Kelly Ripa and hubby Mark Consuelos gettin' frisky!

Given that it was our second evening in a row at Cipriani's – albeit at the midtown franchise on this occasion – our usual penchant for the venue had been dampened somewhat, and the inclement weather certainly wasn’t helping. But the UNICEF Snowflake Ball managed to turn our well plucked frowns upside down in a glittering evening of philanthropic revelry, with celebrities in a multitude of fields pitching in to lend a hand. The sumptuous menu was designed by revered chefs; the entertainment led by a veritable swing legend, and the auction prizes donated by some of America’s hottest talent. It is fair to say that UNICEF, like the bartenders, got the mix just right.

Katy Perry was the evening’s surprise A-List attendee, swishing through the foyer’s revolving doors in a fishtail dress designed by another of the evening’s guests, Naeem Khan. The couturier’s wife, jewelry designer Ranjana Khan, recently ventured into reality TV land with several appearances on The Real Housewives of New York and was quick to dispel her involvement with any of the cattiness the show has become famed for.

“Being on RHONY was fun, but I didn’t get caught up in the drama,” she told The Observer on the red carpet. “My friend Carole [Radziwill] wanted me to be involved with the last season, and she’s returning for the next one, so I know she might want me to do something again.” Did Mrs. Khan just let an inside secret slip, perchance? Ms. Radziwill is yet to officially confirm her involvement with season six, but you heard it here straight from the jeweler’s mouth. The Observer 1, RHONY 0.

Indeed, spilling secrets seemed to be a trend throughout the evening, with Manhattan’s favorite crooner Tony Bennett revealing: “Lady Gaga called me last night from Peru. She wants to do an album together and we’re going to do it, just me and Gaga. It’s going to be a big swinging album with a big hot band.” Well, perhaps it wasn’t quite the juicy nugget we initially imagined, given that Mr. Bennett has been quoted as saying that the "Poker Face" singer called him the previous night from New Zealand with the idea for a collaborative record. That quote happened three months ago.

Given that Mr. Bennett is at the ripe old age of 86 and still put on a glorious show – some of which was without a microphone – we’ll forgive this little slip. But please be more careful next time, Tony, when toying with our Gaga-fueled emotions.

From genuine secrets to recycled ones, there was one couple on the red carpet who weren’t attempting to hide a thing – step forward Kelly Ripa and Mark Consuelos. The fruity pair didn’t miss a beat when volunteering to talk about their ahem, romantic interludes, with Ms. Ripa divulging: “We have an Indonesian holiday themed bedroom, and a bed from Bali. Which may or may not have broken once.” Quick, somebody call Poirot, we’ve got a cryptic case of too much information on our hands.

After the duo’s domino effect of smut polluted The Observer’s innocent mind, we went in search of some good clean fun at our table, where we dined with the chefs who put the menu together. Best-selling author and UNICEF ambassador of 12 years Marcus Samuelsson had drafted in help from fellow restaurateurs Michael Anthony and Marc Murphy, who co-created a meal trumped in deliciousness only by their company. As they wined and dined us with a feast of truffle lobster salad and Wagyu steak, the flavors of the food were perfectly enhanced by the Wynton Marsalis Quintet, whose jazzy tunes rose to the very top of Cipriani’s lofty ceilings.

Just edging out the edibles in terms of success was the auction, which contributed to the event's staggering $2.5m raised for the very deserving charity. A backstage pass with Selena Gomez, who was decked out in a floor length Dolce & Gabbana number for the event, scooped two high bids of $20,000 apiece, contributing to the money raised by other high bidders on lots for Lady Gaga tickets and a day on the Knicks’ court as player Tyson Chandler’s personal guest. The guests were not left wanting when it came to an eclectic mix of goods, and spunky auctioneer Courtney Booth of Sotheby’s coaxed the cash from the crowd’s pockets with ease.

There was just time to honor Harry Belafonte before the evening came to a close, and he undoubtedly made a deserving recipient of the Audrey Hepburn Humanitarian Award for his commitment to the charity over the past quarter of a decade. With the audience on their feet as he took to the stage, the emotion in the room was palpable.

