Too hot to handle

>> Lower St-Laurent chichi mecca Buonanotte turns 10 amid all the hype it could muster

by PENNY G

A hushed buzz had been spreading through certain areas of town for the past month, like so many bees in the party people’s collective bonnet. At the end of 2001, Gazette gossip-disher Rochelle predicted that it would be the “indisputable No. 1 happening of 2002,” adding that “the invitation will be virtually impossible to nail down.” Well, guess what babes? The Mirror got our manicured little paws on one and decided it was our not-so-solemn duty to report the facts, nothing but the facts, to you, dear readers.
It was a party a decade in the making: the 10-year anniversary of that lower St-Laurent upscale bastion of Italian eats and beautiful people, Buonanotte. A place that personifies the very fashionista, moneyed lower-Main that has been creeping steadily north for years. The self-proclaimed “event of the decade,” the whole shebang was orchestrated by party-planner Dick Walsh (who recently directed a Cher video and was the mastermind behind Celine Dion’s spectacular nuptials) and PR guy Jeffrey Feldman.

The restaurant had been closed for weeks, undergoing top-secret renovations while rumours abounded about which celebs would show and who the surprise musical guest would be. One strange rumour, supplied to me by my Chabanel street source, was that melancholy Can-rock mainstays the Tea Party were going to play (but from the start that sounded about as likely Dimitri from Paris dropping in to spin a set at the Bifteck on Bastille day). One thing was sure: New York City drag legend and Wigstock star Lady Bunny would be the DJ. This is a story of hype, hi-jinks and a whole lotta “hotties” in one steaming-hot room.

A-list absentees

T’was the night of Tuesday, January 22, 2002 and a giddy crowd was gathered ’round a side-door on Milton at the corner of St-Laurent. As people attempted to claw their way toward the ubiquitous velvet rope, doormen outfitted with white secret-service earpieces and wielding lists barked orders deeming one line-up for media and the other for invitations. Meanwhile, small groups of people were quickly ushered past the waiting throngs with whispers of “VIP” on the doormen’s lips.

Equipped with our accreditation, my date and I were quickly whisked into a hallway by a man name Dimitri who wore an orange shirt with a large star emblazoned across his chest. In the entrance stood four butch lesbians in black suits and sunglasses and one smiling old man in a kimono greeting the guests beneath cascading ribbons which hung from the silver helium-filled balloon-covered ceiling. What unearthly delights awaited us, my friend and I asked ourselves as the throbbing disco beat grew steadily in intensity. We swallowed an apple martini shot offered as a welcome apéritif and checked our coats amid much nervous speculation about which celebs would show their cherished mugs.

Once inside, we realized just what kind of monster this party was. An elbow-to-elbow, vacuum-packed dancefloor pulsated with a noisy crowd that continually caught furtive glances at themselves in the wall-to-wall mirrors. The staff, comprised of cute young things of both sexes, wore custom-designed Buonanotte T-shirts by Yso and the girls’ hair was teased and crimped to the nth degree. We snaked our way to the nearest bar, where a gigantic bouquet of birds-of-paradise stood encircled by carrots, for another apple martini.
We got word of the kitchen being a VIP spot to cool off a little and after being refused entry for arbitrary reasons, our man Dimitri materialized and thankfully swept us in. Though all manner of comfy seats were conspicuously absent (how very un-VIP) and the crowdedness was unrelenting even here, there were some pretty young things quite conspicuously powdering their noses (very VIP, indeed). Again, no signs of A-list celebs. Here, Vahit, another earpiece publicist, told us to check in with him every 10 minutes about whether a celeb had shown up. We thanked him for the hot tip, making a mental note to give up the celeb angle.

Bunny talk

As the night wore on, the crowd grew even hotter and rowdier and everyone seemed to have a bottle of vodka in one hand with which to pour shots down people’s throats. Out on the dancefloor, “high-tech and trendy businessmen, models and future models” (as the Buonanotte press kit describes their clientele and staff) wriggled like pretty worms in a can, flailing under the bright lights for the TV cameras and Web cams (there was a live video feed of the entire party on Buonanotte’s site). No one seemed to mind too much that they weren’t brushing shoulders with the rich and famous (though Mose Persico, the television, um, personality, was pointed out to me and he apparently rubs shoulders with lots of famous people when he interviews them on TV—does that count for anything?).

Three apple martinis, one Heineken and a few mouthfuls of from-the-bottle vodka concoctions later, the toilets in the ladies room had begun to overflow and there was nary a surprise musical guest in sight. So we decided it was time to call it quits, take leave of the VIP kitchen and grab a cab home just before closing time—but not before checking in with the big Bunny herself!

It took us another 10 minutes to snake our way back to the DJ booth by the wall of plates signed by famous folk. Here we tried to have a word with la Bunny who was looking beyond ravishing in a gorgeous ultra-mini, black and white, frilly ’60s op-art dress, a towering blonde wig and flawless heavy makeup.

What did this VIP veteran think of the affair? “It’s off the hook!” she shouted over another disco hit. “I’m gonna have a full beard by the time I finish my set.” Being a progressive DJ and light traveller, instead of carting a crate of vinyl across the border, Miss Bunny was shamelessly slinging and mixing CDs (a crime fit for punishment according to some purists). But beyond her soundtrack duties, she still hoped to work in a little action. “I hope to get laid!” she proclaimed. “But I know that means ugly in French, so you’ll have to translate.” And with that we set off to hail that taxi home, secure in the knowledge that it’s not about whether or not you believe the hype—it’s about how much of it you can generate. :