Over cheap coffee and top-shelf champagne, a young writer has her first meeting with a millionaire, an Upper East Side socialite and onetime "deb of the decade."
The first time I hung out with a millionaire was in Three Guys Restaurant, a lackluster, no-frills diner on Madison Avenue. It was a chilly, early winter day. She, the millionaire, ordered green tea and I asked for coffee. We talked about her soon-to-launch line of cruelty-free handbags; about hanging out with Andy Warhol, which is what she did in her twenties instead of going to college; and about “critters,” meaning animals, which she adores and has many of (eight dogs at the time). Our conversation was interrupted briefly when a homeless man walked in to panhandle; the owner politely walked him out and returned with a wan smile. At this, the millionaire said, “I love this place. It’s been here forever. Don’t you love this place?”
I looked around; on the wall were old photos of New York surrounded by fake ivy. Most of the diners were geriatric. Was this where millionaires usually hung out?
When we were finished, the millionaire announced that this (my co…