It was clear that UNICEF was close to the hearts of all of the evening’s attendees, including Uma Thurman and Téa Leoni, and as we slunk out of Cipriani’s once more, the prospect of returning didn’t seem quite such an imposition.

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.

Susan Benedetto and Tony Bennett. (Eugene Mim/Patrick McMullan)

Tony Bennett’s wasn’t the only gala dinner in Manhattan last Thursday, but that’s where Shindigger was, arriving at Cipriani 42nd Street for cocktail hour, just in time to catch a glimpse of Alec Baldwin. “Oh my God, he’s lost so much weight—I didn’t even recognize him!” we heard one guest whisper to another, eyeing the star who would kick off 30 Rock’s final season later that night. Mr. Baldwin’s wife, Hilaria Thomas, flaunted her Hebrew for the night’s honoree, entertainment lawyer Allen Grubman, before the couple headed off to the Norman Mailer Center benefit at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

Mr. Bennett, whose nonprofit Exploring the Arts operates in New York public schools, apparently lacked Ms. Thomas’s linguistic talent. Or so we learned when we asked the 86-year-old crooner, whose third Duets album pairs him with the likes of Marc Anthony and Gloria Estefan, about his Spanish. “No habla Español,” answered his 46-year-old wife, co-host and translator, Susan Benedetto. We changed the subject to Mr. Bennett’s next album, a recently announced full-length collaboration with Lady Gaga. “I know that she’s one of the great singers of all time, but people don’t know that,” Mr. Bennett explained. “They just see another, you know, big new star coming up, but she is one hell of a singer. She can improvise as great as Ella Fitzgerald.”

We stopped at the bar to take in the student artwork, alongside photographs of Mr. Bennett (himself a talented painter) with young dancers and musicians. A disembodied voice urged us to our table, where pink paintbrushes matched the flower arrangement. 

We watched Sting, unannounced, dedicate “Fields of Gold” to Mr. Grubman and his wife, Corcoran broker Deborah. “Allen Grubman and I have had a long relationship, over three decades,” the man born Gordon Sumner recalled. “A very mutually fruitful relationship. I once had a meeting with him, though, and I said, ‘Allen, explain this to me. You seem to be taking 20 percent of my money.’ He said, ‘Sting, let me sit you down. Look at it this way.’ I said, ‘How?’ He said, ‘You’re taking 80 percent of my money.’”

Sting continued with “Every Breath You Take,” drawing out a last “I’ll be waaaaatching you” to cheers and a standing ovation from table 27, before the Police bassist—who recorded the “The Boulevard of Broken Dreams” for Mr. Bennett’s first Duets album—split to the Children’s Health Fund benefit at Radio City.

With all these duets, we wondered why Mr. Bennett had left out the vocalist behind 1968’s It’s Time for Regis! We posed the question to Regis Philbin.

“’Cause I’m not that good, believe me!” replied the former talk show host.

We objected.

“Have you heard me sing? When did I sing? Come on, let’s hear it!”

Only a year ago, we reminded him, he and Mr. Bennett performed “The Best Is Yet to Come” on Live! With Regis and Kelly.

“You’re right. And that came out okay!

“I love you,” he announced, giving our right hand a squeeze.

Mistress of ceremonies Katie Couric had similar ideas. “Regis, I’m very sorry, Regis, but you didn’t make the cut. Has Tony talked to you about that?” Hey, that was our joke!

After the dessert plates were cleared, Barbara Walters introduced the Grubmans.

“I represent some of the greatest rock stars in the world,” said Mr. Grubman. “I’ve had two idols my entire life—singers: Tony, and of course Frank Sinatra,” who gave his name to the high school Mr. Bennett founded in his hometown of Astoria.

