Stopped at a light, I caught a glimpse of a blonde in a long red dress in the restaurant’s driveway, holding a little pink pig by a leash, posing for what seemed like half the photographers and camera crews in the world. I assumed it was Babe, the porcine star of that year’s surprise Best Picture nominee. And at the door of Morton’s, watching, was Graydon Carter, who’s traded smart satirical editing for his more rarefied social elevation as the editor of Vanity Fair, beaming like a proud father at the sight of his guest, the movie star. This, I thought, is what the A-list has come to. Little did I know.
A few days later, it turned out that the blonde and her charge had been sent by the Star; the pig was an impostor.
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