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always gives you an edge with a client, and also gets you noticed by the senior management guys. But it’s nothing more than that. I meet guys all the time who bragged about their accoutrements-pulling back their French cuffs to reveal their $5,000 Ro-lexes, or boring me about how they knew they had arrived on the day they bought themselves a Porsche 911. I act dutifully impressed, but secretly think: Winners aren’t measured by their five-grand watches. Winners are measured by just one thing: their ability to close.
    I handed the attendant ten bucks-a hefty tip, I know… but can you imagine working a toilet? I’ve always felt guilty about anyone who’s been reduced to a menial position. Maybe that’s because, deep down, I’ve always feared such lowly status-having spent two summers during college working at a fast-food joint; a brain-dead job in which I spent the day reiterating the question You want fries with the shake?
    The attendant blinked with shock when he saw the ten bucks. Then, slipping it into his breast pocket, he said, “You have a real good night, sir.”
    I moved on to the bar. It was all black marble and large silver mirrors, with a long, curved, zinc counter and opulent deco chairs. The mare was narkerl -with suits-mostly men in their thirties and forties, members of the deal-making executive class, all immaculately groomed, poking the air with their cigars to make their points.
    I found a quiet corner table and had just ordered a martini straight up when my phone rang. I answered it quickly.
    “It’s me.” I could barely make out Lizzie’s voice over the line’s static.
    “You on your way?” I asked, glancing at my watch and noticing that she was late.
    “Still stuck in a meeting at the Royalton.”
    “Who are you with?”
    “A prospective client. Miller, Beadle, and Smart. Midsize Wall Street brokerage house, trying to raise their profile.”
    “Sounds fun.”
    “If you like dealing with aging preppies.”
    “Want me to walk down and meet you there? It’s, what… only ten blocks.”
    “That’s okay-I should have things wrapped up here in half an hour. And then …”
    “Yeah?”
    “Well, I have big news,” she said in a mock-dramatic voice.
    “How big?” I said, playing along.
    “Earth-shatteringly big. Stop-the-presses big.”
    “The suspense is killing me.”
    She paused for effect.
    “I managed to get us a table at Patroon.”
    “Isn’t that the place I read about in New York last week?”
    “No, that’s the place I told you you should read about in New York..
    ..”
     
    “Some kind of hash house, right? With great cheeseburgers?”
     
    “
     
    “The new favorite watering hole of Manhattan’s power brokers,” if you believe everything you read.”
    “I never believe anything I read in New York. But Geena does. Was this her idea?”
    You score an A for perceptiveness. Of course, according to Geena, Ian’s also been dying to eat there, too.”
    Geena worked with Lizzie at Mosman & Keating, a midsize Public relations firm. Her husband, Ian, wrote an “Around Town” column for the Daily News. They were also members of the New
    York fast lane-and, much to our mutual amusement, liked to flash their glitzy credentials whenever possible.
    “They’re joining us at Patroon after dropping in at a gallery opening in SoHo of some fabulous show by this fabulous Aboriginal finger painter…”
    “And I bet the gallery’s going to be full of fabulous people. Lou Reed’s going to be there, right?”
    “Sure. Along with Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon. And Gore Vidal might drop in.”
    “Not to mention John F. Kennedy, Jr….”
    “Sharon Stone …”
    “And that old standby, the fabulous Dalai Lama.”
    We laughed.
    “Anyway, Geena is in awe,” Lizzie said.
    “Because Patroon ostensibly has a five-week waiting list for a table… which I just managed to circumvent thirty minutes ago.”
    “Dare I ask how?”
    “I’m the cleverest PR woman in New York, that’s