I stumbled upon Keith McNally’s memoir in my usual awkward, almost bumbling fashion. I happened to be in New York City with a friend. I had long promised to take her to Balthazar for breakfast. Four empty tables away sat a man alone with his laptop and a book. Astonished that he sat at a table for so long without being gently prodded to get on with it to make room for the next guest, I struck up a conversation.
