Spare the forecasts of gloom and doom in 2008. At Prudential Douglas Elliman’s holiday fête, held in the Upper East Side’s Pierre Hotel on Dec. 19, it was time to celebrate the year past, which in Manhattan, by many measures, produced record-setting prices.
And rejoice the partygoers did. Under a pair of status-affirming chandeliers in the Cotillion Room, women in pearls and men with pocket squares — some of the hundreds of invited brokers, bankers, developers, appraisers and attorneys — beamed and dined on lobster tails and cuts of prime rib.
Wearing a dark suit and power-red tie, the firm’s chairman, Howard Lorber, descended a pair of marble steps while a pianist vamped on “Winter Wonderland.” He greeted Donald Trump Jr., whose print tie and checked shirt, with charcoal suit, was a brash counterpoint to the more staid apparel around him.
Under the din of music and the hum of conversation, not to mention the chorus of well-wishers congratulating Lorber on a commission-generous 12 months, their 15-minute talk was all but inaudible. Holiday greetings, though, radiated toward president and CEO Dottie Herman when she swooped into the room in an understated black dress, high heels and gold bracelet. Afterward, poses were struck, pictures were taken and the piano slid into “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.”
Later, by a table heaped with lilies and strawberries, Faith Hope Consolo, known for matching trendy shops and hip neighborhoods, and sporting a diamond-studded gold choker, was overheard saying that Prudential would hand out double bonuses for employees this year. (And her team, she hoped, would be at the top of the nice, not naughty, list.)
Can a company party’s size determine a business’s health? If so, Prudential has enjoyed a 25 percent boost; last year’s party, at Cipirani 42nd Street, saw 1,200 invitees, but there were 1,500 revelers this go-around. And unlike the year-ago venue, the Pierre’s multi-chambered layout — with blue-sky trompe l’oeil ceilings recalling a Gilded Age spin on the Petit Trianon — offered plenty of private space for one-on-one chats.
Over spool-size hamburgers in the rotunda, which showcased a 25-foot gold-lit Christmas tree, for example, two brokers tried to come up with the word to describe a stingy third colleague, who “wasn’t pulling his weight,” before settling on “curmudgeon.”
But the new year was also a decorative theme. In the ballroom, next to risers set off by thick balusters and under eight winking disco balls, revelers boogied to a band thumping through a Barry White song.
“Welcome to Our Rockin’ New Year’s Eve,” read a black-scripted placard by the door, in an ode to Dick Clark,
although the feathered tiaras sported by some spaghetti-strapped women seemed distinctly Jazz Age.
At the end, by the coat check, one last treat awaited: a table of bins (grab a scoop! fill a bag!) teemed with chocolate-covered pretzels and marshmallow snowmen. “I feel like we’re like kids in a candy store,” one guest gushed while shoveling Hershey’s Kisses. Indeed.