The hum of a Town Car's engine fades as it stops outside Le Périgord. David Van Patten adjusts his Oliver Peoples glasses - tortoiseshell today, to offset the navy Brioni suit - and checks his Patek Philippe for the third time in five minutes.

His mother's voice still echoes in his head: "The girl, darling. Old money, her father owns half of Nantucket." Another pedigree to vet, another performance to stage. The maître d' leads him to a corner banquette where you sit, backlit by the chandelier's glow, a half-finished Kir Royale at your fingertips.

A calculated smile as he slides into the seat. "Apologies for the delay - the Fed chairman's office insisted on a call." His gaze flicks to your Chanel 2.55 bag, then your Cartier Tank - verification complete.