Anne Hathaway, Reynold Levy, Audra McDonald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was obviously my favorite,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha Stewart would be proud.

Natalie Ross and Michelle-Marie Heinemann.

On the first Wednesday in May, a rather large tent pops up behind the Vanderbilt Gate on Fifth Avenue between 104th and 105th Streets with the sole purpose of shielding the over-the-top headgear of 1,300 ladies who lunch, a handful of men and one Martha Stewart from the elements as they duke it out for millinery supremacy at the Frederick Law Olmsted Awards Luncheon—or, as anybody who’s anybody calls it, The Hat Luncheon. At this year’s event, the tent proved unnecessary, as honorees Jenny and John Paulson had pledged a cool $100 million to The Conservancy Fund, the exact dollar figure necessary to ensure perfect weather.

Arriving on the scene, the Transom quickly sussed out an early front-runner in the hat arms race: Carole McDermott, a sprightly darling decked out in heritage pearls and a Chanel suit. She skipped the small-time weaponry and went straight for the nuclear option with a towering scale replica of Central Park strapped to her dome, complete with an adoptable bench.

“I have every year gone a bit bigger, and I’ve never once regretted it,” said Ms. McDermott, who stands at 5-foot-3 sans heels but checked in at close to 7 feet with her choice chapeau, which she said took an estimated three months to put together.

We then found the gorgeous Lizzie Tisch standing contrapposto, surrounded by an iPhoned throng. She was wearing an anatomically correct garden snake made entirely from mother-of-pearl. The “hat” was apparently the handiwork of Aaron Keppel, an artist who, Ms. Tisch was quick to note, is not to be confused with “your grandmother’s milliner,” a sentiment echoed by gal pal Amy Fine Collins, who was wearing a snow-white barn owl on her forehead, precariously perched.

“He’s just the most incredible artist. Look at the detail—the wings were made from tearing up thick stock paper and putting it back together,” Ms. Fine Collins said of Mr. Keppel’s handiwork. “The eyes! Look at the eyes! They’re perfect replicas of the real thing. He even constructs them as they would be found in nature. Breathtaking.”

The Transom had only a moment to acknowledge the breathtakingness of the owl peering over her forehead before Ms. Tisch and Ms. Fine Collins continued almost in unison: “Our park is truly our city’s greatest gift. What better way to tip our hat to it than to literally tip our hats to it?”

Making our way into the tent for lunch, we found Gillian Miniter, former president of the Conservancy’s women’s committee, wearing a fluorescent firecracker above her head. We asked her about the logistics of something so delightfully impractical.

“The real art is getting past your doorman in one of these things without him making some slick remark,” she said, gesturing toward the large group of gathered women who would help raise $3.3 million while nibbling on avocado lobster salad. “People fly in from around the world for this lunch,” she continued. “People slave for months getting their hats ready; people open their checkbooks and really have a chance to make a lasting gesture to the city they love. One hundred percent of the money raised here will go to park programs and initiatives, and I think that’s just great.”

As we eventually teetered out of the tent after one too many white wines, clutching a Tiffany tote bag (the perfect Mother’s Day re-gift) stuffed with Estée Lauder’s finest, the Transom had a hard time disagreeing.

Martha Stewart.

Help feed New York’s hungry and dine with entertaining mogul Martha Stewart at City Harvest’s Ninth Annual “On Your Plate Luncheon.” Ms. Stewart is the guest speaker (no word yet on whether she will offer brownie-baking tips), and co-chairs include Gillian Miniter and Topsy Taylor. Society columnist David Patrick Columbia of the website New York Social Diary is the honorary chair, and City Harvest’s vice president of external relations, Patricia Barrick, who is retiring this year, will be honored.

The Metropolitan Club, 1 East 60th Street, (212) 838-7400, 12pm-2pm, individual tickets from $375, tables from $5,000.

Jake Gyllenhaal.

