? I’d say, ‘Yes, you’re attractive, I’m sorry I cannot go with you.’ As a joke, that was for fun. It’s all mental what you do. I knew that I could have done, I know that I could do.”

I could smell the animal on him. I asked my new hero what his favorite sex act was?

“I like all of them,” he said, his leonine head inclining toward me. “I have done it all. I have done it all in the right way and most of all, always with beautiful woman—beginning with my wife.”

“No, no, no,” interrupted Mr. Maccioni’s biographer, Peter Elliot, who was standing nearby. “Ending with your wife.”

It was that kind of night. What was I doing there, anyway? I had, like, five bucks to my name, and here I was, at a fancy restaurant, when, to me, food just means Burrrrp! Pffffft! Plop! Flush! But sex still works when I can get it (twice a month max, thanks to the economy).

Well, I was just doin’ my job. The whiskey was sloshing inside but I was still nervous approaching socialite Debbie Bancroft, whom I’ve always wanted to spoon. I wagered a question: We all know New York men have gone flaccid; how can New York City women get these men back to old-school boning?

“I think if the women were less selfish, and less involved in things they can acquire, they might actually pay more attention to the man they’re with,” she said. “So this may all just jibe beautifully with the recession: No money, no shopping, so look at who you’re with, talk to him.”

What does she like better, food or fucking?

“Can I put a martini first, then food? Then fucking.” She said the word as if it had four syllables; my tape recorder was inches from her lips. I asked what was the best dish she ever had at Le Cirque?

“Foie gras ravioli.”

Favorite sex act?

“Are you serious? Holding hands. Nicole, here’s your wine glass.”

Nicole Miller, the glamorous fashion designer, was before me, looking sultry and in the mood.

“Food or fucking?” I blurted, spilling whiskey on my khakis.

“Oh my gawd,” she said. “I’m happy to have both.”

She talked about the time Mario Maccioni, one of Sirio’s three pretty sons, brought her bread crusts with lard and white truffle shavings—on the house! Zounds!

Her favorite sex act?

“Kissing.”

Blech!

I grabbed another free Johnnie Walker Red. Over by the bar was comic actor Robert Wuhl. Dude’s been married to the same woman for 25 years. His favorite sex act?

“Getting some. Any. I just said I’ve been married for 25 years.”

Over by the buffet was Monica Crowley, the foxy Fox commentator. For the record, I have thought about her sexually.

She likes pasta. Her favorite sexual position? No dice.

During a recession: sex or food?

“Sex, because it doesn’t cost anything most of the time,” she said.

Eeegads! I did not want to think about this nice girl paying for a bone dance. So I moved on: What did she make of the fact that New York men are just whacking it to Internet porn?

“I think that holds true as long as the Internet porn is free and it’s not a pay site,” said Ms. Crowley. How can New York women get these limp cheapskates boning again?

“A visit to La Perla to replenish that top drawer,” she said. “It’s not socks, George.”

Favorite sex act?

“A great, passionate kiss.”

While in the missionary position?

“A great passionate kiss on the mouth—where the kiss moves to the back of the neck.”

Ms. Crowley caught me checking out her outfit: Ralph Lauren vintage silk wrap, Armani pants and Jimmy Choo black leather boots.

“And La Perla underneath, from the top drawer,” she purred.

Holy moly!

I was saved by Vanity Fair writer George Wayne.

“Fucking always works, honey,” he told me. He was wearing Oliver Peoples shades, Calvin Klein bespoke suit and Valentino pumps. He smelled like a saddle.  How can women get N.Y.C. men boning again?

“Put a half a Viagra in the mojito. Get a push-up bra, a nice pair of hot pants and no underwear.”

Did he think Internet porn was ruining sex lives?

“I just discovered Internet porn and I didn’t know what I was missing.  Before I go to bed, I have a good wank.”

Mauro Maccioni, another of Sirio’s strapping sons, told me his favorite food at Le Cirque was: His wife! And then the crème brûlée. He said he’d had sex in the private room upstairs at one of the family’s other restaurants—Le Cirque 2000. His favorite sex act is smearing crème brûlée over his testicles and then presenting them to his wife.

I nabbed Mr. Elliot, Sirio’s biographer, and asked him if there’s much boom-boom in his biography of the great man,

“The woman in question, his wife, is right there,” he said, swiveling his eyes. “There were lots of allusions in my book to the beautiful women who love Sirio and Sirio loves—but he always goes home. Because you know what, she’d fricking kill you with a pan. If Egidiana ever thought that her husband was ever actually really fucking around on her, she has a frying pan like this.”

KA-BON-N-N-N-N-GGGGG!

Everywhere I looked were yummy MILF-y women but one really stood out with her mink hat and sable coat. She was Sonja Morgan, a film producer whose 8-year-old daughter’s great-great-great-grandfather was J. P. Morgan. Ms. Morgan said she’s a good friend of Sirio’s. (“He always guests me, I never pay.”)  I asked her her favorite sex act.

“Kissing.”

Oh man!

I asked her how to get New York’s limp men to step up.

“Do not mention the stock market, do not mention shopping and don’t wear underwear.”

I asked if kissing really was the summit.

“Let’s just put it this way,” she said, sweeping up her fur coat and turning around. “I have the most amazing ass.”

Artist Brian Farrell was by the buffet. With his shaved head he resembled actor Billy Zane but much better-looking. Wildest sex he’s had this year?

“Three girls,” he said. “I wasn’t involved, but watching. It was a friend’s birthday party. By 12:30 a.m. I was being dragged out the door by three women, thrown into a cab. ‘You’re going to watch us all fuck each other.’ They wanted me to sit in a chair. Wasn’t allowed to touch ’em. One was 19, she’s a model. The other was 22, a model—so to speak—and the other was in her early 40’s, an Upper East Side socialite. Socialites are the worst. They’re dirty. They love it. They get in there.”

He said he also loves the monkfish at Le Cirque.

ggurley@observer.com