I used to think that a particularly cruel act of condescension and mockery was involved in the embrace by writers and editors of Elaine Kaufman, the most celebrated restaurateur of her era in New York, who died, to great fanfare, this winter.
She would slog through her restaurant, Elaine's on the Upper East Side, like a punch-drunk prizefighter, or a low-class madam, or public-house wench vastly past her prime, more threatening than hospitable, muttering discordant and guttural oaths, and, given her size, taking up far more space than the front room in her narrow establishment could afford.
WORK SMARTER - LEARN, GROW AND BE INSPIRED.
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