The Tiny Big SisterLast week, the much-maligned stylist Rachel Zoe arrived in New York. She stood in the winter garden at Bottino, all five feet and a few inches tall, in an involuntarily oversized one-shoulder negative-size-four number. Her honey-colored limbs hung limp with several pounds of silver and gold chain attached at the wrist and finger level.Ms. Zoe, who wears her blond hair boob-length and curled in that done-but-not sort of way, her skin resplendent and metallic, her eyes lined and her lobes bedangled, looks simultaneously older and younger than her 33 years. She has the sprightly, gamine physical presence and vocabulary of a teenager, but the steely-eyed, drawn look of someone who has not let anything interfere with her intentions.

She is a “celebrity stylist,” an invisible figure who works to bolster the illusion that stars are always star-like.But in this increasingly competitive tabloid market, which exhibits an ever-growing fascination with the more banal aspects of celebrity life, Ms. Zoe’s position has grown in significance, and it has pushed her out of the background and into the limelight herself. Each week, at least four of her well-taught denizens (Mischa, Mary-Kate, Rachel, Nicole, Lindsay and Jessica, to name but a few) occupy prime real estate in the glossy weeklies. Photographed on their way to the supermarket, the gym, the inevitable Starbucks or an envelope opening, they appear unnervingly, offhandedly primed for their constant close-ups.Ms. Zoe has been accused of styling her young wards in her own image.

Her most egregious offense has been encouraging them to lose considerable amounts of weight over short periods of time, and her least has been forgetting to remind her miniature self-tanners to wash their hands.“You wanna know the difference between L.A. and New York?” she asked as she sat down at a table in the far corner of the restaurant, flanked on one side by her husband, Roger Berman, and with Jan-Patrick Schmitz, the florid C.E.O. of Montblanc, on the other. “We just left, like, 85-degree weather for this!”

In her hand was a full glass of champagne. She set it down near her plate, poured a glass of water, then a glass of wine, and so the triumvirate remained, untouched, until the end of dinner. So did the plates of antipasti, which lined up like soldiers at her elbow. She passed those on politely and continued to explain: “I love New York; I used to live here. I’ve only been out there for seven years. I love coming back—it’s just that I don’t really miss it.”Her husband, whose arm dangled affectionately (not possessively) around her shoulder for the duration of dinner, offered a similar explanation but threw in the words beach, beer and buddies.

“I love this stuff!” Ms. Zoe exclaimed, fingering her finery. “I totally walked into Montblanc today and was like, ‘I like this, this, this, this …. Ohmigod, I like everything.’ And look how well it all goes together!” Mr. Schmitz smiled and concurred that the 20 or so pieces she wore—rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings—complemented each other very nicely.“Accessories are soooo important,” Ms. Zoe continued. “In fact, I often buy my clothes around my accessories.” The black jersey dress she wore? “Of course! I got it today,” she said.She tugged on the necklace around her husband’s neck. “I mean, even guys can wear this stuff.” Mr. Berman smiled and lifted his free arm to show off the plate-sized watch on his wrist. “I love that watch!” she squealed. Ms. Zoe is simultaneously effusive and controlled, giggly and stern. “Actually, honey, I want to wear it tonight,” she added, and just like that she undid the strap and put in on her own wrist, which is nearly half the size of the watch.

Does Mr. Zoe reap the sartorial rewards of being married to a stylist? “Well, she’s not styling me per se, but I will occasionally leave the house wearing something and she’ll just look at me and go, ‘You cannot go outside wearing that!’’It would be foolish to waste an opportunity to solicit free advice from the woman who speaks to her “little sisters” Nicole and Lindsay about five times a day.

“There are four things,” she offered begrudgingly. “One: a really good coat. Fur is nice, though not necessary. Two: a good pair of boots. I have like 85 pairs. It’s just sooooo important to have good boots. Three: a good bag. I mean, I have every Chloé bag, but it doesn’t need to be that.” (Ms. Zoe later confessed that Phoebe Philo, the Chloé designer, is a “genius” but that the line is “way overpriced.”) She continued her enumeration. “And four: a really good pair of sunglasses.”She leaned in. “You know, most of my girls are really smart, and they never mess up. I mean, they can totally dress themselves, but the other day I sent a girl off on press junkets, and we packed all her bags together, and then I saw her in some picture wearing this Y.S.L. dress with riding boots! It was so humiliating.”

Ms. Zoe’s eyes lit up as Robert Verdi, the celebrity stylist best known for his riotous 2004 Emmys commentary, bounded into the room, requisite sunglasses perched on his bare head. They squealed, said hello and discussed their recent trip to Chicago together. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asked. “Honey!” he said. “I just came to see you. I’ve got to go.” They kissed.When The Transom asked whether Mr. Verdi and Ms. Zoe were acquainted through their mutual profession, she said, “Welllll, he’s not really a stylist. He’s more, y’know, like television.”Once dinner was finished, the guests gathered in front of the restaurant to smoke cigarettes. Ms. Zoe ran out and made sure everyone would be ushered to the nightclub Cain, where the remainder of the evening would take place. “You guys are all coming?” she pleaded, and helped to usher the last remaining guests into cars. A guest begged exhaustion, and Ms. Zoe said, “Well, isn’t that always the excuse?” Then she winked.—Jessica Joffe