“I need you to take on a contract for me,” Watanabe says. “But in this case, instead of coordinating a facilitative approach in the light of the client’s tactical aims, you will take a prescriptive approach in implanting strategic objectives as part of a processual intervention in executive leadership.”
“I’ve done that before, as a junior associate, but it’s dangerous,” DiCaprio says with raspy wistfulness. He has a vision of privatized British hospitals crumbling into a foamy sea. “But the only way to do it is to infiltrate the client’s internal management consulting group to convince the board that it’s their own strategic objectives they’re implementing.”
Ever had an ex that made your stomach turn but couldn’t stop looking up his or her Facebook profile? In the digital age, it seems harder to avoid your ex online than it would be if you still shared an apartment. Short of performing a lobotomy on one’s brain, resisting the urge to lurk on their internet presence proved to be quite the challenge.
“This sauce is really good,” she said. “It’s so Jean-Georges. He does this French-and-Asian thing.” She warned me that she would need a few seconds to figure out its precise ingredients. (She refused to divulge them, on the ground that Vongerichten would consider the recipe “a trade secret.” I later learned from one of the waiters that the ingredients include powdered English mustard and soy sauce.) “It’s so complex,” she said. “It makes me smile.”
The New Yorker goes undercover with a Michelin food critic, whose mere existence is so secretive that the author is forced to refer to her as M, which is the initial of a name that isn’t even hers.
I couldn’t help but think constantly of Anton Ego, the food critic nemesis in Pixar’s Ratatouille, while reading this article.