One day at lunch in a fancy lady’s apartment many moons ago, I joined the hostess at her urging on a trip to the bathroom. It was a bit of a hike—the apartment had something like 20 rooms, most of them cavernous. But, phew, we made it. There on the gleaming marble shelves was a lineup of crystal bottles filled with various liquids. One was bright green. “Scope,” she said, beaming.
The fancy lady was proud of her drugstore haul but not so enamored of its packaging. So she did what one must under the circumstances, instructing her handmaiden to decant it into the Baccarat.
