Oh, the tyranny of style. Without it, San Francisco might just as well be...say, Seattle. Or Portland (ugh). Yet on one particular week earlier this summer, the fashion math was daunting even for those slaves of style: four days of lunches, dinners, and fashion shows left only those with closets the size of most people's apartments standing tall (albeit in heels). Then there's that oh-so-subtle pressure to buy, buy, buy a designer's pieces—that is why one's invited, after all...

Who was up to the challenge? Unsurprisingly, Tatiana Sorokko, whose devotion to all things stylish doubles as competitive sport. She kicked off the hectic week with an exhibition of her friend and couturier Ralph Rucci's works of art at her and her husband Serge's art gallery downtown. The Russian jet-setter swathed herself in a long, graphic black-and-white Rucci number that was inspired by one of Rucci's paintings, and stood before that artwork to pose for a photographer from the L.A. Times. Legion of Honor curator Robert Johnson was there, as well as Chronicle editor Phil Bronstein, who dropped by to meet up with his newish romantic interest, model Tina Spangler.

The real stylefest began immediately following the exhibition, at a dinner for 34 at the Fifth Floor restaurant thrown by the Sorokkos. This included Susan Casden of Los Angeles, by way of Hong Kong, Saigon, and Singapore, the sole Chanel couture customer in Tinseltown; the irrepressible Becca Cason Thrash of Houston, who came dressed in a woven leather Rucci jacket; and legendary Los Angeles designer James Galanos, who famously dressed Nancy Reagan. Among the home team: Denise Hale, Karen Caufield, and girl-around-town Shannon Bavaro.

At the cocktail hour, Casden, a former resident of Hong Kong, tried out her Chinese on the Socialist; impressively, she nailed the tones. And Thrash had the table in stitches when she talked about what she got for her birthday a few years back. Her husband had stared into her eyes and told her, "I'd love to buy you some diamond earrings." In response, she purred, in a charming Texan drawl, "The only things I want near my ears...are stitches!" It was a happy birthday for all.

The next night, everyone headed over to the Academy of Art University's graduation fashion show, which honored Parisian designer Azzedine Alaïa. You may recall how in the eighties, fashionable women couldn't get enough of his molded-to-your-body pieces in stretch fabrics. Christine Suppes, dressed in Christian Lacroix couture, and her husband, Patrick, hosted a dinner for Alaïa in the upstairs room at Farallon that drew much of the same crowd as the night before, as well as Har­per's Bazaar editrix Glenda Bailey and her partner, Stephen Sumner, Wilkes Bashford, and Academy of Art's Elisa Stephens. Carla Sozzani, the wunderkind behind Milan's designer emporium 10 Corso Como, was there (she was also honored at the fashion show and dinner). Vanessa Getty, dressed in a white Grecian Alaïa number, came with her mother, Maryann Opperman, who polished up her French with the designer. (The diminutive designer speaks little English.)

The following night, Rucci was treated to what only a few visitors to San Francisco experience: an all-male dinner (except for the hostess) given by Denise Hale. The designer, who was nominated for a CFDA award (the fashion industry's Oscar) this year for womenswear designer of the year, is among a dying breed of gentlemanly couturiers. With manners as polished as his couture, he wore a sharp Ralph Lauren navy suit and a custom-made Charvet shirt. So it must have been a shock when he found himself subject to a torrent of questions (naughty, naughty) by Denise's boys. A good sport, Rucci appeared unruffled by the experience. He would be the toast of another dinner, held the next night at the Sorokkos', for a Harper's Bazaar photo shoot. The event was the climax to a relentlessly stylish week, what with Stanlee Gatti doing the table in an enchanted forest theme, chef Michael Tusk of Quince preparing the meal in the kitchen, and a photographer on hand to shoot the dinner and the guests, who had their hair and makeup done on-site while sipping '85 Krug.

In contrast, the symphony's biannual Black and White Ball wasn't exactly a fashion parade, but that's not the point. With 10,000 in attendance—500 alone at the $1,000-a-seat patrons' dinner—the event is now a civic institution and a major philanthropic and PR extravaganza. The ball's chair, Patricia Sprincin, and her cochairs, Anne Herrera (wife of city attorney Dennis) and Anette Harris, brought a sea of new faces to the event. Not that there weren't some of the usual symphony heavyweights circulating in the main tent. Symphony board president John Goldman and his wife, Marcia, made the rounds, as did Genelle Relfe, See's Candies' Chuck and Donna  Huggins, Skyy Spirits' Maurice Kanbar, and former Black and White Ball chair Laura King Pfaff with Tom Kelley. Sprincin kicked off the party in City Hall by dancing the first waltz, before inviting her son Phillip, a lieutenant in the marines back from Iraq, for another waltz. And the Socialist's favorite new "it" girl, Cameron Phleger, made the scene.

With the main parties packed wall-to-wall, the crowd-averse continued their festivities in self-created sanctuaries. Some made it to Room 200 (that would be Da Gav's office) and took a tour guided by those with, literally, the keys to the city. As you might expect, though, the Socialist avoided the overtly political and drifted over to where all the fashion addicts congregated: the guest-list-only Louis Vuitton cabana. As a certain Serbian stepmother is given to saying...Naturally, darling!