“I need somebody to come out and park my car,” Stephen Starr commanded into his phone one drizzly September evening. “I don’t have time to park.”
The prolific restaurateur swept down the narrow streets in his black S-class Mercedes before pulling up to Borromini, his buzzy new Philadelphia trattoria. Mr. Starr strode through the double doors and was greeted by a young man in a suit who looked like a host — welcoming diners with a warm nod — but turned out to be a Secret Service agent.
Joe and Jill Biden were celebrating a grandchild’s birthday at a long table on the restaurant’s first floor, lined with antique mirrors and bathed in honeyed light.
Mr. Starr has hosted the former president several times, and the men greeted each other like old pals, Mr. Biden’s hand disappearing into Mr. Starr’s beefy double grip.
How many places was Stephen up to now? the former leader of the free world asked Mr. Starr, hand on the shoulder of the restaurateur’s Zegna jacket. Was it 42?
“No,” the former first lady chimed in. “It’s 43 now, isn’t that what you said?”
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