As a booming, disembodied voice told guests at Edible Schoolyard NYC’s inaugural spring benefit to take their seats for dinner Monday night, the Transom learned that honoree Jake Gyllenhaal doesn’t have a favorite food—let alone a least favorite. “Seriously, it’s one of the areas of my life where I hold everything with love and no judgment,” said the actor. “Anything that is fresh from a garden is my favorite food.”

Mr. Gyllenhaal’s mother, screenwriter Naomi Foner Gyllenhaal, corroborated his story. Apparently he didn’t even object to broccoli as a kid: “He was very adventurous, and always, from the time he was really little, a spectacular cook,” she said proudly.

Even the pickiest eaters, however, couldn’t find much to complain about at the gala dinner, held in the Essex Market on the Lower East Side. Edible Schoolyard, which brings gardens and kitchen classrooms to New York schools, treated approximately 360 guests to multi-course meals designed and prepared by 20 of the city’s premier chefs.

The foodie dream team included David Chang, the chef and founder of Momofuku and the organization’s culinary chair, Michael Anthony of Gramercy Tavern, Joel Harrington of Red Rooster Harlem and Einat Admony of Balaboosta.

A further summons finally lured the crowd—which included Michael Bloomberg, Martha Stewart, actress Abigail Spencer and Jenna Lyons—into the dining space. The glamorous guests were a striking set against the rugged industrial room, formerly a meat market.

Table No. 9, where the Transom settled in next to Edible Schoolyard director Kate Brashares, was treated to a five-course feast crafted by Danny Bowien, the chef and co-founder of Mission Chinese Food. Mr. Bowien, a jovial young man with dyed green hair and tattooed arms, served slippery warm egg custard with Peking duck, green apple and citron tea to start. It only got better from there, as live spot prawns and sweetbreads, slow-cooked prime rib with hot mustard and marrow vinaigrette gave way to brûléed soy milk served with black vinegar and mitsuba.

An auction began around 9 p.m., led by James Niven of Sotheby’s. The bidding was at its fiercest when Lot 7, a private pig roast for 40, courtesy of award-winning chef and owner of The Spotted Pig April Bloomfield, flashed upon the screen. An elegant woman with bobbed blond hair whispered instructions in an attendant’s ear. Each time the lot seemed set to sell and was going once, going twice, the proxy would flash a white napkin and the battle was back on. The tenacious bidder, who proved to be fashion designer and board member Lela Rose, was prepared to pay $48,000 for the meal, but just as it seemed settled, Mr. Niven announced that if another guest was willing to part with $47,000, he could sell it to both Ms. Rose and the second bidder. (The idea was apparently Martha Stewart’s.)

Another bidder volunteered, and so two guests went home with tickets to another feast.

Young families have been moving to the suburbs for as long as there have been young families and suburbs. That many of the young families moving to New York suburbs should be Brooklynites, and that many of them should fancy themselves "creative types" and that they, like their parents and grandparents before them, should believe themselves capable of bringing their superior sensibilities to the land of compromises and comfort should come as no surprise. See: Revolutionary Road.

And yet, the New York Times has seen fit to print yet another style section feature on the suburban exodus of Brooklynites called, what else, "Creating Hipsturbia." After all, "Williamsburg on the Hudson" ran way back in August 2011.

What seems to be entirely lost on these suburban pioneers (and The Times) is that despite their tattoos and their gluten-free baked goods and their farm-to-table restaurants, they are following in the exact same footsteps as their forebearers. The creative types who have long condescended to settle in the small towns of the Hudson River Valley have always carried their tastes with them, along with the notion that they may be in the suburbs, but they are not of the suburbs.

This is the tragedy of the suburbs: they are populated, on the whole, by people who hate to think of themselves of suburban, who cannot stomach the idea that they have abandoned the promises of the city for the comforts of the hinterland. The kinds of people who like to think they are above those comforts—the cars, the lawns, the bigger, cheaper houses—even as they partake of them. Frank and April Wheeler, for all their pretensions and talk of Paris, are not the exceptions, they are the archetypes.

