It is an oppressively hot early August day, even by the steamy standards of Washington DC. In Georgetown, the elegant neighbourhood favoured by the capital’s lobbyists, lawyers and media personalities, many of the residents have fled for cooler climes, leaving the streets quiet.
I’m at Bistrot Lepic, a genteel restaurant and wine bar nestled in the midst of Georgetown’s antique shops and picture framers. Near me, two neatly dressed, silver-haired gentlemen sit in sunlight by the window, earnestly discussing a new Trumpian drama: the rise and precipitous fall of Anthony Scaramucci.
It is hard to think of a sharper contrast of reputation than that between Donald Trump’s shortlived, foul-mouthed communications director and the man I’m about to meet. Stanley Fischer is the embodiment of the old-school global leader. Courtly, quietly spoken and unobtrusive, he turns no heads as his slight figure makes its way to our table.
