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Last week, I read Tasha’s cards. She had just been promoted to senior event coordinator at the Crystal Tea Room, the exclusive banquet hall at the top of the Wanamaker Building. Her first big job was a Saturnalia party, the most important night of the year. Trial by fire. There would be 250 guests and nearly as many staff under her charge, counting the cooks and servers, bartenders and sommeliers, the florist, the ice carver, the string quartet and the ten-piece band.
Tasha wanted a specific prediction. An unnamed VIP would be in attendance and everything had to be perfect. What, precisely, might go wrong?
‘The cards don’t work that way,’ I told her. My usual tricky disclaimer. I can’t promise what I can’t deliver, but I can’t keep my rate if clients know it’s bullshit. Amparo and
