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seriously discussing the animals. I guessed most of them were the “locavores”—­farmers, restaurant owners, chefs and eager foodies who advocated eating local foods, in season.
    â€œLet’s go meet some of them,” I said to Gus.
    I was right. We introduced ourselves to a portly, smiling man who turned out to be the manager of the local farmers’ market. His enthusiasm showed in his spirited pitch for the farmers’ cooperative in New Hope.
    But I heard a familiar voice nearby and turned to recognize a popular Philadelphia restaurant owner, Tommy Rattigan. As usual, Tommy wore overalls—­one buckle undone—­over a thermal shirt and with acid green kitchen clogs. He seemed to be trying hard to establish his clothing choices as a kind of trademark look while he worked to make himself into a celebrity chef. He caught my eye and raised a glass to me.
    I took that as a positive signal and excused myself to go to him. Gus followed.
    â€œTommy’s sister, Marybeth, was married to Swain Starr,” I explained to Gus while he shook Tommy’s thick hand. I decided not to go into Tommy’s wealthy upbringing, or ask why he felt compelled to attend today’s event, since his sister’s divorce from our host was still raw, by all accounts. Wearing his clogs and his overalls, Tommy obviously preferred to play down his moneyed roots—­and probably his connection to Swain’s previous marriage. So I said merely, “Tommy’s new restaurant is getting a lot of attention.”
    â€œWe’re all about meat,” Tommy said, leaping to the opportunity to pitch his latest culinary venture. “Charcuterie in the winter, lamb in the spring—­we’ll be doing seasonal features. Popularity-­wise, it’s going to be big.”
    â€œWait.” Gus snapped his fingers. “I know about you. You come from the Howie’s Hotties family!”
    Tommy’s expression hardened with resentment. “Uh, yes, Howard Rattigan, my grandfather, built his reputation making hot dogs.”
    Tommy was underselling his family’s success. His family had, in fact, made millions of hot dogs before selling its name to a giant food consortium that paid the Rattigans a fortune for the right to use their name and the logo of Howie’s Hotties—­a dancing sausage that ended his little hopping routine by flinging himself into the waiting arms of a voluptuous bun for a decidedly sensual snuggle.
    â€œYes!” said Gus with enthusiasm. “Howie even looked like a pig!”
    Tommy flushed. The family resemblance was apparent in him, too—­the snoutish nose, the deep-­set eyes that disappeared into his fleshy pink face in little squiggles.
    â€œIt was great marketing,” Gus said to me. “Like the chicken bloke who looked like a chicken? Howie looked just like his product! And what a marvelous American success story. He started out as a pig farmer, then pushed a cart around Philadelphia and gradually made a mint selling hot dogs.”
    â€œHot dogs are a form of charcuterie,” Tommy said seriously. “I’ve been the beneficiary of my grandfather’s financial windfall, but also philosophy-­wise. I’ve adopted his conviction that the best cuts of meat make the best meals. I’m establishing my own brand, separate from Howie’s Hotties. My restaurants will be much more high-­end.”
    Gus was grinning with delight. “What do they say about sausage? That nobody wants to watch how it’s made?”
    To rescue Tommy from embarrassment, I said, “When he opened his new restaurant, Tommy was a huge hit with his winter-­foraging menu.”
    Gus looked politely mystified.
    â€œTo enhance our meats, I’m becoming an urban forager,” Tommy explained. “Just last week, I found wild fennel in a Burger King parking lot. I used it in a memorable pasta.”
    Gus belatedly