"Batali motioned off into the distance. “These butchers over here? They’re f-cking drowning. So we’re gonna do a steakhouse for hipsters. We’re gonna have cheap steaks. Twenty-five-dollar steaks.” He held up two fat fingers, pinching them close. “F-cking little steaks.” He burst into a guffaw. Ducasse smiled demurely. Both sets of handlers checked their watches, rifled through planners. “All right, baby,” Batali said. “Arrivederci.”"
"We made our way toward a stall crammed with frilly gold frames. “Chef! You’ve come to see your painting,” exclaimed a tiny woman with a gray pixie cut, air-kissing his cheeks. She shifted a canvas of a nude man to one side, revealing a turn-of-the-last-century work, Les Buveurs du Sang. In the foreground of the painting, a slaughtered cow sprawled awkwardly, while behind it a line of men and women in top hats and petticoats lined up to drink its blood, hoping to be cured of consumption. The work was masterful, the effect grotesque."