Game, set, party: Smash Bash at The Pierre, in ace form

New York has a talent for turning sport into ceremony, and The Pierre has perfected the ritual. Smash Bash returned last Thursday, Aug. 21, 2025, and the Perrine Patio on 61st Street became a courtside fantasy—Central Park whispering at the edge, silver trays in fluent motion, and a crowd fluent in the dialects of both luxury and topspin. Tennis met tuxedo and neither blinked.

The headliners were deliciously mismatched in the way only great tennis can be: Alexander Bublik, the charismatic trickster who can turn a serve into stand-up and a rally into jazz; and Dayana Yastremska, a power-hungry baseline poet who treats the lines like destiny. Their presence did more than raise pulses—it sharpened the evening’s silhouette. Guests drifted from curated food stations to the ping-pong table where brave mortals traded spins with the pros, then floated back to smart cocktails and top-ranked pours. Somewhere between the laughter and the lobs, a mother-of-pearl spoon found its way to my hand—an extra dollop of caviar delivered with a smile and a conspiratorial wink. Proper fuel for a winning set.

The party’s clout rested on the hotel’s pedigree. The Pierre, A Taj Hotel is not merely elegant; it is prestige incarnate—nearly a century of white-gloved service, Les Clefs d’Or precision, and ballrooms that have hosted New York’s most unforgettable nights. The patio glowed at that gold-to-violet hour when the city looks privately lit just for you. It is impossible to stand there and not feel the featherweight of history: 1930 glamour, remixed with a wicked clean backhand.

Photo courtesy of The Pierre

Smash Bash has never been just another party. It is an access pass with manners. The proximity to the athletes—those private moments where a grip change becomes gospel or a grin becomes lore—creates a glamour that doesn’t need to scream. Two lucky attendees left with trophy tokens: a racket signed by Ludmila Samsonova and a signed tee from Alexander Bublik—proof that a perfect night can fit in your tote.

After the patio encore, I did what any civilized spectator would do: slipped into the bar for a victory lap—a lovely jazz duo holding the room in a gentle swing and an excellent martini, bone-cold and exact, just how I like it. Consider it The Pierre’s unofficial fifth set: quieter, moodier, completely irresistible.

Tennis people will tell you the game is geometry plus nerve. Smash Bash adds a third variable: style. The Pierre uses it like a precision instrument—seasonal fare with restraint, cocktails with memory, service so polished it disappears. Bublik’s mischief and Yastremska’s ferocity gave the night its pulse; The Pierre gave it its poise. It felt less like an event and more like a tradition renewing itself in public—intimate yet spectacular, playful yet exacting, luxurious without apology.