“You had your make-up done, too?” my fiancé, Jack, asks as I slide into the Town Car. “How much did getting ready for this dinner set you back?”

“I just wanted to look beautiful for you,” I say, giving him a peck on the lips.

“Well,” he says, “I’m just glad to see that this has nothing to do with the fact that we’re having dinner with your ex-boyfriend and his movie-star wife.”

“No,” I say, laughing, “of course not!”

“Yes,” he says, putting his hand on my leg, “of course.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re down in the Meatpacking District, pulling up to Pastis. Ah, Pastis-a restaurant which would be considered a casual French bistro if it was not for the fact that it is a huge celebrity hangout and has a three month waiting list for a reservation.

The second my foot hits the cobblestone street, I hear my ex-boyfriend, Trip, call out my name. He and his wife, Ava, are already ensconced at one of the outside tables. Getting a reservation at Pastis is hard enough, but getting an outside table is nearly impossible. Of course, within the first five minutes of conversation, Trip drops the fact that this is their regular table.

You know those celebrities who go out to restaurants at odd hours and take tables in the corner, facing inside, desperate not to be seen or recognized? Trip and Ava are not those kind of celebrities.

“So, I said to DiCaprio,” Trip says, making no effort at all to lower his voice, reveling in the fact that this causes all of the nearby tables to turn and look at him, “if you don’t do it, you’re insane!” To which he and Ava laugh hysterically and Jack and I merely smile politely.

Eating with Trip and Ava is incredibly difficult. Every so often, you see the flash of a bulb go off and you just know that a papparrazo somewhere out there has just taken your picture. You feel the constant glare of camera phones on you as you try to take a bite of your steak sandwich. I’m desperately trying to eat in an attractive way, which is no easy feat, I assure you.