Paris and Nicole, Revisited
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glamour.comIt’s a Monday in November, and the piano player is winding down her afternoon set at the Polo Lounge inside the Beverly Hills Hotel.
The crowd is mixed—power-lunching alphas, thirsty tourists, pretty women with less pretty men. There are white tablecloths. There are clusters of magenta bougainvillea.
There are $46 McCarthy salads, which are really just Cobb salads named after a polo-playing millionaire. And there are Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie.
Whoever said Hollywood was dead was seriously disturbed. arrives first, 3 p.m. on the dot, casual in blue jeans and a ribbed mock turtleneck, hair tucked stylishly inside. “Hi, I’m Nicole,” she says with a warm hug.
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