Fetishism of the familiar in The New Yorker

I don't like knocking around someone else's work but I have to say I read Donald Antrim's story "Ever Since," I think that's the title, taken cleverly from the first two words of the story, which appears in current New Yorker, and was left thinking: Huh? What possibly led the New Yorker fiction editors, whoever they may be, to say this is one of the 50 best stories we'll see all year? No doubt the writing is good, better than good even: it's a story about a 30something guy, recently separated from long-time girlfriend, now at a book-debut party with new girlfriend who's a publicist working the event, they're in a west side loft owned by a wealthy poet, it's very crowded, there's lots of drinking, mingling, broken conversations, flirting, ultimately Jonathan leaves party, phones his ex, learns she's about to get married, tearfully returns, clumsily proposes to new girlfriend - all this but so what? I give Antrim credit, it's very difficult to orchestrate this kind of story, to keep the many characters and strands untangled. But honestly is there anything fresh and new in this piece? Is it, as with so many other NYer "stories," actually part of a longer piece that will give it proper context? Or did it appeal to NYer editors because it's such familiar turf to them? There was a time when the New Yorker could rightly be criticized for a fetishism of the exotic; I'm wondering if these days the editors are subject to a fetishism of the familiar.