The evening’s host took the stage with his four-piece band. “Because of You” led into a triumphant “Maybe This Time” that brought the whole crowd to its feet. Earlier, we had asked Nancy Pelosi, who had flown overnight from Denver’s debate to a fund-raising lunch on the Upper East Side, what she wanted to hear Mr. Bennett sing. “Oh my gosh, I don’t know!” the House minority leader had answered. “San Francisco, inching toward the World Series, everyone wants him to sing ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco,’ but he’s not gonna sing that.” We hoped she was listening as Mr. Bennett launched into that tune—although we pity her beloved Giants, down two games to the Cincinatti Reds at press time.

Mr. Bennett introduced his next song: “George and Ira Gershwin wrote a song in 1934 that I consider the most contemporary song you could sing today.” His meaning became clear a few bars into “Who Cares,” as he dramatically covered his eyes when he got to the line “Let a million firms go under.” “There’s nothing like this right here,” the singer announced, and, hearing his unamplified voice fill the former Bowery Savings Bank with “Fly Me to the Moon,” we were inclined to agree.

jwolf@observer.com

Let's suppose that Rip Van Winkle has overslept really seriously this time-say 50 years instead of his usual 20-his wake-up question now would surely have to be "Where did all the music go?" Why, for instance, is nobody whistling anymore? Or trying to learn the words and sing the harmony of this week's hit on somebody else's car radio?

Well, maybe it's because one station seems to have a gardening show on it, and the next one a stock report, and would you believe "the evils of tobacco" on the third one? Has Father O'Mally been lying to us? Anyway, half the pedestrians seem to be talking into little telephones while the other half listens on little headsets.

It's almost enough to send a man back to bed for a while. But not quite, because if old Rip tottered through the right door, he would also find better copies of, say, Louis Armstrong records or Fred Astaire movies-which don't have to have those jumps and scratches after all-than he ever heard or saw in his last waking spell. And if he's very lucky, he might even find a book like Will Friedwald's that invests the old pop music with an intensity of description and analysis that would have seemed downright pretentious at the time. "After all, it's only the Hit Parade," one said-or just a little mazurka, or merely an unassuming polonaise. Intensity seems fine now.

Mr. Friedwald's game this time is to take biopsies of 12 standards and, by tracing each stage of life-from chancy childbirth to demo, promo and prime on stage, screen and wax-show how incredibly rich and varied the whole music business was back then. When I recently asked Cy Coleman how and when he knew he'd written a hit, he said crisply, "When Tony Bennett makes the record." Failing that, the song would presumably die unsung and leave no biography at all.

In the 1940's and 50's, lots of bands and singers could make your song a hit, but you might need all of them because there were so many other songs and records pouring onto the track, screaming for attention, that even the flops had biographies. And every recording session offered a shot at rebirth. Your baby could die this week as a fox trot and come back the next as a waltz or a rumba. Or how about trying a funny lyric this time? Or a few words in another language? ("C'est si bon beaucoup cherie," "Bella, bella.") When Tony Bennett sings it now, it's official-that's the way you sing it. But how do you choose even today among the 500-plus recordings that have been made so far of "Star Dust"? Split the difference? Moving right along with his 12 specimens, Mr. Friedwald still needs almost 400 pages to do them justice. How much space would you honestly need to describe the complete work-and nothing but the work-of the Jackson family? With Britney Spears thrown in?

Indeed, an honest book about the Jackson family might contain no music at all, just a mess of pictures and affidavits. Once you start mixing music with other stuff, the other stuff will inevitably take over because it's always easier to talk about and think about. And Mr. Friedwald's book, with its 12 songs that use among them exactly 12 notes, may seem positively austere if not monastic. But that is the price of the best. Once Elvis gave the public something to look at while listening-and not just at the movies, but in the bed and the tub and the other music rooms of home-America's raging love affair with melody began gradually to cool off, and the Golden Age was over.

Fortunately the gold is still out there, as sure as Beethoven, and an amazing amount of it is real. Gershwin, Porter and the boys were not hacks, and one could easily choose 12 other standards, and 20 more after that, and take just as long or longer over it.

