I-phone face off between TI and Hugo

Its a hard blow when a door-person doesn't know you, doesn't get you and doesn't care. It' s harder still when as a doortrix it's your first night ruling Montana, the boite is jammed packed and then you proceed to tell Angela Lindvall, "Sorry but we are at capacite' . There iz nothing I can do. Perhaps you go to smoke a cigarette... come back in 20 minutes...30 minutes" . Welcome to Paris shade and TI sat ringside last night for the shadiest door scene in all Paris so far this season. But fear not... this shady story has a happy ending.

The night started sweetly enough at The Ritz where our running mate Hugo had fled to a suite to stay with a friend.Hugo says "Come on over for drinks". So there we were, The Clique of six slinking in goth black Balenciaga, Rick Owens and Rad Hourani through those long bijoux jammed corridors up to the creamy beige suite where the air is powdery and sweet. Two bottles of wine later everybody gets way silly with one girl showing off her new La Perlas to the boys . That's when you discover the Ritz is so quality controlled there's no pumping up the volume on that I-pod station. Now all stirred up and inspired and ready to par-tay the Clique made its way to grab cabs over to Montana, the latest Oliver Zahm/Andre Paris nightlife emporium.
And then the drama. Sasha Pivororava and hubbie are sliding to the door just ahead of TI and crew. Doortrix says no! "No. Sorry. We are at capacite. It is very crowded tonight. We can't let any more people in" This as people-she-knows are quickly ushured in. "But this is supermodel!" protests a girl wearing a hat with knitted kitten ears to The Doortrix. Ah change of temperature...Sacha in.
Now for the Clique. Shall I just cut and paste it? Capacite...Crowded...Sorry. TI sheds no tears because the whole ambiance outside, just past the venerable doors of Cafe de Flore is a bonanza of drama. Through the mob winds Angela Lindvall in a fantastic silver lame dress. As per the opening paragraph...Shade. Angela I must say is very graceful and turns heel with her three male companions "Guys its really crazy in there. They say there's no room!" Angela starts to head back for Boulevard St Germain. Oliver Zahm spots the retreating Angela and starts to yell "An-gela, An-gela!" The Doortrix joins in the chorus. At that precise moment Raquel Zimmerman exits her car . She too echoes "An-gela, someone is calling for you". Montana has succeeded in reeling in An-gela and her clique through those coveted, frosted doors. Raquel is behind, following suite. The doortrix STOPS Raquel and recites the "capacity" mantra and I just start to think Montana is the most insane form of mind-fucking since Studio 54. It needs not saying that Oliver puts his head out in the mob and sees Raquel, who being the smart girl that she is just ups and walks back to her car. And so it goes. Glossy people are exiting with that look of triumphant surprise "Oh you didn't get in yet. Oh..well.. bye". Look who just left ! Its a radiant, fresh shimmering Jessica Alba sliding outside the door, cliqueless except for her bodyguard. And then the piece de resistance of resistance. Riccardo Ticci du Givenchy. Blocked at the door. TI starts laughing at the doortrix and starts to plot his new job...doing doors in Paris. And so as to fast-forward past the tedium, it takes Vogue editor Hamish Bowles arrival through a secret side entrance for us to realize that the shaded door is but one entry option. We slide in via Plan B and find ourselves in the midst of Montana's etched mirror nightscape.
Its very narrow and crowded upstairs. We sooth our wounds with champagne. There's a frenzy of social kissing. Rachel Zoe's face floats up like she's lost her contact lenses. Poppy Delevigne is in the house, her delightful self as always. Anouck is out again. Andre sits with his retinue of ladies in waiting. I sense that lots of famous faces are floating around but I'm too drunk to focus. Apparently Kate Moss is/was/might be downstairs dancing. The music downstairs is dreary but the kids are indeed trying to dance. There's lots of room. A gorgeous girl with shaved eyebrows and that vintage Givenchy jacket with the giant gold studs fascinates us but otherwise there is very little entertainment . We decide to bounce. Back outside the crowd is gone. Everybody who had been at the door howling is now inside. Including the stray American tourist who has brayed "What's this place? Montana? A place called Montana is cool in Paris? Wow. Cuz Montana sure ain't cool back in the States" I think Montana is brilliant for serving that trick . Create desire. Desire is refusal. That's the lesson learned.
We hop over to Maxim where Club Sandwich was supposed to be in full swing. But now it is 3:30am and Maxim's is sephucural except for a few stragglers...a matronly black drag queen giving "Auntie" in a skirt-suit, broad brimmed hat and a cape...a Brazilian trannie who challenges Auntie to a twirl off. Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" comes on. All of a sudden everybody in the room starts twirling.Including stylist Catherine Baba. I laugh till tears come. "Oh God," I manage between spasms, "I've never been in a gay bar in Paris before . Is this what they give?" "Darling, this is not a gay bar!" I am admonished. Well in between the Art Nouveau extravaganza that is its decor and that cheesy easy porno-disco soundtrack oozing out the speakers, I'll consider it that in my mind. Back on the rue Royale waiting for a car to go back to the flat , a street light flickered off in a way that suggested a wink. I love Paris.