THE FOUR SEASONS
As Henry Kissinger might say, power is the ultimate appetizer.
Obligatory after Studio—even if you’d somehow lost your appetite.
Where Le Cirque’s Sirio Maccioni learned everything he knew.
It still ain’t over—Elaine don’t sing.
The best tables in the front? (Media people will believe anything.)
Eighties exotica that (like shoulder pads and kohl eyes) found a second life a decade down the road.
Brian McNally’s boîte was superheated by supermodels. Who could think about food—or paying the bills—when surrounded by such beauty?
Warhol held court here. John Lennon had his last meal here. Puff Daddy made its hot-and-sour soup hot again in the late nineties.
The McNally brothers’ Ur-bistro, it spawned a thousand others.
When can you get a reservation if you aren’t a mover or shaker or celebrated private investigator? How does never sound?
When Tina was queen of Condé Nast, this was her domain.
Where the ladies who lunch went for dinner.