In real life, for instance, the Rodgers & Hart song with the longest legs was probably "Blue Moon," which made it all the way into doo-wop, but who wants to write about that? A catchy tune with a parody commercial lyric-both men deserve better. So Mr. Friedwald does "My Funny Valentine" instead, which had no life to speak of at the time but one hell of an after-life. Contrariwise, Jerome Kern's all-time favorite by now is surely the incomparable "All the Things You Are," but "Ol' Man River" makes a better story.

One imagines amicable arguments between author and publisher over each title, because this makes great arguing music, and because Mr. Friedwald comes across as a good man to find on the next barstool, with a nice sense of when he's boring you and when he isn't, and of fine points like exactly how much cold water to dump on received legends without killing them outright. Thus "Star Dust" may have come to Hoagy Carmichael in a single take as he gazed down a real country lane. But there's evidence he'd already done some work on it, and composers do tend to remember things funny. W.C. Handy may have patched "St. Louis Blues" together from folk sources, but Handy was such a snob that he might actually have spread this rumor himself: better to be a scholar of folklore than a lowlife, in his book.

Ideally, our mythical bar should come with a piano, so the author can jump down and play a few chords here by way of illustration (in other words, you need to know basic notation to enjoy this). Otherwise just belly up to the book again and listen to the stories.

The great Kurt Weill spent half his life vainly trying to catch a truly American sound, without ever knowing that he'd already caught one before he left Berlin. At any rate, "Mack the Knife" sure sounds American by now. And the pure dumb luck award undoubtedly goes to Herman Hupfeld's "As Time Goes By." To wit: A minor playwright sticks an old song in a minor play and sells it to the movies. No big deal-the movies were buying seed catalogs back then. But then the miracles start coming. The movie actually gets made. The writer insists on the particular song being kept. Unforgettable dialogue arrives via the Tooth Fairy and once-in-a-lifetime performances are turned in by the usual suspects, and you know the rest.

"Joe, I know you're getting anxious to close." Even mythical bartenders go to bed earlier these days, and tonight's specimen is not just anxious but already closing-it seems some world leader is going on Letterman shortly, and Joe still has 100 exercise units to account for-so you'd better talk fast, mister.

O.K., do you know the one about "Body and Soul"? Johnny Green is this whiz kid who graduates from Horace Mann at 15, Harvard at 19, economics major. And then he writes this incredibly passionate song strictly by the numbers. So here's my question: Is musical feeling basically just a function of technique? Don't try it on your own computer, huh? Maybe eggheads have feelings after all. O.K., O.K.

With no new music worth staying up for, or the lure of a last cigarette and then another, even the Broadway Babies are home by now getting their beauty sleep, and there often is "no one in the place" long before "a quarter to three."

But if Rip Van Winkle is anywhere in earshot, he at least is wide awake by now. And believe me, I know.

Wilfrid Sheed is still at work on a book about the great American songwriters of the piano era.

Recently, the son of Rao's owner, Frank Pellegrino Jr., opened Baldoria, a restaurant in the theater district. Dinner at Baldoria was a very different experience. We walked into a jostling vestibule where a harassed hostess tried to persuade us to wait at the bar until our party was complete. The place was packed solid, mostly with tourists. Service was friendly but slow, and the feeling of being in a tourist spot was accentuated by the side orders of unnecessary vegetables pressed upon us, dishes "for the table" that had already been individually ordered, and unrequested bottles of mineral water that topped up the bill nicely.

Al Goldstein, the publisher of Screw magazine, was at the next table, dressed in a Superman T-shirt. His companion also wore a T-shirt; hers was patterned like the lining of a Burberry raincoat. There was no point in wondering what on earth they found to talk about, since conversation at Baldoria is virtually impossible. The noise bounces off the wood floor and walls (which were covered with carpet and fabric in Baldoria's former incarnation as Wally and Joseph's, a steakhouse) and reverberates around, making you feel like you're sitting in the middle of a battlefield. I suppose noise gives a place a certain energy, but I heard recently that some restaurant owners like it because it makes customers drink more. "I'm not supposed to drink," yelled one of my friends when he sat down. Five minutes later he'd ordered a vodka martini straight up. There you have it.

