I tapped Tom on the shoulder while waiting for a spot at the counter at Gaulart & Maliclet (better known as Fast and French) on Broad Street. The conversation went something like this:
LM: I think we're both wearing Prince of Wales Plaid.
Tom: Yes, I do believe we are.
LM: I hate to be so forward, but I know I've seen you somewhere before.
LM: Are you by chance a member of the Caledonian in London?
Tom: No, the Athenaeum.
LM: I see. Do happen to vacation in the south of France?
Tom: Occasionally, but my wife and I usually stay with friends in La Perche.
LM: Last question, I promise. You're not by chance an endocrinologist?
Two seconds later, he was called to the back of the restaurant—most certainly very relieved to have escaped my prying. For the next few days, I racked my brain trying to figure out where I'd seen him. Then, one night, while drinking a bourbon and browsing through an old Ben Silver catalogue, I saw Tom looking dapper in a cashmere and wool windowpane suit. Case solved. Agatha Christie would be proud.