I squander a few minutes every morning railing at my poor consort about the ads on the first few pages of the hometown paper: “Who buys $2,000 shoes/$4,200 bags/$20,000 necklaces? No wonder reporters can’t cover this city. Who are these people?” Well, now I have my answer. Contributors. How else to explain the most tone-deaf thing since Marie Antoinette yammered about brioche? In the same section with a story on homeless guys getting haircuts for free, readers are treated to a straight-faced service piece on where to take a toddler for fine fucking dining. Most people struggle to afford a babysitter. They’re going to drag the Baby Jesus along for $32 spaghetti with butter at Robuchon? At least the offense also addressed the elephant in the dining room: The misery inflicted on people who paid to get the hell away from kids throwing spoons on the floor and demanding special orders from the kitchen. I think I’ve railed before about our all-time worst high-end eating experience, the dinner we suffered through eons ago at Jean-Louis at the Watergate where a couple of universe masters had brought an up-too-late kid and refused to let the shrieking interrupt their evening — screw everyone else. I brought the receipt home and kept it on my bulletin board for years. We could have bought round-trip airfare to Paris for what we wasted on a ruined evening. At least now I know I should have found the accommodating coat check, retrieved a stroller and beaten the narcissism out of the offending breeders with it.