All this week, we're serving up your stories of celebrity chef encounters. These are the results of a Resy Contest we ran several weeks back, as you may recall. When possible, we'll reveal the chef's identity; in some cases, where providing details would likely lead to Eater playing the defendant in a massive pile of litigation, we'll just cull and post your best guesses. Of course, if you've got a story that's gone untold to date, talk to us.
1) He looked surprisingly stunning against the backdrop of Mediterranean starlit sky and in-your-face yachts. What was he wearing? I don’t remember, but he was as unshaven as usual.
The setting was the painfully perfect, sumptuously yummy Hôtel du Cap, in Cap d’Antibes, a short limo drive from the brouhaha of the Cannes Film Festival of 2002. The party was Graydon Carter’s über chic Vanity Fair Film Festival extravaganza. The guest list was exactly what you would expect at a function of this caliber: rock stars, movie stars, wannabe stars, fallen stars, and a slew of other meteorites.
Expensive habits mingled with the velvety breeze, sequins fluttered around delectable drinks and thirst-quenching boys. Hanging off the cliff, on a ledge, right below our well-heeled feet was a swimming pool filled with fluorescently lit blue and orange balls. Someone tossed one my way, I caught it; then came another one; I juggled that one too.
Moments later I was standing by the bar, chatting with Mick Jagger, or was it Charleze Theron or Hayden Christensen…I don’t quite remember that part either…I do know that I was waiting for another glass of champagne, hands full of the melon sized, glowing balls that I was holding at chest height.
That’s when Mr. Surprisingly Stunning but Unshaven sidled up to me and made some lewd remark about my cleavage and those “melons.” It sparked culinary somersault conversations about burrata, head-cheese and offal. But all he could really concentrate on was those radiant balls and my Cannes Film Festival cleavage. (Of course you dress the part when you’re swinging on the Riviera!)
I still don’t remember what [the chef] was wearing; all I know is that he didn’t sport his signature high-tops! And that we had a terrifically saucy tête-à-tête in the twinkling, star gazing night.
