66 The Halekulani, The Little Nell, The Ritz

Instead of coaching youth soccer or pee wee lacrosse, John Guss’s obliviousness took the form of planning and scheming and feeling good all over about his restaurant-to-be. The concept, subvened by blenders, was intact. The next steps were location (as in Location! Location! Location!) and name. He didn’t like the sound of John’s.
Perhaps . . . The Halekulani? The Little Nell? The Ritz? Names to draw the well-heeled, with dozens of hundred dollar bills dripping out of wallets strained at the seams by platinum credit cards, even perhaps . . . drum roll and cymbals . . . American Express Black.
John had spent so much energy on reveries about his restaurant that he’d barely tapped the nest egg from the Crazy Lady. There hadn’t been one return visit to the bars of west Marin in the Saab convertible now his own.
It had been all about blending ersatz quail breast au Guss and so on, played by Oodles of Noodles.

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