Reinaldo Herrera and I met around 35 years ago, while sitting opposite each other in fashion publicist Eleanor Lambert’s Fifth Avenue living room, overlooking the Central Park Reservoir.
We were flung together that afternoon to serve on the committee convened annually to finalize the winners of the International Best-Dressed List. This was my first appearance at the yearly secret synod, but probably something like his 20th, and so he eyed this callow newcomer with suspicion.
