by Craig LaBan

I spin through the revolving door into Scarpetta and land with a thud in a knot of patrons all dressed in black. This was a corporate posse in stilettos and mock turtlenecks, ready to spend big at Philly's latest name-brand Italian import from New York. But they were clogging the door near the bar, oblivious to others as they rattled cue ball-size ice cubes in cocktails and waited for a slinky, catsuit-clad hostess to lead them to the dining room upstairs.

And . . . what was that smell? It wasn't Scarpetta's famous spaghetti or truffled crudo but an unexpected fog of body sweat, cleaning fluid, and strong cologne that emanated incongruously from the chic modern lounge that replaced the old Smith & Wollensky's clubby bar in the Rittenhouse Hotel. Something was already off.

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Source: http://www.philly.com/