I spent the afternoon in Marie-Antoinette’s old salon at the Hôtel de Crillon—as one does after a seismic fashion month—for a tea party that felt like Versailles meets a fever dream of French decadence. The room was drenched in pastel perfection: frothy chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and porcelain teacups so delicate they looked afraid of being touched. If the walls could talk, they’d probably sigh in French.
Manolo Blahnik had taken over the space for an ode to the original It Girl, Marie-Antoinette herself. It’s part of a new collaboration with the Crillon, celebrating her flair for excess, elegance, and the fine art of being slightly extra. Of course, I came dressed for the part—in the most heavenly pair of Manolo slippers, printed in ornate lillies that blended into the décor like a secret. They were so perfect they deserved their own seat at the table (see photo).
We were served the Marie-Antoinette Afternoon Tea, which, frankly, could have doubled as a couture tasting menu. There was a truffle croque that redefined the concept of “sandwich,” duck foie gras with chutney so smooth it should have been illegal, and tiny religieuses filled with rose and raspberry cream that looked like something you’d find in a jewel box. The lemon and Earl Grey tart had main-character energy. And the blackberry-and-violet brioche? Utter poetry—soft, fragrant, slightly naughty.
I sat next to Charlotte Groeneveld, a.k.a. The Fashion Guitar, and we did what any self-respecting fashion girl pops would do: Gossip, sip rosé champagne, and silently rank the pastries. It was all very civilized—which is to say, delightfully unserious. In the adjoining boudoir, Blahnik’s capsule collection glowed under soft light: pastel mules with jeweled buckles, silk slides that looked stolen from Marie-Antoinette (the Sofia Coppola one, obviously). You could almost hear the rustle of taffeta and the click of court shoes on marble floors.
As the afternoon melted into gold light over Place de la Concorde, I realized the whole thing was gloriously absurd—and completely divine. Only in Paris could you wear rococo Manolos, drink champagne at 3 p.m., and feel like a minor aristocrat with excellent taste in shoes.
