There can be something magical about a rainy spring day in New York City. Mostly because it’s a great excuse to not leave your apartment. But if you’re lucky, staring out the window and struggling to think while smoking a cigarette, lightning strikes.
That’s just what happened when I received a surprise visit from my colleague Oliver, our Anglo-American editor in Washington, D.C. He insisted on dragging me out of my living room to join him for afternoon drinks at Prefect, a Lexington Avenue mainstay for people who like to argue about Israel after taking in a symposium at the 92nd Street Y.
“I have something very important to discuss,” he told me as we sat down in our matching Barbour jackets. “But first, martinis.”
