Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  “Oh, you’re just in a hotel?” she sympathized. “Next time you must do a ship! We sleep like babies, and the best thing is, we wake up in Portofino or Croatia—not the North Fork.”

  “So who’s in the Hamptons house?” I asked.

  “I give it to my in-laws,” the husband revealed. “This way they’re taken care of and I don’t have to see them.”

  “It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” he went on, guffawing as he dipped into a platter of fried calamari.

  “I really hate the Hamptons,” I heard one of the wives say as we stood to leave.

  “So sell it,” someone said.

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to sell it and go somewhere I would never use like the Jersey Shore.” She mentioned her friends who recently bought in Connecticut. “It’s like being in an old-age home in the forest. Nothing to do or buy. Just dead leaves everywhere.”

  In the chic, potted garden of the Hotel de Russie, an acquaintance recounted his long path to Hamptons estate ownership, along with its recent disappointments.

  “When I was in my twenties, I did the typical share house in Quogue where you could put your fist through the Sheetrock,” he told me.

  “I got married and then a promotion and we bought our first house, north of the highway, on a cul-de-sac. When I finally made a real bonus, we bought a house in the promised land south of the highway in Bridgehampton, with farm views.”

  “And then?” I asked, plying him with prosecco and olives.

  “Once we bought the big house, my wife got to hire a real decorator. Guess what?”

  “What?” I leaned in.

  “We invited our friends over for a party in July.”

  “And?”

  “And no one was in town.” He wiped his forehead. “It’s crazy; we spent all this time and money, and no one was home.”

  “Well,” the wife added, “it would still be better if we were on the ocean or the pond. Maybe they’d come then.”

  Another couple I had drinks with on the terrace of the Grand Hotel Quisisana barely use their house in the estate section of Southampton—but are nevertheless considering upgrading to oceanfront. “I only use my house two days a year,” the husband said between puffs of a cigar. “My wife is mostly at our house in Aspen. What do I need a huge house for, when we can sell it and upgrade to the ocean, even if it’s only six or seven thousand square feet?”

  “So you can go for five days instead of two?” I joked.

  “How did you know?” he said in all seriousness.

  As it turns out, getting a bigger house to not stay in appears to be something of a trend among Hamptons evacuees. The next day, Dana and I had an alfresco lunch with one of the Hamptons’ most stylish hostesses and her husband. As the bread basket arrived, she reached into her beach bag and produced a package of low-cal GG crackers. “We go away to be together,” remarked her husband, a well-regarded CEO of a public company, “and escape the social pressure of the Hamptons.”

  The wife munched on the cracker with some marinated eggplant. “While we may only spend thirty days a year there, I view owning a Hamptons property as part of a diversified real estate portfolio,” she said. “And as far as I’m concerned, 11962 is the primest.”

  Toasting over a pitcher of sangria, the husband added, “When I’m buying a business today, I look at EBITA—earnings before interest, tax, and amortization. When it comes to owning a home in the Hamptons, it’s EBITFV, earnings before interest, taxes, and family values. You can’t put a price on it. As the kids get older, they come back—and that’s when they want a bigger house.”

  “Suddenly your kids have a boyfriend or girlfriend in tow and not a nanny,” she chimed in.

  “So you’re looking for a bigger place?” I stirred the pot.

  “Of course,” she answered. “Can I be honest? It’s time for a frickin’ upgrade.”

  “We want three chimneys, like every other partner on Wall Street!” He laughed.

  John Paul Getty’s converted seaside palazzo isn’t exactly a shabby place to end a vacation before dealing with the lines at Fiumicino Airport. During hors d’oeuvres on the gorgeous outdoor candlelit terrace, the pianist played soothing Chopin études.

  As guests arrived for drinks, I spied a familiar ace on the Hamptons circuit talking on the phone in the no-cell-phone area while pacing the seawall.

