A Staycation Worth Celebrating

Amid the whirlwind of a book launch, one writer rediscovers New York as both hometown and getaway—checking into chic hotels, savoring indulgent meals, and embracing the city with fresh eyes

Hints of fall in the air reliably ignite a desire for big city dining. New York supplies a dazzling array of delicious options recently opened and more promised. 

In the two years that led up to the launch of my first book, Cellar Rat, which came out in March, I had spent very little time thinking about the stresses that would accompany the actual debut. But what happens, when you give birth to an actual book, is that your entire world folds in on itself. My inbox could not have been more complicated. My Google alerts? I started to wish I hadn’t set them up in the first place. The thing I needed most—a miniature vacation, most acutely from myself—was the one thing that I was not permitted to take, because everyone expected me to be out and about, showing face and promoting this thing, this brainchild, this baby of mine. 

There was, I reasoned, one small solution. My official launch, on March 25, was to take place in New York, the city where I was born, where I had spent 28 years of my life, and where my book is largely anchored. What if I built a trip back to the city around the launch of my tour, traveling like a visitor, soaking in museums, hotels, and restaurants? Not much longer after I hatched the plan, I found myself in the cozy, French-inflected lobby of Fouquet’s New York, the 97-room TriBeCa hotel that opened in 2022. My spacious Prestige King room, outfitted in muted pinks and earth tones, was full of lush texture: velvet, marble, and light wood. 

Downstairs, I met a friend for lunch at Élysée’s, the property’s all-day venue that features botanicals (like olive trees sprouting from pots in the center, aided by a solarium ceiling) and comforting dishes like a burrata panzanella (yes, please). Uptown, I met a family member at the Museum of Modern Art in the rain, where we visited familiar artists, old friends. 

Afterwards, I walked back downtown, even in the light drizzle, remembering all the things I loved about New York—how it was always evolving, neighborhoods changing, stores getting bigger and smaller and bigger again, restaurants reinventing themselves. In the evening, I went down to the Brasserie to meet a friend for dinner. 

In the dim light of the dining room, I was transported back in time, to the late 90s, when I was a college student visiting Paris for the first time. Shrimp cocktail arrived, fat and cold. I ordered the seasonally available Beef Filet Rossini, a classic dish I never see on restaurant menus anymore. It’s a filet mignon, seared and served over a tiny piece of crostini and served beneath a puck of foie gras and shavings of truffle, all sheathed in a decadent sauce. A dessert arrived, decorated with a tiny candle, and boasting the words Congratulations. It did, in fact, feel like a celebration. 

The next morning, I had given myself plenty of time to relax, to sink into the hotel itself. Yes, it was the day of my launch, but I had given myself the express goal of decompressing. In the sub-cellar level, the Spa Diane Barrière offers massages and body treatment rooms (I enjoyed a delightful massage to calm my pre-launch jitters), as well as a full hydrotherapy circuit: wide lounge areas, hot and cold pools, and steam rooms for getting the toxins out. 

I walked down to SoHo and perused things I could not quite afford. Wishful thinking: a mint-colored sweater, at Prada, on Broadway. More wishful thinking: jewelry in store windows, gems in every shape and color. But I kept walking until I found a trench coat at Sézane, on Elizabeth Street, which cinched at the waist, and which felt like the perfect gift to myself on the day that my book was arriving into the world after so many years of work. 

Later, it was time for the main attraction. I was due to appear at Greenlight Bookstore, in Brooklyn, just before seven, to read from my book before friends and strangers. The room was full. There was cake—butterscotch-flavored, from Red Gate Bakery. There was wine. Afterwards, I left with a magnum of Champagne and just enough cake to enjoy in bed. In my room—my perfect staycation, it turned out—I opened a book and made a toast: to my book, to the City That Never Sleeps, to bubbles, to cake, to all of the things that make life and travel worth it. 

It was hard to leave the next day. The bed: so soft and inviting. I ordered breakfast in bed, runny eggs and toast, a plate of bacon, a side of fruit, coffee, a mimosa. I took a last fleeting glimpse at my favorite city from the window, packed my spare belongings, and hailed a cab, watched New York clip by, all the while knowing that it would not be long before I would return, and hoping that Fouquet’s would have a room available when I did.