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licking the ramekin clean.” He handed the bread basket to a waiter with a blond ponytail (male—everyone at the table was male except for Adrienne, Caren, and the young bar back who was hanging on to Duncan’s arm). The ponytailedwaiter—name?—tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it in the mustard. He rolled his eyes like he was having an orgasm.
The appropriate response,
Adrienne thought. But remembering her breakfast she guessed he wasn’t faking it.
    “The other basket contains our world-famous savory doughnuts,” Thatcher said. He whipped the cloth off like a magician, revealing six golden-brown doughnuts. Doughnuts? Adrienne had been too nervous to think about eating all day, but now her appetite was roused. After the menu meeting, they were going to have a family meal.
    The doughnuts were deep-fried rings of a light, yeasty, herb-flecked dough. Chive, basil, rosemary. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. Savory doughnuts. Who wouldn’t stand in line for these? Who wouldn’t beg or steal to access the private phone line so that they could make a date with these doughnuts?
    “If someone wants bread and butter—and it happens every night—we also offer warm Portuguese rolls. But the guest has to ask for it. Most people will be eating out of your hand after these goodies.”
    Thatcher disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later, he was out, carrying another plate. “All VIPs get the same canapé,” he said. “Years ago, Fee knocked herself out dreaming up precious little
amuses-bouches,
but then we came up with the winner. Chips and dip.” He set the plate on the table next to Adrienne and she nearly wept with gratitude. He was standing beside her now, so she could study his watch. Her suspicions were confirmed: It was a Patek Philippe, silver, rectangular face, black leather band. The watch matched Thatcher’s shoes, the Gucci loafers, black with sleek silver buckles. Adrienne had to admit, when he was dressed up, the man had a certain elegance. “You’re getting the idea, now, right? We have pretzels and mustard. We have doughnuts. And if we really, really like you, we have chips and dip. This is fun food. It isn’t stuffy. It isn’t going to make anyone nervous. The days of the waiter as a snob, the days of the menu as an
exam
the guest has to
pass
are over. But at the same time, we’re not talking about cellophanebags here, are we? These are hand-cut potato chips with crème fraîche and a dollop of beluga caviar. This is the gift we send out. It’s better than Christmas.”
    He offered the plate to Adrienne and she helped herself to a long, golden chip. She scooped up a tiny amount of the glistening black caviar. Just tasting it made her feel like a person of distinction.
    Adrienne hoped the menu meeting might continue in this vein—with the staff tasting each ambrosial dish. But there wasn’t time; service started in thirty minutes. Thatcher wanted to get through the menu.
    “The corn chowder and the shrimp bisque are cream soups, but neither of these soups is heavy. The Caesar is served with pumpernickel croutons and white anchovies. The chevre salad is your basic mixed baby greens with a round of breaded goat cheese, and the candy-striped beets are grown locally at Bartlett’s Farm. Ditto the rest of the vegetables, except for the portobello mushrooms that go into the ravioli—those are flown in from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. So when you’re talking about vegetables, you’re talking about produce that’s grown in Nantucket soil, okay? It’s not sitting for thirty-six hours on the back of a truck. Fee selects them herself before any of you people are even
awake
in the morning. It’s all very Alice Waters, what we do here with our vegetables.” Thatcher clapped his hands. He was revving up, getting ready for the big game. In the article in
Bon Appétit,
Thatcher had mentioned that the only thing he loved more than his restaurant was college football.
    “Okay, okay!” he