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Upstairs in the Forbidden Room at the Jue Lan Club, Rick Ross sits at a round table covered with abandoned champagne flutes and plates of half-eaten shrimp tempura. In what was once purportedly New York nightclub impresario Peter Gatien’s private office at the infamous Limelight nightlife venue, these remnants of an early dinner or perhaps a late afternoon snack barely earned a second glance from the tracksuited rapper, clearly satiated for the time being. Surveying me through opaque sunglasses in this windowless room, he reaches into a nearby ice bucket and pulls out a glistening bottle of—you guessed it—Belaire Rosé

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