Even in this rather incongruous context, BFD gave off an air of casual brilliance and cosmopolitanism, with his pink trousers, white shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, lime-green sweater draped over his shoulders with its arms loosely tied over his chest, monogrammed handkerchief, gold Rolex, slightly worn espadrilles, and sockless white ankles. In this waiting room of average men, he was matched in his meticulous grooming only by the gentleman standing up as we came in. He bore the distinctive markings of one of France’s threatened minorities: a capitalist, a kind of creature rarely seen in such splendor in the rougher neighborhoods of Paris in which I passed my time. This specimen flaunted the plumage of a tailored plaid suit, a tasteful tie in a fat Windsor knot, gleaming cuff links, polished wingtips, and a copy of Le Figaro, with the biggest bulge in his sleek profile not in the front of his pants but the back, where a thick wallet shielded his ass from being kicked. Only his heels showed signs of wear, having been used to grind down the hopes and dreams of the working class. While the American capitalist with his generously cut suit and expansive belly enjoyed gorging on the blood of the people, the slim and aristocratic French capitalist represented capitalism’s charming and elegant side. On the one hand, the ugly American, who did not care what he ate so long as he ate too much of it, especially gigantic slabs of still-bleeding red meat. On the other hand, the chic Frenchman, who preferred the refined cruelty of foie gras.