Credit-crunch lunch hour in New York's financial district, and all seems well. Junior analysts cue up in packed delis to bag $12 panini and tossed-to-order salads. Delivery men wheel Saran-wrapped catering into elevators. Traders scarf down in the glow of their monitors, while old-timers repair to dimly lit steakhouses, drowning their market woes in single malts and sirloin grease.
Then from Washington comes a shout: "No soup for you!"