A small, select, but frightfully good-looking group hightailed it to Fort Green on Tuesday evening to attend a book reading of Silk for the Feed Dogs, thereby solidifying Brooklyn’s reputation as a literary stronghold. The event was unfortunately not open to the public. There was a guest list. Forget the Waverly Inn, this is how the glitterati is passing its time these days, so I’ve been told. At least on weeknights. The hostess of the event, the divine Cyndie, swung open the doors of her happy-hued apartment for the soiree, having tossed together a commendable cheese assortment, bacon-wrapped dates, watermelon radish with sea salt, and, for those who may have ran a marathon last Sunday (what these young and fabulous do on weekends) and are still overdoing it on the carbs, bruschetta slathered in herb butter.
The author, suffering from a hoarse throat, sipped hot whisky with cloves and honey and read with the smoky timbre of Marianne Faithful. She was heard commenting that she hoped the wind would change and her voice would remain that way forever. She felt it lent her a worldly air she did not otherwise possess which contributed to the success of the reading.
Pursuing paparazzi had been thrown off the scent at the Manhattan Bridge. This was just as well because Jake the Reading Cat was in the audience. He is a notoriously private individual with a pessimistic demeanor, but highly regarded. For those who don’t know, it’s akin to having Salman Rushdie just pop in for a hot toddy and a discourse on how writing can lead to death threats. I hope I didn’t offend him when I enquired if that was his real hair or a weave. The public needs to know, I justified, tentatively. He gave a sniff and changed seats.
In fact, it took Jake a while to get settled. He moved several times, didn’t prefer the view, fancied the acoustics were better by the red wall. This delayed the start much the same way as fashion shows are delayed until Anna Wintour has taken her seat. But the author was pleased to note Jake was the first in line to ask her to sign his copy of her novel.
At the end of her reading, the author felt a tap on the shoulder, turned and found the esteemed guest before her. He was shorter than she had imagined. “Your lilting cadence is somewhat at odds with your gravelly tone,” he said. “But I liked it.” Then he presented her with these:
“Book’s not half bad either,” he purred, before executing a discreet bow and retiring from the room to his waiting car downstairs.
To find out what all the fuss was about, you can buy Silk for the Feed Dogs here.