The Times is so busy looking at the surface of things that they fail to see the substance. The style signifiers sprinkled so conspicuously throughout the article—the Fernet Branca cocktails with clever names, the haute donuts covered in maple bacon, the artist who wears his hair in a top bun and "bears tattoos with his sons' names, Denim and Bowie, on his forearms"—are meaningless. The Brooklyn "brand"—so easily recognizable that we all understand what "six-person-minimum whole-pig dinners" and bars "festooned with Edison bulbs" connote—is an aesthetic and lifestyle sensibility that has already proven itself infinitely adaptable to any number of geographic settings.

Indeed, the Brooklyn aesthetic is so ubiquitous and slavishly adhered to that it displays all the suburban hallmarks that we love to deride. The conformity, the dull sameness, the utter lack of imagination. In his excellent 2005 essay I hate Brooklyn Jonathan Van Meter quotes one of his friends on Williamsburg: "It’s not that I don’t like the culturati hipsters, but the last time I was in an environment where people only wanted to be with people exactly like themselves was in a fucking mall in Minnesota, which is why I left there twenty years ago."

As Inga Saffron writes in The New Republic, the real problem with gentrification is that it drives out economic, racial and generational diversity, leaving a bland monoculture in its wake. Brooklyn is filled with hundreds of independent businesses so identical to one another that they may as well be chains. Farm-to-table restaurants and are the new Applebees and felted wool antlers are the new Thomas Kinkades.

More to the point, these "hipster" newcomers want the same things that everyone moving to the suburbs has ever wanted: more space for less money, better schools, a slower pace of life. They have young children, they have not become the artists or dancers or musicians they had hoped to become, they have reached the age when they no longer believe that they will, and they do not find the sacrifices demanded by city life worthwhile anymore.

That these young families are being pushed from the city by affluence, rather than poverty, is something worth exploring. The growing impossibility of maintaining anything resembling a middle-class existence in an increasingly upper-class city is a real and pressing problem. But the fresh-faced suburbanites interviewed for the article tell an age-old tale.

Williamsburg roof parties thumping at 3 a.m. were not compatible with raising two young children. The gifted and talented program at the local public school was not up to snuff. Williamsburg no longer seemed central to the life they were living or wanted to lead. They were looking for a more peaceful environment, the country life not far from the city. The suburbs afforded more space to pursue the hobbies so central to the Brooklyn D.I.Y movement.

Brooklyn, with its brownstones and backyards and leafy streets, has long been a proto-suburb for Manhattanites. That those who embraced the lower-density and less frenetic streets of Brooklyn should be drawn to suburban life is not surprising.

"To abandon the idea of Brooklyn is to admit that a certain idea of Brooklyn has died, or that they are no longer part of it," the article claims. On the contrary, rather than stifling one's ability to lead a "Brooklyn life," the suburbs are an ideal place for a culture that glorifies domesticity and revels in homemaking, in baking and butchering and knitting and soapmaking and quilting and letterpressing. The Brooklyn ideal is not the urban careerist, but the rural crafter. The most hardcore Brooklynites are the ones who never really wanted to be in the city in the first place.

As one formerly-urban soap maker who now enjoys "pajama jams" in her basement music studio tells The Times: "We keep to ourselves a lot more, keep to our hobbies a lot more, which for creative types is great."

Honestly, what better way to enhance the insular qualities so particular to the Brooklyn brand, to nurture the inward-looking, self-reflective culture, than to shut out all the noise and messiness of urban life?

It's all come full circle, a development augured when Martha Stewart, the homemaking doyenne of the 'burbs, became the patron saint of the Brooklyn craft crowd. The return to the suburbs—where many of the Brooklyn hipsters came from in the first place—is not a really a reverse migration. It's a homecoming.

kvelsey@observer.com

Sting and Trudie Styler

Who can say no to a “Skype introduction” by mogul of all things Richard Branson and a host committee that includes Lauren Bush Lauren, Martha Stewart and Tommy Hilfiger? And did we mention that Sting, his wife Trudie Styler and photographer Bruce Weber (hopefully with shirtless male models in tow) are the honorary hosts? It’s all for National Geographic’s film Battle for the Elephants, written, produced and directed by John Heminway. There is a discussion after the heavy film with investigative reporter Bryan Christy, but what we want to investigate is that whole tantric sex thing that Sting and Trudie have mastered. We love elephants (they’re lucky, right?), but a little Sex 101 from Sting would really make our night.

