Last night's party celebrating "I Was Told There'd Be Cake," the debut collection of essays from Sloane Crosley, book publicist-turned-author and general book darling, had cake in abundance, courtesy of the Treats Truck parked outside the Helmut Lang boutique in the Meatpacking District. It was a funny mix: sprinkles, deconstructed outerwear in neutral hues, Paula Froelich of Page Six, the boys from Rag &Bone. But Crosely, 29, whose friends in high places started her on her writing path (an editor at the Village Voice suggested she turn a mass e-mail into an essay), seemed comfortable with the assortment of guests—for the most part. "I think I'm a pretty fashionable person," she confided. "But I was in the Condé Nast building today, and I felt like a schlep. I was like, 'Why doesn't someone just hose me down and re-douse me in Chanel when I'm done? I feel like an idiot.'" She paused, and amended, "Not even Chanel…just nice."