Christine Quinn dipped a mother-of-pearl spoon into the bowl in the ice bath. She spread caviar over a blini and brought the bite to her rose gold lips.
“That tastes rich,” she said. “This gives me rich vibes. This is the most stylish breakfast I’ve ever had in my life.”
This was on a rainy Saturday afternoon, the day after Mrs. Quinn, 33, a star of the Netflix documentary drama “Selling Sunset” and a woman The Sunday Times of London has described as “TV’s biggest villain,” had just flown in from Paris. She promoted her first book, How to Be a Boss B*tch, which combines memoirs with self-help, advising women how to pull themselves up on their high-heeled boots, just as Mrs. Quinn has done.
The tour would soon take her to Dallas, Los Angeles, back to New York City, and back home to Los Angeles.
“It’s been a whirlwind,” she said, which probably explained why she’d scheduled breakfast at 3:00 PM. “I don’t know what city I’m in, what state, what time zone. No idea.”
During her stay in New York, she planned to appear on ‘Good Morning America’, the ‘Tamron Hall Show’ and, most excitingly, ‘Watch What Happens Live’. Had she already decided what to wear? She didn’t.
“But I’ll give the gays everything they deserve,” she said, putting down a wallet with a picture of the Mona Lisa. “That’s the reason I live and breathe.”
That afternoon she had arrived at Caviar Russe, a Michelin-starred downtown restaurant, in a sneaky version of corporate attire: stilettos, Balenciaga sunglasses, a pinstripe suit, and a white collared shirt bare of a strip of pale midriff. Her nails, long and neon yellow, glowed like spiky post-its.
She first tasted caviar when she was 21, while dining out with a friend. “Sure, call him a sugar daddy,” she said. “He was. But we had great chemistry.” She had her first filet mignon that night, her first glass of real champagne, “It just opened my eyes to this whole world, which I’d never seen before and didn’t even know existed,” she said.
Since then she has tasted plenty of caviar. Upstairs, sitting with Caviar Russe, on a gray couch with a Murano chandelier clanging above her, Mrs. Quinn sipped a glass of Red Bull—an anti-jetlag ward—and sought advice from her server, John Gergeous. He suggested the Prestige Tasting, a $695.75 gram selection of platinum osetra, gold osetra, and classic osetra with traditional garnish.
“A little champagne?” he asked.
She agreed and asked for Krug. But Mister Gergeous didn’t have it by the glass, so they compromised with vintage Dom Pérignon ($75 a glass).
“I don’t drink, I just sip,” she said.
When he opened the champagne, Mr. Gergeous dropped the cork—Mrs. Quinn has that effect on men—then poured the drink into a chilled glass.
Mrs. Quinn lifted her spoon and dived in, starting with the platinum. “Mmm,” she said. “This one is very light, buttery, airy, creamy, very subtle.”
Then she tried the gold and added it to a blini. “This one has saltier notes,” she said. “It’s still on the lighter side, but has more of a salty touch, which I like because I like salt.”
And finally, she turned to the classic, which she ate over a crepe with crème frache. “This one has flavors of the sea,” she said.
Somehow the glass of champagne had emptied. Politely, Mrs. Quinn called the server. “John, there seems to be a small hole in the champagne glass,” she said. “I’d love to have one more.”
Over five seasons of “Selling Sunset,” a reality show cage competition set among high-end real estate agents in Los Angeles, Ms. Quinn has carefully cultivated an image of ruthlessness and wasp-waisted drive, turning the eye into an art form. When she realized that the producers had given her the role of a villain, she didn’t fight it.
“I feel like I was the only one who understood the assignment,” she said. “I was the only one who said, ‘Hey, this is a show, and I’m going to give the world a show.'”
Still, she pricked when she learned that “Selling Sunset,” which chronicles the exploits of the Oppenheim Group’s real estate agents, had been nominated for an MTV unscripted series award. (She also earned a nod for best fight.)
According to Ms. Quinn, the show is eagerly scripted. “There’s no doubt about that,” she said.
In the final episodes of the fifth series, she left the Oppenheim Group to open her own company, RealOpen, which facilitates home sales for buyers and sellers who prefer to trade cryptocurrency. She doesn’t know if she will return for a sixth season, especially if it continues to promote the Oppenheim Group.
“Hulu, call me,” she said jokingly.
Mrs. Quinn asked for the bill. Over the course of an hour, she had eaten at least half of the ounce and requested that the rest be taken back to her hotel. She never wastes food, she said. When Mr. Gergeous brought the bill, which ran to $1,000, he also brought a cool box with blinis, crème frache and an extra 125 grams of caviar, a gift from the owners.
“They are big fans,” he said.
“Stop! So sweet!” said Ms. Quinn, who kindly accepted and posed for a few photos on social media.
Mr. Gergeous reminded her that the caviar was good for maybe two weeks, maybe three.
Mrs. Quinn, with her penchant for luxury, told him not to worry. “That’s gone tonight,” she said.