A small shop in Monte Carlo has a beautiful piece of pottery displayed in the window. I see it during one of our afternoon jaunts. There’s a soup tureen with a turtle on top to lift the lid. Little turtle-shaped individual soup bowls.
“I’ve never seen anything like it," I tell him.
I can picture it on my kitchen counter. And when it’s cold in the winter I can make mock- turtle soup. Serve it up in the little bowls. I tell him all this. “Let’s go in and look at the tureen," I say.
“I think it’s unattractive," he says. “If you want a tureen I will buy you Limoges."
“Limoges is a fortune! Besides it’s not my style."
“About that," he says. “What? About what?"
He’s fiddling with his belt. “You might think about updating your place."
“Updating? How do you mean?"
It’s a clear sunny day. I feel the rays beating into my forehead. I should’ve worn a visor. “Update how?" I say again.
“You have a very nice apartment, but it’s kind of nineteen-eighties. You have those burnt matchstick blinds. For one thing."
“I love them. They go with the turtle tureen," I say.
“Exactly." He’s fingering his long beard and eyeing a blonde super-model type that brushes him on the crowded sidewalk. He turns back to me. “I think you need a cleaner more crisp look. Then you set it off with a couple of great accessories. Like Limoges."
“My grandmother would like Limoges." I’m thinking how much I don’t trust him and how he doesn’t expect that of me.
“Limoges is very much in vogue today," he goes on. “Maybe in L.A. In New York we have a different style."
“OK," he says. “Forget the Limoges. You’d probably put it in the dishwasher."
Dishwasher? I’m laughing to myself. I should be so lucky. But rich people never understand that stuff.
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