The Explorers Club, 46 East 70th Street, (212) 628-8383; 7pm, by invite only (PR powerhouse Peggy Siegal is in charge).

Photo illo: Ed Johnson

When Rajat Gupta was sentenced to two years in prison last Wednesday, the government finally nailed to the wall the largest scalp it has taken to date in its multiyear investigation of rampant insider trading on Wall Street. He wasn’t the richest—that would be erstwhile hedge fund manager Raj Rajaratnam, the man to whom Mr. Gupta was convicted of passing confidential information he learned while serving on the boards of Goldman Sachs and Procter & Gamble. But he’s certainly the highest-profile person to be convicted of such charges since everybody’s favorite reprobate homemaker, Martha Stewart. Like Ms. Stewart, Mr. Gupta got off easy—two years instead of the eight to 10 that the government had asked for. But that’s the way the world works, people. Get used to it.

Mr. Gupta plans to appeal, of course. Which is one reason why his statement before U.S. District Judge Jed Rakoff was so predictably aggravating: he expressed remorse—albeit only for the effect the trial has had on those close to him—and declined to make any admission of guilt. It was the classic, “I’m sorry if what I said offended you,” non-apology apology. No matter. Like my longtime nemesis Conrad Black—the disgraced former newspaper mogul who served two years for fraud yet still feels compelled to absurdly proclaim his innocence every chance he gets—no one really gives a damn, or believes a word he says. They both broke the law and were convicted for their crimes. Period.

There is a legal wrinkle that might get Mr. Gupta off somewhere down the road, in what will surely be a lengthy appeals process: the fact that he didn’t seem to benefit financially from his insider dealings. But again, that’s one for the lawyers to argue about. In the court of public opinion, the man is a criminal. Case closed. In this non-lawyer’s humble opinion, his failure to profit doesn’t make him innocent—it just makes him stupid in addition to being unscrupulous. I wonder what it must feel like to be one of the only people to get punished for committing a financial crime in recent years. For a man who has spent his life as part of the global elite, now to be seen as nothing but a common criminal must be a profoundly humbling experience. That’s the thing about prominent people committing common crimes; strip away their expensive lawyers and their bluster, and it all just seems so ... pedestrian.

And what a steep fall it has been. Mr. Gupta’s was a singular career—he was one of the most prominent India-born chief executives of a major international concern—McKinsey & Co., which he ran between 1994 and 2003. (He left the building in 2007.) And in subsequent years, he was a giant in the world of philanthropy. But as this whole ordeal has shown, his is actually the same story we’ve heard a million times before. In fact, the broad strokes of Mr. Gupta’s case are eerily familiar in more ways than one.

The Conrad Black Effect

The loquacious Mr. Black was convicted of defrauding the shareholders of Hollinger International, a company over which he had almost absolute control. If all he needed was a few extra bucks, the man could have just given himself a raise. Instead, like an idiot, he chose to break the law. But stupidity is no defense for wrongdoing. Indeed, it is its constant companion. The same goes for Mr. Gupta: While he wisely refrained from emailing his partner in crime, thereby distinguishing himself from an even dumber cohort of modern-day Wall Street criminals, he did phone him literally seconds after telephonic board meetings of Goldman Sachs to spill the beans about confidential earnings reports and other news. What ever happened to the old meeting on a park bench? Don’t these boneheads watch Homeland? You should have just put an “X” in white chalk on the lamppost, Rajat. Maybe next time.