  “There’s nothing like Italy and France in July,” he said into the phone. “No, they couldn’t come this year. Yeah, it’s a shame. They stayed home and had to use their house in the Hamptons. I guess he didn’t have a great year.”

  I wasn’t sure whom he was talking about, but the conversation couldn’t be ignored.

  “Maybe they’ll be able to come next year,” he said, choosing a quail-egg-size green olive. “Although I’m not sure where I’ll be. I hear Sun Valley is really great in the summer.”

  21. STRESSMAS VACATION

  Trying to Relax Without a Lounge Chair, Dinner Reservation, or Tennis Slot

  IT HAD BEEN MANY YEARS since I’d been to an event on the St. Regis rooftop, the last one being my very own wedding to Dana, oh so many moons ago. It was a balmy afternoon this past October when we returned to celebrate a dear friend’s family event at an elegant luncheon. We once again found ourselves in the Fabergé-style ballroom, which by day felt like being on the set of The Prince and the Showgirl, although Olivier was not in attendance.

  The conversation at our table turned to the holidays. I leaned in to talk with a formidable businessman who is as smart as he is efficient. “And what are your plans?” I asked, taking a taste of the silky mousseline.

  He mentioned a well-known island resort.

  “Have you been there before?” I inquired.

  “It’s our fourth year, which helps.”

  “Helps? How so?” My ears perked up.

  “Everything is booked a year in advance. If you want your rooms, your tennis, your restaurant reservations, spa services, you have to do it all the moment it opens up. My secretary calendarizes it,” he explained.

  As his chic and engaging wife returned to the table and placed her minaudière next to her setting, she smiled knowingly while picking up her mimosa.

  “Remember when we used to go to Anguilla year after year, and when Giorgio (not his real name) would come to New York, everyone would rush to take him out to Cipriani and Elios?” she recalled.

  “Who is Giorgio?” I asked.

  “Giorgio was head of the pool and beachfront, and if you wanted the best lounge chair setups in the prime location, you needed to butter him up.” She smiled sagely.

  “Giorgio sounds like one lucky guy.”

  “We took him out to Sette Mezzo, but the so-and-sos went to the next level—dinner and a cashmere sweater from Bergdorf. They got the prime spot and cabana the next year.” She sighed.

  “This actually happened?”

  “Don’t be naïve. It’s all a year in advance and about greasing palms,” she said, munching on an asparagus tip. “Or you get nothing, darling, positively nothing.”

  Whether it’s escaping the northeast for St. Barths, Anguilla, Aspen, or Miami, it always appeared that the vacations were stressful until you got there. Now it’s worse when you arrive. Perhaps the greatest misconception of all surrounding the holidays is that it is actually a vacation.

  “You spend half your net worth getting wherever you’re going,” a good friend said over tequila and orange slices in front of his crackling fireplace. “And then when you finally get to the resort, you’re tired and hungry, and you check with the front desk for a reservation. The concierge says, ‘It’s all booked for dinner,’ and they have nothing available.”

  “This actually happened?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I complained,
and they finally set up a table for us for dinner—in the lobby,” he said.

  An erudite advertising executive had this to say over a lubricated Mad Men–style working lunch at Circo: “It’s not a vacation, it’s an emotional reckoning.” He swirled his glass of La Scolca Gavi di Gavi. “You’re told to be happy and to relax, and that’s what creates the stress. It’s the idea that it should be wonderful. You’re supposed to be joyous and thankful, and when you ask yourselves those questions, you come up short. … Do you think we can order another bottle?”

  Besides in-law and family stress—“My in-laws command everyone to eat at five thirty, and since they’re paying …”—the number one complaint among those I spoke to was not being able to secure a well-situated lounge chair, if any at all, without having to shell out thousands. “How can I be spending all that money on a vacation and not have a place to sit?” was a common refrain. The idea of having to set an alarm to save a lounge chair seemed to rile everyone, while stretches of chairs staked out with Havaianas, month-old magazines, sunglasses, and paperbacks sent people into veritable fits.

