Do You Know Who I Am
My friend Jean imparted this story to me last night while we were drinking at a the Salt House in downtown San Francisco.
The same bar, about year ago, she was with a group a friends carrying on. Next to her a modestly dressed gentleman, drinking alone, placed his American Express triple black card (in order to qualify for this thing I think you need to prove you own an island) in the little glass that held his check. My friend, spunky, pretty, and exceptionally intelligent, made a snarky comment about his elite choice of payment.
He was mildly offended. “Do you know who I am?” he said.
“No,” Jean replied. Their conversation continued into the wee hours as they crawled through a slew of other bars in the area.
“So who was he?” I asked.
“Dunno, I never got his name.”