The decor at Rao's slowly evolved and acquired a patina over the years; Baldoria's is the work of a designer. It's a beautiful simulation of a turn-of-the-century New York Italian restaurant, on two floors seating 62 downstairs and 74 upstairs, with a mahogany bar, mirrors, brown leather banquettes and pressed-tin ceilings that look yellowed by cigar smoke. There's a 50's juke box like the one at Rao's on each floor, but the songs I heard at Baldoria (apart from what sounded like a modern rendition of "My Girl") were more along the lines of Britney Spears than Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra.

Baldoria's executive chef, Michael Shiell (who happens to be Frank Jr.'s cousin), has put together a menu with many of Rao's signature Neapolitan classics–the marinara sauce, the roasted red peppers and the lemon chicken–but it's also been updated with a raw bar and some lighter, more sophisticated Northern dishes. You can begin with Rao's seafood salad, a simple mixture of lobster, crab, calamari and shrimp in lemon and olive oil. It's one of those unfussy dishes that stands on its own. Don't pass up the wonderful marinated roasted red peppers either, tossed with pine nuts and raisins in a fruity olive oil. The pasta e fagioli soup was so-so, and the baked clams oreganata bit tough and bready under a nicely browned crust. Mussels were a better choice, in a delicate white wine sauce.

I liked the new-style salads: arugula and shaved artichokes with lemon and Parmesan and a delicious combination of wild asparagus and fava beans with bufala ricotta cheese. But my favorite dish (and you're not going to believe me) was the eggplant soufflé. I ordered it in a fit of masochism, for just recently I'd tried foie gras soufflé–an experience I hope to never repeat. But the eggplant soufflé was a veritable explosion of Mediterranean flavors with a wonderful aftertaste.

If you like peppers and Italian sausages you will find plenty to like about Baldoria's menu. Orecchiette with broccoli rabe and crisp chunks of sweet and hot sausage could not be bettered, nor could the sausages with peppers and onion, or the thick, pink veal chop which came under a thick curtain of roasted hot and sweet peppers (watch out for those innocent-looking green cherry peppers; they are fiery). Game hen was tender and juicy, with sausage, peppers, mushrooms and herbs.

Pollo al limone, a Rao's signature, is made by broiling the chicken first, then cutting it into chunks and browning it in a coating of lemon juice, herbs and olive oil. It was a bit dry on this occasion, but the crispy skin was delicious. Too bad the veal scaloppine with capers and lemon was gluey from the flour, and shrimp with bread crumbs and oregano was dry and salty. Monkfish with sherry sauce was dull (and I confess to a prejudice against this fish. It's either great–on rare occasions–or boring, with nothing in between). Branzino (Mediterranean bass), on the other hand, is a fish of subtle character; it was cooked simply with carrots and leeks in sea water, which gave it a clean, briny taste. Grouper was good, too: a lovely plain summery dish with arugula, lemon and slivers of Parmesan.

Baldoria's desserts are lavish, rich and addictive. They include cassata, a bombe filled with ricotta mousse with chocolate, hazelnuts and cherries, topped with white chocolate sauce and a light, creamy chilled strawberry zabaglione. Fresh peach semifreddo with wine syrup was ordinary, but the small beignets, puffs filled with chocolate caramel and espresso cream, were splendid.

Even though its doors are open to a very select few, the mystique of Rao's has spawned something of a cottage industry, with a line of food products, including a bottled tomato sauce, a CD of their jukebox hits and even an award-winning cookbook. Certainly Baldoria's food is as good as I had at its uptown sibling. I came to Baldoria one night with a friend who is lucky enough to be a regular at Rao's. What did he think? "Rao's is quieter," he said.

Baldoria

* *

249 West 49th Street

582-0460

Dress: Casual

Noise level: What? Did you say something?

Wine list: Mostly Italian, well priced with interesting choices

Credit cards: All major cards

Price range: Main courses $18.50 to $56

Dinner: Monday to Saturday, 6 p.m. To 11 p.m.

* Good

* * Very Good

* * * Excellent

* * * * Outstanding

No Star:a Poor