Deception Point

Toulos Restaurant, adjacent to Capitol Hill, boasts a politically incorrect menu of
baby veal and horse carpaccio, making it an ironic hotspot for the quintessential
Washingtonian power breakfast. This morning Toulos was busy—a cacophony
of clanking silverware, espresso machines, and cellphone conversations. The
maitre d’ was sneaking a sip of his morning Bloody Mary when the woman
entered. He turned with a practiced smile.
“Good morning,” he said. “May I help you?”
The woman was attractive, in her mid-thirties, wearing gray, pleated flannel
pants, conservative flats, and an ivory Laura Ashley blouse. Her posture was
straight—chin raised ever so slightly—not arrogant, just strong. The woman’s
hair was light brown and fashioned in Washington’s most popular style—the
“anchorwoman”—a lush feathering, curled under at the shoulders...long enough
to be sexy, but short enough to remind you she was probably smarter than you.










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