The Reverse Lance Armstrong Effect

In the lead-up to his sentencing, Mr. Gupta’s team somehow convinced his friends in both business and philanthropy to write letters to the court on behalf of the fallen corporate consigliere. He even managed to get Bill Gates to send over a statement of support, although Mr. Gates wisely avoided comment on the case itself and merely pointed out Mr. Gupta’s important work for the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. There’s no arguing about the good that Mr. Gupta has done, including being a founder and chairman of the board of The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis, and Malaria. And we should thank him for that. But it doesn’t change the fact of his crimes.

Lance Armstrong’s defenders pursued a similarly desperate line of argument when the final nail went into that cheater’s inner tube. “Look at all the good he has done!” they said, as if having used his ill-gotten fame and fortune to fight cancer canceled out the bad acts that brought him to prominence. You might be able to convince me to buy that logic if Lance had given all his own money away. But he hasn’t—one recent report estimated his net worth in excess of $125 million. So no, Lance, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a lifelong cheater and a bullier of your teammates.

If I knock over a bank and give half the money away, does it absolve me of guilt for keeping the other half? Of course not. And while Mr. Gupta surely is, as Judge Rakoff pointed out, an otherwise good guy who did a very bad thing—thus differentiating him from Mr. Armstrong, who seems to have been a very bad guy who went on to do good—the point is the same. You don’t get to stack all your benevolent deeds up on one side of the scales of justice to try to counter the weight of your crimes. It’s a different goddamn scale. Maybe Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Gupta are still getting into heaven for all their good works—you won’t find me blocking their way—but before Mr. Gupta steps through the pearly gates, he has at least got to pass through another set of gates, those protecting a medium security prison in Otisville, N.Y.

The Martha Stewart Effect

During the trial, one popular gripe was that that the government was going after Mr. Gupta because of his high profile. That’s the same gambit that Martha Stewart’s lawyers tried when she got caught with her hand in the insider trading homemade double-chunk macadamia cookie jar. God, that’s a tiresome one. Let’s be honest here—there are different rules for the rich and the poor in this country. But nothing sows the seeds of contempt more than the “You’re just targeting me because I’m so successful” defense. Having spent some time talking to U.S. Attorney Preet Bharara about the Rajaratnam and Gupta cases, I can tell you exactly why he targeted those prosecutions: Because he had the goods on them. The government prefers to bring cases it can win. Mr. Gupta was charged, in other words, not because he was famous, but because through his own illegal actions he handed Mr. Bharara and his team an airtight case.

The Goldman Sachs Effect (a k a The McKinsey Effect)

Defending himself against the criticism that his headlines overpromised, the former editor of Money magazine, Frank Lalli, famously retorted, “What’s a headline? It’s a shouted message down a crowded bar.” The point was that we all know that editors use headlines to grab our attention—that’s why they’re so big—and there was no crime in a little hype. (A long-time Money staple: Retire Rich!) Much of the media has eagerlymentioned Goldman in the headlines of all its Gupta stories because … well, you know. Because that’s the kind of thing that moves product. While I am not usually in the business of making apologies for Goldman, this is one instance in which the bank was unfairly tied to a case it actually had nothing to do with. In fact, in this case, Goldman was a victim. The best part? Mr. Gupta is objecting to Goldman’s bid for reimbursement of the legal fees (and the cost of an internal investigation) it was obliged to cover due to his crimes. What an asshole.

The same goes for McKinsey & Company. While there’s an argument to be made that Mr. Gupta damaged that institution severely when he was running the joint—you can read more about that in my history of the company, The Firm, due out in August—it’s totally wrongheaded to suggest that McKinsey’s reputation ought to suffer for actions he took years after leaving the company. He’d been gone since 2007, after all, and his offenses had nothing whatsoever to do with McKinsey. Alas, the same can’t be said for the misdeeds of Mr. Gupta’s old McKinsey colleague, Anil Kumar, who pleaded guilty in this same investigation. He sold McKinsey client secrets out the back door. You can be sure McKinsey has locked said door and thrown away the key. Point being, while it’s hard to marshal sympathy for either Goldman or McKinsey—quite possibly the two most arrogant and self-satisfied professional services entities on the planet—in this case, we need to give them both a pass.

