“What
kind of establishment do you think this is?”
“How
dare you insult me!”
“You
think you can get in with that?”
It’s
just after 8 p.m. on a balmy
summer Saturday and I’m heading toward one of New York’s most overbooked
restaurants, Balthazar, where celebrities regularly go to be celebrated and
where lay diners like me call a month in advance to try and secure a
reservation. I don’t have a reservation. I don’t have a connection. I don’t
have a secret phone number. The only things I have are a $20, a $50, and a $100
bill, neatly folded in my pocket.