n the suede-loafered, gilt-edged, peripatetic world of the Assoulines, everything is just that little bit ultra. “So, what car do you drive?” “Ah we don’t,” explains Prosper Assouline, aglow from his sojourn at La Colombe d’Or and in residence there for the summer (the storied French hotel is the genesis and subject of their first-ever book). “We have our driver. We stopped driving ourselves years ago – all the hassle!” When asked if they sail, an enviable ode to island-hopping with their friend Charles Finch on his yacht ensues. They are