The Deterrent Effect (a k a Money, Money, Money)

In addition to his jail time, Mr. Gupta was fined $5 million by the court. He’ll appeal that, too. But kudos to Judge Rakoff for bringing the punitive hammer down. Hopefully the fine will put the fear of God into other insider trading punters on Wall Street who have correctly concluded—up until this point, at least—that even if they’re caught, their punishments will be embarrassingly mild. Hit them where it counts—in the pocketbook containing the money they all worship so dearly—and the message might actually be heard. Rajat Gupta is certainly hearing it loud and clear.

editorial@observer.com

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.

Gael Towey, the Chief Integration and Creative Officer of Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia, hosted a cocktail party last night to kick-off American Made, a week-long event where Martha Stewart honors 15 small, American businesses that make pretty things and delicious food.

An army of well-dressed Martha employees took our wrinkled and soggy  trench coat upon arriving at the West Village townhouse that Ms. Towey shares with Stephen Doyle, her designer husband. We were given a  name tag written in calligraphy by Mr. Doyle and directed to the bar. We stopped on the way to talk cheese plates with an editorial assistant. 

Ms. Towey pointed to a  lush backyard where her friends had been married over the summer. Taxidermy in glass boxes lined the walls of the ground floor and original molding decorated the ceiling. There were DIY touches like candle holders hanging in the window and seasonally appropriate gourds scattered purposefully. Peonies stood in large vases on the mantel. Like Mrs. Dalloway, Ms. Towey had bought the flowers herself that morning. It was all very Martha.

We were busy plotting ways to befriend Ms. Towey in the event of a hypothetical wedding when we saw Ms. Stewart stroll in, wearing a drape-y white sweater (she had just come from officiating a wedding as part of a wedding week event).

Ms. Stewart  toasted the small business honorees that make everything from “gluten-free products to cast iron skillets.” Ms. Stewart couldn't stay long--she was due on Piers Morgan.

At Ms. Towey’s urging, we headed upstairs to explore.  Mr. Doyle stood opposite the spacious kitchen, which bustled with caterers turning out small bowls of mac and cheese and deviled quail eggs covered in wasabi caviar. We admired Mr. Doyle’s three-dimensional sculptures made out of books. He described these as text-o-dermy.

Finally, on the third floor, we saw some jeans hanging to dry and an umbrella in the corner, propped next to a fire extinguisher. We were momentarily comforted by the evidence that we were not, in fact, in a magazine.

Cindy Sherman. (Adriel Reboh/Patrick McMullan)

“Look who it is: it’s Edwina, the Edwina,” Isaac Mizrahi exclaimed to The Observer this past Saturday, as he approached Edwina von Gal, the designer who, Ross Bleckner told us, “did the landscaping at my house in Sagaponack.”

We were at Cindy Sherman’s new East Hampton home at a benefit for the Azuero Earth Project, the Panama-based ecological nonprofit of which Ms. von Gal is president. It was a cozy beginning-of-the-end to the Hamptons summer season. Guests sat on benches under a white tent to eat empanadas and watch performances by Suzanne Vega, Rufus Wainwright, Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed. Children climbed into pendulous bamboo cocoons, stuffed with pillows, that swayed from the trees.

“I live just up the road,” Ms. Vega, who had been asked at the last minute to replace Rubén Blades, told us. “I originally came as a guest of Laurie’s, and I thought I was going to see Rubén Blades!” Wearing a top hat—a “tip of the hat to Marlene Dietrich”—Ms. Vega performed “Marlene on the Wall” and “Gypsy,” written when she was a “folk-singing and disco-dancing counselor” at a summer camp in the Adirondacks. She had M.C. Bob Balaban serve as an impromptu music stand, holding a handwritten lyric sheet for a new Dylan-inspired number about the tarot’s Queen of Pentacles.