  “It’s absolutely ridiculous,” a Park Avenue matron said at the bar at Sant Ambroeus. I had stopped in for an afternoon espresso while she was ordering a Negroni.

  “I shouldn’t have to tip to get a lounge chair. It should be included! You have these people saving twelve lounge chairs at a time; no one uses them, and then the moment you try and take one, suddenly an angry housewife from New Jersey appears and screams, ‘It’s taken!’ like a skunk marking its territory. That’s the main reason we bought the house in Palm Beach. It’s well located with a pool and beach access, but best of all, I have six glorious lounge chairs awaiting me each and every day, and they’re all mine, M-I-N-E,” she said like a woman possessed, her vintage Verdura cuffs raised in a victory sign.

  “If you’re going to succeed, you have to have a system,” a curvaceous social powerhouse said over dinner at the Mark. “Really, it’s all about communication and tipping.”

  “So what’s your secret to success?” I queried, sampling the tuna tartare.

  “If you choose to go to a hotel or resort over Christmas, you have to make yourself known and early.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Before I even unpack my bags, I go down to the pool and find the main guy.”

  “How do you find the main guy, and how much does it take to succeed?”

  “The main guy is always the busiest with the most expensive sunglasses. Whereas people in the States tip at the end, I tip before. Of course, I ask if he’s going to be there tomorrow, because why tip someone who’s going on a day off?”

  “She has her system down pat.” Her tycoon husband beamed.

  “I might give him a hundred-dollar bill the first day. Then I get the six lounge chairs, umbrellas, the romaine and shrimp cocktail set up, sparkling water, of course all before lunch. Then I might still give one hundred dollars the next day and gradually start handing out fifties.”

  “Her system works,” the husband marveled. “And don’t forget the tennis time. The prime slot is eight. Seven is too early, and nine is too hot.”

  “That’s all well and good,” she said, sipping a white wine spritzer. “But a good vacation is all about a great lounge setup with your girlfriends and great people watching.”

  Some resorts have started to restrict seating to only one lounge chair per guest and one umbrella per every two chairs. Many New York vacationers feel it’s long overdue.

  “There was a family I knew who many years ago went to Mexico on a vacation, and their parents and another family’s parents got into a fistfight over lounge chairs,” a childhood friend said over dinner. “Many years later, the daughter got engaged, and both sets of in-laws were going to meet for the first time.”

  “And?” I said with bated breath.

  “And when they met, it was the same two families!”

  “What happened?” I said, taking some of the gigande beans and marouli salad.

  “They actually called off the wedding!”

  “No, that must be an urban legend!” I said emphatically.

  “Perhaps in New York, but not in Scarsdale,” she explained, sipping her sauvignon blanc.

  Later that week, I was having lunch with a well-known television executive at Michael’s, where chicken paillard, a table in the epicenter, and a visit from Michael himself anoints one as a member of the media elite. The executive himself, who is extremely funny and observant, has been on the vacation circuit for many years with his family and has navigated the rough seas of holiday vacation planning.

  “The arms race for the holiday season has begun,” he declared. “It’s not just the choosing availability; these days, it seems there’s itinerary competition on who can go to the most arcane and far-flung places. The children all talk to each other: ‘I’m going on safari, I’m going to the rain forest, I’m seeing the Great Wall.’”

  “Around the world in eight days,” I said.

  “At this point, in order to go somewhere different, I’d have to tell people I’m taking my children to the green line in Iraq,” he said.

  “Most of the kids I see on vacation are texting the whole time anyway,” I offered, thinking back to historic locations and visions of uninterested children, eyes glued to their devices instead of the monumental landmarks.

  All this talk put a damper on my holiday mood until I took my sister, Susan, and her husband, Rob, out for dinner at Elio’s to celebrate her birthday. As we were toasting her over chicken scarpariello and fried zucchini, my sister explained her point of view.

  “We’re just going to the beach house for the holiday,” she said, referencing her small but extremely chic beach cottage. “We’ll bundle up, light a fire. We’ll take a beach walk on New Year’s Day.”

