IN MY SHOES: Checking Into The Stoli Hotel
Just when all primary election coverage and no play threatened to make The Stiletto a dull political junkie, The Heel - an Ivy-educated attorney with a prestigious New York firm and occasional contributor to this blog - invited her to a party at the “Stoli Hotel.”
Regular readers of The Stiletto Blog know that The Stiletto is a vodka aficionado (third item) – but that she’s making efforts to learn about scotch (third item) – so she eagerly accepted his invitation, knowing full well that there was a high likelihood that the liquor that would flow as freely as water was going to include several varieties of flavored vodka (which The Stiletto doesn’t mind in mixed drinks, as long as they are not called a “martini”).
The Stoli Hotel-New York party (other parties took place in LA, Chicago and Miami) was at a cavernous warehouse space in the SoHo section of lower Manhattan temporarily converted into a luxury hotel meant to invoke the legendary Hotel Moskva - complete with a “spa” offering massages, fantasy “guest rooms” for VIPs and staffed by stunning blondes with names like “Natasha” and “Marina” (note to Advertising Age: These are not their real names; it’s just a marketing gimmick).
The Stiletto isn’t sure whether the point of the party was to promote Stolichnaya Vodka, or the brand’s new Red Butler concierge service. Whatever … with DJ Nick Cannon and funny-funky dancers The Retro Kingz providing the entertainment, a good time was had by all - except for one Neil Rosen (more on that later).
The Stiletto and The Heel made a beeline to the Stoli Spa to sign up for massages, but since we didn’t even get to the joint until after 10 pm, all the available slots were taken. Somehow (The Stiletto wishes she could figure out how he pulls stuff like this off all the time) The Heel, with his customary charm or chutzpah (depending on your point of view), sweet-talked the massage booker into hooking The Stiletto up with a masseuse after everyone else on the list had been attended to. So for 10 minutes, The Stiletto got treated to a back, neck and shoulder massage by Alexson and his very talented hands.
So … back to Neil Rosen. The Heel was off getting us fresh drinks (we liked the Stoli Hotel Suite Upgrade - vodka, ginger-habanero infused syrup and fresh lime juice - the best, though it was on the sweet side). “Perpetual party fixture” Rosen (who kinda sorta – and maybe only after a few Hotel Upgrades - looks like a younger version of René Auberjonois, one of The Stiletto’s favorite actors) sidles up to her, and confesses he’s not having a very good time.
He asks her name and what she's drinking and … one thing leads to another and all of a sudden, The Stiletto found herself playing that game from “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” with Rosen where you have to tell two things about yourself that are true and one that is false, with each round getting more personal. But he kept forgetting the three things he threw out there for The Stiletto’s consideration (“What was it I told you again?”), so he needs to rehearse his shtick a little more before he uses it on another chick.
Without getting into details, Rosen's favorite sexual fantasy is without a doubt the commonest one amongst men. The Stiletto’s is so, um, unusual (being a dominatrix with a clientele of liberal men whom she charges Emperor’s Club prices to clean her home while Lee Greenwood’s “G-d Bless The USA” plays in the background and she berates them mercilessly for their political beliefs) Rosen fled before The Stiletto could find out how may Apples he would have awarded her Big Apples (which did not escape his notice, BTW).
Anyway, the next time The Heel left The Stiletto, she found herself chatting with one very nattily dressed (inky black crushed velvet jacket, cherry red tie) Juan Mendez, an aspiring fashion designer from The Bronx. Eventually, The Heel and The Stiletto hit the dance floor to work off the calories from all those yummy drinks.
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