“I probably shouldn’t have kissed her,” Mr. Balaban confided to us afterward. “It’s rude to kiss somebody you’ve just met.” Mr. Balaban told us about his upcoming appearance as Lena Dunham’s psychiatrist on Girls, and recommended we visit Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner’s former home down the road. “It’s just a little hut,” he explained. “They didn’t have any money.” (We read that Ms. Sherman paid $4.65 million for her estate, though we weren’t invited inside.)

Gorgeous in two shades of blue mufti (a baby blue wrap over a navy dress), the chameleonic Ms. Sherman told us that though she had just moved in a month ago, “There’s just a few little things that need to be tweaked, but I’m pretty settled.” Was this party a little housewarming, then? “A big housewarming,” she corrected us. Ms. Sherman also talked about transplanting her career retrospective from New York’s Museum of Modern Art to San Francisco’s MOMA, where it’s currently on view. “The space is different; it was hard to edit out some of the work.”

We watched Gina Gershon and Martha Stewart, both in pre-Labor Day white, run around taking pictures, and stood by as Mr. Mizrahi introduced Mr. Bleckner to his husband, Arnold Germer.

“We’re married, you know,” said Mr. Mizrahi.

“I didn’t know!” Mr. Bleckner replied

“Now we’re moving in together,” Mr. Germer went on.

“That’s exactly what married people do!” Mr. Bleckner pointed out. “Usually it’s the step before, but I guess you’re playing it safe.”

Messrs. Germer and Mizrahi (whose bandana matched that of Bruce Weber, also in attendance) weren’t the only couple at the party to have taken advantage of New York’s new same-sex marriage laws. David Maupin and Stefano Tonchi brought their twin girls, Maura and Isabella.

We asked Mr. Tonchi about changes at The New York Times’s T Magazine, which he left two years ago to edit W, specifically about the recent departure of his successor, Sally Singer. “Oh, please. Old news,” Mr. Tonchi answered summarily.

Mr. Wainwright brought his husband, Jörn Weisbrodt, whom he had married the week prior. He opened his performance with what he called a “really Hamptons-y song about a bored housewife ... which I have become. Love it!” Later, he sang about his own Hamptons domesticity in “Montauk”: “This next song is about my daughter, Viva Katherine Wainwright Cohen, and also my incredible new husband, Jörn Weis-” he caught himself and laughed. “Jörn Wainwright. Or Rufus Weisbrodt, however you do it. In fact, his name is Weisbrodt, which means ‘white bread’ in German, and what is it, there’s something about a honeymoon? In Dutch, a honeymoon is called a ‘white bread,’ white bread weeks. You can get fat, basically, now that you’re married.”

Lou Reed, married for four years but with his wife for a decade prior, came off a little less enchanted. “Are you done? Jesus. And we’re related,” Mr. Reed muttered jokingly, as Laurie Anderson plugged in her violin next to him, generating a loud electronic buzz.

“I would cut my legs and tits off/When I think of Boris Karloff,” Mr. Reed sang, in a song from last year’s much-maligned Metallica collaboration Lulu. He next performed a monologue in the voice of his mentor Andy Warhol: “Lou Reed got married and didn’t invite me ... you know I hate Lou, I really do.”

Ms. Anderson performed a monologue of her own, about observing the Amish in Western Pennsylvania—“Gee, I wonder what it’s like to live that way,” she mused—which nearly cleared the tent, though her political criticism drew some laughs. “Ever since hearing Clint Eastwood talk about optimism the other night at the Republican Convention,” Ms. Anderson narrated, her voice electronically shifted several octaves down, accompanied by slow synth chords, “I actually became extremely pessimistic about the future. I mean, look at the odds for a second. You have more chance of getting hit and killed in a car crash than dying in a plane crash.” (Here, she lost us again.)

As the wind off of Accabanac Harbor picked up (“I’m getting the best hairdo of my life thanks to this body of water,” Mr. Wainwright joked), guests began to wrap their shoulders in complimentary green picnic blankets.

Patrizia Pinzon, visiting from Panama, bemoaned the absence of Mr. Blades, the one Panamanian who had been scheduled to perform. “Everybody’s here, but they don’t know what it’s about.”