Every day is opening night.

Ladies and gents,

And so, with a final burst of hairspray, adrenaline, and institutional champagne, another Broadway season has folded itself into memory. The Tonys have been handed out, the speeches have been clipped for posterity, the gowns have gone back to whichever climate-controlled vaults receive them, and the rest of us are left to nurse our corns and feelings.

But before anyone could call it a season, there was one last pilgrimage to make: uptown, to The Carlyle, where John Gore, Rick Miramontez, and Jamie DuMont once again threw the Tony night party against which all other awards show after parties must measure themselves.

This particular bacchanalia has become so much a part of Broadway lore that it now feels less like an after-party than a rite of passage. It began, as the best traditions do, with just enough glamour and just enough poor judgment. The first incarnation was a far more intimate affair, tucked into the Carlyle’s Royal Suite — the very rooms where Diana once stayed with young William and Harry.

As the party grew, it migrated to the larger duplex Empire Suite, acquiring along the way the atmosphere of a mythic after-hours embassy, only with better lighting. And now, all these years later, the thing has spilled far beyond any one set of rooms. It takes over the entire main floor of the hotel and the mezzanine — all the Carlyle’s public spaces pressed into theatrical service.

There is still, I’m told, a suite for those lucky enough to gain access. That, my dears, is show business in miniature. Everyone is inside, and still everyone wants to get further inside.

By two in the morning, the party was in full swing. Megan Thee Stallion swept through the place with the serene command of someone who understands both fame and posture. Nicole Scherzinger glowed in that way only certain divas can. Sarah Paulson was there, of course, congratulating Joe Mantello on his win. Julia Louis-Dreyfus arrived first. Now that is star behavior. Prompt. Present. Ready.

The great pleasure of this party is not merely who is in the room, but how the room rearranges itself around them. One minute you are standing near a Tony winner, the next you are shoulder-to-shoulder with a 24-year-old media buyer from an ad agency. This is Broadway at its best: a tiny kingdom where Megan Thee Stallion and Gary Thee Intern both reach for the same caviar-loaded canapés.

The Café Carlyle was transformed into a martini bar, with a bespoke menu crafted by Oedipus stars Mark Strong and Lesley Manville (the latter’s newly minted Tony ever present).

Christine Schwarzman created and hosted a discotheque in the mezzanine, complete with a giant cake shaped like a Tony statuette. I’m told she spent most of the night on the dance floor, which is where the party eventually migrated to. Though when I spotted her, she was leaning glamorously against the wall, chatting with her Schmigadoon! co-producer, Lorne Michaels – each clutching the biggest prize of the night.

Then came the reunions and revelations. Tom Felton and Daniel Radcliffe found one another in Bemelman’s, just as Rachel Dratch climbed on the storied piano for a number with Billy Stritch on the keys and Jim Caruso singing back-up. Darren Criss must have been inspired by the scene, as he soon sat at the piano to perform “Don’t Stop Believin’”—in a style more “Glee” than “Sopranos.”

Eventually, the inner sanctum of the inner sanctum made its way upstairs to the suite, sporting special wristbands that guaranteed entry. Young industrylings engaged in a kind of wristband trading more intricate than any prison barter system.

By seven in the morning, the suite was still busy, because of course it was. And any hierarchy – real or imagined – melted into a hazy, communal bliss.

That, really, is the genius of the Carlyle party. It is exclusive enough to make people scheme, sprawling enough to make everyone feel included, and warm enough to remind even the most cynical among us that the theater, for all its rivalries and seating charts, is still a community.

Tidbits from around town…

Saw Gayle King at Michael’s asking if the Cobb salad still “had its old snap.”

Spied Carmelo Anthony in a linen shirt outside La Tazza D’Oro posing for selfies with fans.

Caught Steve Martin in a museum gift shop examining a branded pencil sharpener with intensity.

As always, a toast of something sparkling to you and yours!

Kisses,