All that glitters is not gold. Some of it is silver. At F&W's silver anniversary partythe Silver Ball, to celebrate the magazine's 25 years of publicationwe all had silver in common: silver clothes and silver-obsessed careers and silvery foods to eat. I happen to have a silver dining-room ceiling, which was made for me as a present by a gilder with whom I was once in love, and so F&W's editor in chief Dana Cowin, a close friend of mine, asked if she could give the party at my house.
The invitations came by messenger: white-chocolate spheres coated in silver-covered dragées (tiny candy balls) prepared by John Down, an owner of Christopher Norman Chocolates. When we broke open the spheres, we discovered small, square invitations, which asked, mysteriously, that each of us bring a cherished silver possession to the dinner.
The dozen or so guests began to arrive at my house at seven o'clock, all dressed in some form of silver. Dana was aglitter in a dress by Alberta Ferretti, with a thousand sequins that sparkled like ice crystals, and tanzanite earrings designed by another one of the invitees, Mish Tworkowski of Mish New York. The splendid writer Amy Fine Collins was draped in a short Geoffrey Beene couture dress so shiny you got dizzy looking at her. Michele Oka Doner, the sculptor, wore one of her signature silk sheaths. The men all had silver ties of one kind or another (except the architect Erich Theophile, who had no tie at all): from purest silver to silvery blue to silvery green to silvery gray.