The restaurant was crowded, and the inside was paneled in dark mahogany, covered with framed black-and-white pictures. The rooms were mostly lit by indirect lighting, creating the ambience of a nineteenth-century gentlemen’s club, which, in fact, it was. The tables were close together and skirted with white linen cloths. A large, gilt-framed picture of a nude hung above the bar, reminding me of an old western saloon.

Nicholas ordered a half dozen oysters on the shell, which I tried but didn’t care for. Then I had tomatoes and onions with blue Stilton cheese, and we shared a Chateaubriand steak for two. The food was incredible.

“What’s that on the ceiling?” I asked.

He looked up. “Pipes.”

“Pipes?”

“Clay smoking pipes. Every one of them is numbered. In the old days you would request your pipe, and they would find it by its number and bring it to your table. I’m not sure how many pipes are still up there, but I’ve heard more than eighty thousand. They belonged to people like Teddy Roosevelt, Babe Ruth, Albert Einstein, Buffalo Bill Cody, pretty much everybody who was famous came here. Except the women. It used to be that women weren’t allowed inside. It took a lawsuit from King Edward the Seventh’s paramour to open it to women.”

“When was that?”

“Turn of the century.”

“Just a decade ago?”

He smiled. “No. The previous century.”

Our conversation was interrupted by my cell phone ringing. “Sorry, I forgot to turn it off,” I said. I glanced at the screen, then quickly pressed the power button.

“Was it important?”

“No. It was Dan.”

“Does he call you often?”

“No. More lately since his wife left him.”

“His wife,” Nicholas said. “The one that was your friend?”

I nodded. “Kayla.”

“And he wants a shoulder to cry on?”

“He wants more than a shoulder. He wants to get back together.”

“He told you that?”

“Right after he reminded me that it was my fault he divorced me.”

“Your fault?”

I nodded. “Because of—” I caught myself. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “There’s no way I would ever go back to him.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yes.”

Nicholas nodded. “Good,” he said. “You deserve better than him. So what did you do today?”

“I went to the top of the Empire State Building. Then I walked over to Macy’s and looked at their windows, then I went to a café in Little Brazil for lunch and had this interesting stew. I don’t remember what it’s called, but the waiter said it’s the Brazilian national dish.”

“It’s called feijoada,” Nicholas said.

I looked at him in amazement. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

I laughed. “You are the smartest person I know.”

“Then you must not know many people,” he replied.