Langan’s, a September Thursday, just gone half one in the afternoon. Drizzle outside. Inside? Everyone’s absolutely soaked. One Hollywood star is leaning in on the wine; sorts in suits are celebrating with Champagne; another table is getting very particular with the martinis (“vodka, glacial, and make sure it’s an orange twist, not lemon.”). Carefree waiters glide with the food, but the sommelier is breaking a sweat.
“Now this,” one diner is saying to her pal, “is what my dad used to call a PFL. We always had the choice: did we want a TBL, two bottle lunch, or a PFL, a proper f***ing lunch?”
