I’m not going to say where or who, but I was at an event where the star chef didn’t show and the organizers wrote it off to a presumed rush of business in the wake of a rave review. But he did arrive, very late, to sprinkle his stardust over the room. By coincidence, we rode down in the elevator together, along with one of those cellphone natterers who was all “oh, there must be a party on 20 yappity-yappity.” Clearly wanting to be recognized, he shoved a copy of the publication of the evening into her hand, but she didn’t seem awed, so I said: “Good job. Glad you were able to make it.” And he responded: “The subway. The subway is the key.” Which dazzled me into thinking: “What a man of the people.” Then we stepped off the elevator and he went barreling out of the building . . . and into a waiting Town Car. Either he’d summoned it on the elevator ride up. Or it was his own private A train.