The doors opened to a party, Wobley & Fowell & Coolidge & Shank & Worburn's annual client bashhellip. . . .
I had never seen so much food. Stations of delicacies were placed throughout the sprawl of bleached oak, Roy Liechtensteins, a four-square Warhol of Stanley Wobley and Harvey Fowell and open ceilings with exposed pipes. There was a blini bar. An enchilada bar. A raw bar. A savory waffle station. The inevitable roast beef and turkey carving station. A pasta bar, seven types: farfalle, pappardelle, linguini, orzo, gnocchi, penne, rigatoni, with your choice of nine sauces. An entire dessert room. And no one eating a thing, though drinking plenty of scotch. And over by the spiral staircase, a caviar station. Golden Osetra, jet-black beluga, lustrous gray Sevruga, bowls of chopped purple onion and brown toast squares. In the center of the table was an ice sculpture of Mt. Rushmore with the faces of the five named partners.
"Open your purse," Ben whispered, attempting to drop in a can of beluga.
"It'll just go to waste, believe me."
"I'm sure they have an arrangement with a soup kitchen."
"Yes, Koreen's Kitchen gets whatever the office manager doesn't pilfer." He stuffed a fistful of cheese pastries into my bag. "They need only be reheated." Then three salmon fillets wrapped in a napkin. "Put them in an inch and a half of clam broth to keep them from drying out."
(From "Carnivore Diet," by Julia Slavin)