Welcome to NYLON’s Going Out Diaries, where we ask our favorite people to take us through their weeks from 9 to 5 (p.m. to a.m., that is). Up first, we have NYLON’s own Editor-in-Chief Lauren McCarthy breaking down a seven-day marathon of Champagne, fries, and Eiffel Tower sightings during Paris Fashion Week.
Thursday, March 6
There’s nothing to kick jet lag like heading straight from the plane to the party. (OK, that’s not 100 percent true — I did manage to sneak in an hour nap, but the alliteration works so much better for an Instagram caption.) When I arrive to my very cute hotel (shoutout Hotel Panache, highly recommend), among a smattering of show invites, there is a small shopping bag containing my look for the evening’s event, a dinner for the ready-to-wear brand Dodiee, co-hosted by Christie Taylor.
After attending my first show of the week, Rick Owens, which also marks my first Chappell Roan sighting of the week, I head back to my room to change into the skirt the brand has very graciously gifted me: a tight, fringe-y mini that, when paired with an oversized sweater, makes it look like I’m pants-less. This is ideal. I head over to Cloche, a classic bistro, where the brand also held their dinner last February. This year’s guest list is all about the supermodels of the Tumblr era; immediately upon walking in, I spot Lindsey Wixson with a shaggy haircut that would have gotten at least 10K reblogs, Daria Strokous, and Irina Lazareanu. The drink of choice for the evening is a Cosmopolitan, which you’ll find to be a theme for the week. I opt for an espresso martini instead, because jet lag, and find my seat next to my friend Claire, the digital director at Elle. Together, we clear a bowl of spicy vodka pasta and at least three-fourths of a Dover sole. I finish off my second martini and head home around midnight — the earliest I’ll be home all week.
Friday, March 7
My final show of the night is Victoria Beckham, which starts at 8 p.m. It’s at a much-disfavored location in the 2nd that involves climbing up four flights of stairs. Smartly, we’re greeted post-trek with trays of spicy margaritas and palomas. Post-show, I make the trek back down and head over to meet a PR friend for dinner at Caviar Kaspia. The restaurant, famed for their caviar-topped baked potato, is somewhat of fashion’s cafeteria during PFW. (When a friend goes two nights later, she’s at a table next to Zoe Saldaña and across the room from Leonardo DiCaprio, while the private room hosts a gaggle of brand-dressed influencers.) But when we are seated around 10 p.m., the crowd is fully non-industry, save for a guy in sunglasses and baggy jeans — we debate for several minutes if it is Zack Bia, before ultimately deciding it’s just another DJ in the same font.
The anonymity is preferred, leaving us alone to eat our potatoes and gossip in peace. We each get an osetra-garnished spud (as good and indulgent as always), smoked-salmon blinis with crème fraîche (high-key better than the potato), and several glasses of Champagne. When we eventually get the bill, it’s 1:44 a.m. and we are the last ones in the restaurant. We still get a house-made cherry vodka shot before eventually calling it.
Saturday, March 8
If I had to pick one party I look forward to every Fashion Week, it’s hands-down the biannual FRAME dinner. The crowd is always fun, the food is always good, and the martinis are aplenty. This season’s soiree is at Château Voltaire, an ubertrendy restaurant and bar in the hotel of the same name, and cohosted by founder Erik Torstensson, Sienna Miller, and Oli Green. When I walk in around 9 p.m. (still cocktail-hour time for Paris Fashion Week), I immediately spot my friend and extremely talented stylist Gabriella, who informs me that the drinks are strong and thus we must make our way to the bar immediately. I lose her somehow in the 50-feet walk, swept up in the crush of just-arriving guests that include the Hamlin sisters, Lila Moss, Joan Smalls, and basically every other model in town.
At the bar, I wait for my martini (bone-dry, no vermouth, olive as a garnish) behind Alexa Chung, and wait for my friend Caroline to arrive so we can go find our seats together (the PR mavens at Sara Byworth know we’re a package deal, so shoutout to Sara, Jillian, and Noreen). They’re easy to find — each seat comes with a Polaroid of the guest and a Frame-emblazoned lighter. The dinner flies by in a flash of fries, mushroom pasta, and Sancerre, and just as quickly as I sat, I find myself in a conversation with Gabriella and Sienna about the afters. The general move seems to be a one-night-only Chez Margaux pop-up, where Isabella Massenet — still nestled into a banquette with Princess Maria-Olympia of Greece and Denmark — is set to perform. I’ve committed myself to popping by Sugaar, where one of my best friends, another Gabby, is hosting a dinner for jewelry designer Lucy Delius. It’s 12:30 when I arrive, but the table is still packed, so I find a seat at the end next to the always-fun Morgan Stewart and Joe Jonas, another late arrival. They are also debating heading to Faux Margaux, and for a brief moment I consider hoping in their Uber when they depart around 1:15 a.m. Luckily, I have another driving force that sends me home to bed instead: The Traitors finale.
Sunday, March 9
It’s a marathon of shows tonight. We kick it off at Balenciaga, where seats are first come, first served (albeit all front-row) and set inside a maze of black curtains (a fitting funeral for what we’ll come to find out is Demna’s final show). On the way out, I run into Dixie D’Amelio, who looks incredible with her new red hair, and we promise to try to meet up later that night. With time to kill before Coperni at 8:30 p.m., Caroline and I grab a spritz nearby before making the 30-minute trek to the Adidas Arena on the outskirts of the city, where the show is being held (hey, it’s a lot closer than last season’s Disneyland). This year’s show involves a live LAN party with over 100 gamers in the room glued to their computers as models like Alex Consani stomp past them.
Caroline and I catch a ride back to the city proper with Cait Bailey, who drops us off at the La DoubleJ and Mother cocktail celebrating the launch of their Ciao Mamma! collaboration with Net-a-Porter. We are late, but the party is still going as strong as ever. We grab a drink inside La Fontaine Gaillon and nab a table outside — did I mention it’s been nearly 70 degrees and sunny all week? Waiters come by offering us sweet treats like cream puffs and chocolate truffles, but we’ve yet to have dinner, so we decide to crash Savannah Engel’s standing table at Hotel Costes nearby and order fries. Inside, Cait joins us, and we load up the table with escargot, burrata, and eventually berries and cream. If Caviar Kaspia is the cafeteria of fashion week, Costes is the Friday-night party at someone’s basement; next to us is a table that includes Jordan Roth and Sarah Paulson, and throughout the hour we’re there, the empty seat at our table includes a revolving cast of guests stopping by to say hello. I leave once the berries run out.
Monday, March 10
Another night, another dinner at Château Voltaire. This one is especially fitting, as it is hosted by Zadig + Voltaire. The crowd is largely French, mais oui, and yet still charmed by the giant platter of fries that arrives around 9:30 p.m. Since this is my last proper night out in Paris (my flight on Wednesday is at 10 a.m., so Tuesday calls for an early bedtime), I move to a second location once the main course has been cleared to meet up with pals in town from L.A.: Cazzie and Elisa, whose incredible film debut, I Love You Forever, is out now. We debate going to i-D’s launch party at Silencio, which starts at midnight and features a DJ set by Naomi Campbell, but eventually compromise on getting a nightcap at — you guessed it — Costes (sorry, Steff!). It’s a surprisingly tame scene (days of the week don’t count during Fashion Week, so maybe everyone’s at the club?) but we still have fun, and by that I mean we order two pavlovas for five of us and a round of palomas. For a relatively quiet night, it’s still nearly 2 a.m. when I leave — the Paris promise. And with that, I’m off to sleep for five days.
