Sometime after the World Economic Forum scrum, Billionaire Husband and I got to talking about the lousy amenities at the Steigenberger Grandhotel Belvedyre in Davos (the hard, European-size mattresses, for instance) and the silly village rule that allows no salt on the wintry roads. (Thus, we got to see the president of Liberia slipping along the Guggerbachstrasse before dinner. I mean, the woman has hardly ever seen snow. You'd think for this one week they'd relax their uptight Swiss-ish-ness and treat the sidewalk, so that Mme Sirleaf wouldn't break her neck.) But mostly we talked about the idea of inequality.
On the second day of the new year, the latest outpost of Sant Ambroeus opened its doors in New York's SoHo neighborhood. The sun was setting on a crucial day, but holding court in one of the restaurant's red leather banquettes was chef Marco Barbisotti, sipping from a cup of espresso, the very image of Italian sprezzatura. He has been through many of these openings before.