"Hello. I am the designer."

I'm not in the habit of ordering $200 worth of Iranian caviar at a Manhattan vodka bar, but the Uzbeki man who sat next to me told me I should.

Let's call him Mr. Investment Banker. We had been celebrating the launch of the Russian business magazine that I have been freelancing on and even though one of my employers had encouraged me to order whatever I wanted, I felt that a bottle of prosecco was probably a safe bet. Maybe even some $20 domestic caviar. No, Mr. Investment Banker insisted, I should order the Iranian caviar.

I protested the extravagance of such a cost, but secretly wanted the chance to try sturgeon from the Caspian Sea.

You order it, I countered.

He offered up his expense account to cover the cost. No, you should definitely order, he said.

That's when I selected one ounce of caviar for the grand total of $200. I could have ordered the $400 one, but didn't want to push my luck. I felt reckless. I felt drunk on the bottle of prosecco I had nearly finished. The foodie in me reveled in the rare opportunity. The caviar arrived in a small container nestled in a block of ice. Served with blintzes and sour cream, the taste was amazing and I figured I would probably never have the opportunity again.

I have no idea how the bill was sorted out because I stumbled out of the restaurant sometime around midnight after smoking a very ill advised cigarette. When I got back to Brooklyn I ate some ice cream and watched Romeo + Juliet till 1 am.

Apparently this is how I roll. On a work night.