A few days ago, something strange happened. It was a sunless Monday, and the humdrum of lunch filled Wolfgang's Steakhouse downtown. Three guys chatted over steak salads, real estate tycoon Jorge Perez perused a lengthy report while sipping Diet Coke, and waiters scraped breadcrumbs off my white-tablecloth-topped table. Favoring silk ties over cotton tees, the average patron here looks more baby boomer than millennial. At this airy restaurant, which sells a $4,000 bottle of Pétrus, that's to be expected.
What I didn't expect was to be the only woman sitting among the suits.