  “Sounds divine,” Dana said.

  “And then when it’s over, I’ll just open the car door and drive back to the city.”

  “That’s better than standing in line to take off your shoes and put your laptop in a plastic tray,” I said, thinking of our own 6:30 a.m. holiday flight.

  “You know,” she said, “we just don’t travel over the Christmas and New Year’s holidays anymore. It’s way too stressful. The weather’s really not great in the Caribbean or Florida, and why do I want to see all those people you see in New York? But you all can!”

  I motioned the waiter over. “Can you bring me a refill?” I pointed to my martini glass.

  “Don’t worry, Richard,” my wife said, patting my hand. “Maybe after it’s all over, we can plan a weekend ordering in Chinese food, watching Homeland, and having a real vacation.”

  “Let’s book it now,” I pleaded. “So I have something to look forward to—after the trip.”

  22. BLING VERSUS THE BONG

  St. Barths Versus Jamaica—and What It Says About You

  FRAMED TECHNICOLOR IMAGES of the speldiferous Ursula Andress in her iconic white bikini, attendant conch knife, and the swarthy Sean Connery from the Bond classic Dr. No greet guests on the way to dinner at the divine GoldenEye, Chris Blackwell’s Caribbean five-star fantasy on Jamaica’s remote and lush north coast. The movie was filmed in Jamaica and made the blond bombshell an international star, not to mention my friend Chris very happy, although he doesn’t fully kiss and tell.

  I had arrived in Jamaica for an advertising shoot for my aviation client, Wheels Up. Chris, my partner and namesake in Blackwell Fine Jamaican Rum and a Wheels Up aficionado, had agreed to appear in the advertising campaign we were shooting at the Ian Fleming International Airport. Chris generously hosted a pre-shoot dinner at his outdoor restaurant, which occupies a promontory overlooking the treetops, a suspension bridge, and the secluded beachfront crescent in the distance. The cicadas were background music to the vintage reggae, and we could easily imagine we were on safari or in the jungles of East Asia
as we sat alfresco sampling fresh spiced snapper and pineapple rice and hot fluffy rolls with three types of flavored homemade butter.

  Jamaica conjures … but GoldenEye, the former home of Ian Fleming, inspires.

  Chris, the mastermind behind keeping GoldenEye the Caribbean’s chicest and most low-key, barefoot resort, greeted a few under-the-radar and sophisticated guests. I call them hippies with a bank book; there’s always an assortment of dressed-down movie and rock stars and smart, European couples who read actual books on the beach. Dinner is always a quiet affair, without the boisterous and often grotesque behavior on display at other Caribe resorts … where men in loud silk shirts quarrel about the location of their tables.

  “We have a group of [Iron Curtain potentates] arriving next week,” Chris said, sighing at the thought, his Harrovian accent deflecting a bit of disappointment. “I’m certain they won’t like it,” he said in the concerned tone of an honest parent.

  “What will they do here?” a chic Italian ex-pat asked, frowning at the idea, unable to process their arrival or their intention.

  “I’m not sure. But they most definitely will not like it,” he said in his soft, clipped voice.

  “Why is that?” I asked, knowing the answer all too well.

  “There’s not enough bling for them.”

  Dana and I had agreed to a dinner a few months earlier and met the couple at the bar of an overcrowded UES Italian standard where they keep guests waiting, although one has a solid reservation. I had wanted to decline the dinner invitation but Dana insisted, letting me know the wife (who was working alongside Dana in a charity) would take offense to too many a declined invite. This would not have been our first.

  “Where are you for Christmas vacation?” the husband, a diminutive financier, asked once we were finally seated. His diamond cuff links reflected his wife’s ten-carat diamond studs, creating a blinding ray of light directed at the fried zucchini. It was hard to hear above the grating din.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, knowing Jerome (not his real name) wanted to tell me his itinerary first, as finance men usually do.