Alexander Lobrano in Literary Hub:
I was startled when the phone rang while I was shaving. It was 7 am. The press attaché for Giorgio Armani called me in my Milan hotel room to tell me the designer wanted to have dinner with me that night. It was more a summons than an invitation. Mr. Armani was the sacred cow, the designer Mr. Fairchild was enthralled with, which is why almost all of his senior editors in New York City wore only Armani’s clothing—purchased with generous press discounts supplemented by the occasional, ostensibly forbidden unreported gift.
Most of Fairchild’s Europe-based editors found this designer too corporate and decidedly uncool, but they held their tongues. I reminded the attaché that I already had an 11 am appointment to preview the next season’s fashions with Mr. Armani, whom I’d met briefly several times before. She briskly told me she’d canceled it. We could discuss next season’s trends at dinner. Then she gave me the address of La Briciola, the restaurant where we’d meet, stated that Mr. Armani was looking forward to seeing me, said “Ciao, ciao, caro,” and hung up.