Nothing sez “tax the super-rich!” quite like showing up for your reservation at an art museum restaurant, being escorted to a great booth with a view and having the host get shut down by a blonde server who interjects: “Zoe requested this booth for the window.” Host, pointing at a back booth: “She can sit there.” Karen: “She wants the window.” Consort, who has already slid into the booth: “We’re here, and Zoe’s not. Can’t we have the booth?” Karen: “Zoe is a trustee of the museum.” Oh. Kay. So we take the “lesser” booth, which turns out to have not just a far better view of the entire room but a pretty fab window view. As we’re Googling Zoe and where she got her money (hint: the old-fashioned way, married into it with a guy who inherited his starter fortune), she finally shows up, slides into the primo booth and immediately demands that the shades be drawn. For the whole dining room. And they comply. The most 1% thing ever. Actually? Don’t tax ’em. Eat ’em. 

Sorta just back from Istanbul, I’m thinking there’s a great business opportunity close to the designer bar where the rich now eat like Death Row convicts. Someone should open the Guillotine Grill. With nose-to-ass cuisine.