After commercials, we return to Rick and Sam in the midst of underwhelming Colin's man, Ian, with a model of the Dreiser lobby. Ian has a British accent like Madonna's (read: pompous and affected). Disdainfully, he asks, "You mean to tell me that people will have to sit on sofas while they check in?" Sam challenges, "Who says there has to be a formal distinction between the hotel bar and the registration?" Ian sniffs, "Only the city bureau in charge of granting us the liquor license." Rick breaks the news that Ian is, in fact, correct: no kids within five hundred feet of a place serving alcohol without food. A secretary calls out that Lily's on the phone for Rick, so he excuses himself. Sam tries to salvage his idea by saying that people could just order room service when they check in and have the food sent up with their luggage. Ian bares his teeth in a contemptuous grin and snorts his dismissal of the notion.
Rick asks Lily what's up. "You sound tense," she frets as she turns to her mid-century stove and pops another pie in. They're really going for the June Cleaver thing, here. Rick says they'll talk about it later. She wipes her hands on her apron and asks if Rick can stop at an all-night market on his way home. Apparently the minor details of sugar, cinnamon, and pippin apples slipped her mind on every one of her million trips to the grocery store. "The meeting's not going well, is it?" she asks sympathetically. Rick whispers that they'll talk about it later. She pops another pie in the oven, muttering that she needs two more. She adds that Rick can invite Ian to dinner, if it will help. Rick whispers, "Actually, I invited Sam." "You invited Sam?" Lily parrots, incredulous. Rick asks what's wrong. "We'll talk about it later," she answers. Wah wah.
Rick returns to the meeting, just as Ian declares that Colin really likes the open-concept thing. He suggests that they could rework the entrance "without losing that homey feeling." Ian glances at his watch, announces that he's missing a dinner meeting, and says they'll "meet again tomorrow, noon-ish," to see what they can come up with. Rick points out that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. "Not for me," Ian snips. And not because he's pseudo-British, but because he's meeting Colin in New York tomorrow, and he wants to be able to report favorably on the progress. He blows out. Sam sarcastically says, "I'm sure Lily will understand." He looks positively jazzed at the thought of the fireworks that are going to fly. For that split second, I don't actually hate him. Rick broods.