It was the first snowstorm of the season on the evening that I had dinner with Carmen Dell’Orefice, Iman, and Coco Rocha at the Waverly Inn in Greenwich Village. I arrived at 7:30 for our 8 o’clock rendezvous, but by the time Iman materialized five minutes later—her business meeting ended early—I had already been offered a drink by a fellow patron, who overheard my surname and convinced himself that I hail from Downton Abbey. “I should never have lent them that house,” I say, thanking him. I am loath to disappoint.

Iman and I settled into a discreet booth watched over by Ed Sorel’s witty and richly detailed portraits of legendary New Yorkers past. I first met Iman 20 years ago, and one of us, at least, has neglected to age. Coco arrived wearing the kind of La Dolce Vita eyeliner that made me happy I’d brought along a brush pen. A few minutes later, Carmen joined us, after spending the afternoon at the doctor’s office. “I’m in the best shape he’s ever seen for someone who is falling apart,” she joked.