13 March 2008

Confessions of a Vegetarian Banker

It's not easy being a vegetarian banker. And just because you'll oft catch me at Smith & Wollensky’s doesn't mean I've given in. It's just that not many deals are made over braised tofu and sesame seitan in this here world, Ma. Mergers and acquisitions are a sanguine affair. Lots of red wine, dark stouts and dry-aged Kobe cuts. These guys are savages and I can't get caught out there. But if I have another iceberg wedge, I swear your dear author is gonna take a hostage.

Yes, that's me in the window of Bobby Van's. Yes, hi, hello. It's me. Oh, do you think these guys would've agreed to a meeting at the macrobiotic buffet on Bleecker? Maybe we could pull the Mercedes up to Crif Dogs on Saint Marks and all pile out for a few veggie dogs with free range sauerkraut? Ain't gonna happen.

Listen Ma, one wrong move with these guys and they'll think I'm a commie or worse yet, a liberal! And around here being a liberal is worse than wearing a wire for The Journal. They'll burn me in effigy for all to see right here in the middle of the day in Pershing Square!

So if you see me hanging around Michael Jordan’s after work, alone and nursing a Jack and Ginger, watching ants race to their 5:05 to Darien, I'm only waiting for the maître d' to check if they've got any T-bones to bring home for my dog.

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