We would never speak like that in real life,” Radice assures me
It was after she reached about 100,000 followers, many of whom had come from a viral video she made about “what your favorite fashion house says about you,” that brands started approaching her for sponsorships. Though she won’t tell me her typical rate – most influencers don’t discuss their finances publicly – she says she has about 30 companies emailing her about deals on a busy month, and posts about one advertisement a week.
We, alongside her 19-year-old pal https://hookupapp.org/best-lesbian-hookup-apps/ Davis Burleson (follower count: 360,000), are headed to a party hosted by , an account run by two other early-20s blonde women notorious on the app for reviewing scene-y restaurants in raspy, rapid-fire voiceovers, who’ve shut down a restaurant in Little Italy to host a party for the TikTok creator crowd. “This is about to be so much socialization,” Audrey says darkly in the Uber there, wearing a polka-dot wrap dress and ballet flats.
Inside, there are custom cocktails, an enormous DJ booth, and between 25 and 50 people, many of whom know each other from other VIP List events
Audrey introduces me to a carousel of beautiful early 20-somethings, among them Lauren Wolfe (follower count: 531,000) and Sophia Lacorte (579,000). Upon learning I’m a journalist, no less than three people bring up a recent article in the Cut on Victoria Paris, another NYC TikToker who they swear is super sweet IRL but who came off in the piece as slightly obnoxious. The subtext here is: Please be nicer to us!
It’s easy, though, to be nice to this crowd. “Everyone’s so nice,” says basically everyone when I ask about, well, anyone. “In LA it’s like, ‘Oh, I love your shoes’ and then you turn around and they’re like, ‘Fuck your shoes,’” Sophia says. The TikTokers have a 40-person group text called NYC Babes where they share party invites and other relevant gossip, and assure me that it’s much different than in LA. “People actually have jobs here,” one girl tells me, even though so far most of the people I’ve met do not.
“I work five hours a day and make two times what I made in finance as an intern [$80,000],” says Violet Witchel, who runs a cooking account and has 1.6 million followers. She’s currently an economics major at Vassar, so when I ask what she hopes to do with her TikTok fame, she’s got a plan: “I’ll probably spend four to five years on TikTok, max – any social media platform flattens out – and then after that join an A- to B-round startup, get a fat equity package, become CMO, make a ton of money, buy my first house, max out my 401k, max out the Roth IRA, every tax-free entity you could think of. And then be CMO for five, six years, get the equity, maybe IPO if you’re lucky. And then a few kids, hopefully the husband makes money. So yeah, we’ll see.”
At a crowded and quite loud table in the corner of the patio, I finally snag an audience with the VIPs themselves, Meg Radice and Audrey Jongens of (follower count: 366,000). Over the past few weeks, they’ve been the target of many, many parody videos that parrot their signature rapacious restaurant review style. Or, as one creator put it, “It’s fucking white NYU girls with cellphones who go like, ‘If you don’t go to Via Carota you should kill yourself.’”
The jokes bothered Radice and Jongens (who are not, in fact, NYU girls, but do somewhat fit the stereotype) at first, but now they’re laughing along. “Our online persona is a complete exaggeration. Either way, it worked: In June, she quit her job in wealth management at Wellington Shields, and both she and Jongens say they’re making “more than six figures.” Restaurants now approach them about revamping their menu and decor to be more enticing to girls like them, they say; that’s how they scored the location for tonight’s party.