The restaurant at the Mondrian Soho in New York is like a giant, airy, idealized greenhouse. There are gorgeous pots with gorgeous plants, and cut flowers, and crystal urns and, above all, sunshine, flooding down in an entirely un-NYC way. The walls are lined with shiny-painted cupboards overflowing with flowers, pots, shears, etc. At a recent luncheon for Salma Hayek’s new beauty line, I was content to ogle the decor; I figured, Salma Hayek has bigger fish to fry in this room.

Suddenly, the sea of buzzing operatives parted: “You!” boomed a deep, distinctive voice. “I do your makeup!” Salma Hayek, in a clingily flattering black outfit, enormous heels and tumbling, voluminous hair, grabbed my chin and angled it just so, her gigantic brown eyes assessing me with a coolly professional gaze. She angled me toward a blinding shaft of sunlight. The buzzing operatives crowded in. “I do one half of your face,” she intoned. Salma Hayek somehow manages to combine vehement sternness with great warmth. She unscrewed a tube to reveal a metal rollerball. “Wait till you feel this on your skin! Eet is amaazing.” She looked at me. “No?” The rollerball was cooling; the skin under one eye felt, improbably, both dewy and tight.   

“My god! Look! Look, everyone!” With a flourish, Salma Hayek revealed her handiwork: “You!” The crowd gasped. “Someone get her a mirror!” she shouted triumphantly.

Can a tiny chilly cream make that much of a difference? Reader, at least on me, 
it can. There was a striking improvement on the rollerballed undereye. The other undereye languished, aged and wretched, waiting for the magic touch of Salma Hayek, which never came, because she had to get up and make her touchingly heartfelt speech. (Which blew me away: She created hair products, makeup and skincare with all kinds of miracle, never-before-used ingredients from Mexico.) As you can tell, I could not have been more ensorcelled by the movie star/makeup artist/entrepreneur.