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Dany Levy

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Posted Monday, June 18, 2001, at 9:30 PM ET

Father's Day. Rainy, rainy Sunday. Dad is driving in from upstate New York to have dinner with—what he thinks is—his ever-connected daughter. The dot-com diva. The Carrie Bradshaw of the Internet, or so his friends tell him. Not that he exactly comprehends what I do. Dad does not use e-mail; he is just learning Excel, and I love him for it. He's 65 years old, and I'm beginning to question this whole Internet thing myself (wink, wink). There's only that small twang of the wish-he-understood-what-I-was-trying-to-accomplish—pretty common among every daughter or young entrepreneur seeking approval from the paternal figure.

Anyway, back to dinner. Dad's on the eternal quest for hip when it comes to dining out in New York. Dad wants new. Dad wants cool. (He especially likes the restaurants with the pretty waitresses. ["I'm just looking! I'm allowed to look!"]) So, Il Cantinori, my preferred old-school Italian spot with the adorable Italian waiters who speak very little English, is out of the question.

And my father figures if anyone can score a reservation, I can. (Recurring requests from family members: Can you get me a reservation at Babbo? Can you get access to the VIP room at the Park? Can you get me into the Prada sample sale early?) Yes, Dad; I can. I will. I have, in the past, called to get Aunt Betty a reservation for six at Craft (Tom Colicchio, owner of Gramercy Tavern's, new place). I've been able to do so only because the PR guy loves me because the DailyCandy write on the opening drove more traffic to his new spot than—he says—the New York Times review. This I find hard to believe. Never trust a flack further than you can toss a walnut-raisin bun.

(I have never eaten at Craft.)

"Dad?"

"Yes …"

"How's dinner at 7? Cafe Loup?" (I am well aware that I am trying to get away with reservation-maker's murder.) The proposal is dreadfully un-chic. A 7 p.m. reservation? Cafe Loup? What about the new Mario Batali joint? Isn't that new place Glass in soft opening? (I have not let on that my next DailyCandy item is on the opening of Daniel Boulud's new restaurant. That would be suicide.) Dad may not know from the Internet, but don't mess with his culinary prowess: He's a student at the CIA and knows from gastronomical hipness.

"Cafe Loup?" He sighs. "Again?"

Cafe Loup is my neighborhood joint. The biddies and I love it. I eat there two to three times a week. The maitre d' coos "Hey hon …" in his Southern drawl when I walk in the door. Lloyd, the owner, has seen me through countless pathetic blind dates. It's like home to me. (And hey, Uma and Ethan eat there too. So does Michael Kors. And Mizrahi. I'm not so off-base. So what if it's over 10 years old?) I love Cafe Loup because it's a no-BS institution. They bring me a kir without my even asking. They serve a killer tuna steak and a mean side of sautéed kale. But after six consecutive visits with Dad, he's getting tired of my obsessive-compulsive restaurant routine (as are all my friends). Cafe Loup, to them, is old hat.

"Can we do it somewhere uptown?" He asks. "Someplace easy for me to find a parking spot?"

I concede. It is after all, Father's Day. Now Dad presents the real challenge. Uptown. Cool. OK. Time to break out the Lily Pulitzer.

"Orsay?" I offer. "Aunt Betty says it's great. It's where Mortimer's used to be."

Orsay it is. I call to make the reservation, and then it's off to the gym. Seven miles on the rickety treadmill to run off last night's three-Cosmopolitan tear and an overall frustrating week. A pit stop at Murray's Bagels (carbo load …), then to the corner deli. (Mission: white vinegar. Pottery Barn has informed me that, diluted in a quart of warm water, it will get coffee stains out of a sisal carpet. Life is getting sexy now.) Back home, I'm roaring to go, ready to write a week's worth of items in my Everlast bra and biker shorts. The doorman gets his kicks out of me. "Prettiest thing in the building," he smiles.

"They pay you to say that," I retort. I trust him about as much as I trust the PR guy.

So, I'm back at my desk, taking copy changes, writing about foie gras, the new "it" yogurt, the new new thong, and whatever else the Condé Nast girls want to read about. Monday: Boulud's new spot. Tuesday: men's shoes—"Do real men wear flip flops?" And oh, Wednesday: the maternity-chic item. I'm stuck on the lead. What I really want to write about is baby envy, but no room for that here. This is candy, not therapy. Fine, I accept it. I'm 28 years old; I feel like a hag, and my (very cute) Friday-night date announced halfway through dinner that he had a girlfriend.

Check please?

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Posted Monday, June 18, 2001, at 9:30 PM ET
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Dany Levy is the founder and president of www.dailycandy.com, a daily e-mail newsletter focusing on urban trends and style.
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