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On Friday afternoon, we sent the just-appointed Defamer Power Luncher, a currently unemployed individual with a rumbling stomach and a burning desire to dine in close proximity to the entertainment industry's most celebrated power-eaters, to the venerable Grill on the Alley and report back on his meal. While his initial trip lacked the high-wattage spectacle he'd hoped for (is it too much to ask for to catch Les Moonves and Sumner Redstone lovingly slurping on opposites ends of a strand of spaghetti?), he nonetheless spied enough supping players to resist the impulse to toss his napkin at the nearest waiter and storm out of the place in disgust:

Everyone knows Hollywood slows to a crawl around the holidays, and the same can be said for its power lunch spots. I ate at the legendary The Grill on the Alley Friday afternoon and there was hardly anyone there from the above-the-line crowd. As my dining companion Mr. X observed, it was a sea of "end crawl and special thanks people." He was aghast to find that some execs had even deigned to bring their assistants for a nice Christmas lunch. "Your picture price could drop if you were spotted here today," he proclaimed. Well, whatever. The joint was pretty impressive to my unaccustomed eyes, and I saw plenty of people I recognized. We'll get to them in a second, but first let me set the scene for those of you who have never been to The Grill's inner sanctum.

It's certainly not the easiest place to get a table, and even if you do, you could still lose it. I saw the maitre d' very politely throw out a guy who was already seated, so he could give his booth to a more important party. And it's not just if you sit that matters, it's also where you sit. The tables in the middle are for the great semi-washed masses. There are guys in patterny Thomas Pink shirts and thickly-knotted ties who look like junior agents. There are old guys in turtlenecks and brass-button blazers who look like they had important jobs in the 1960s. There's the occasional TV writer type who's at a fancy meeting with his manager. But none of these people rate high enough to sit around the room's perimeter.

The booths in the back are usually reserved for the heaviest of hitters (your Sumner Redstones and Arnold Koplesons). Today, screenwriters Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski ("The People vs. Larry Flint," "Screwed") were parked in one. "How'd they get that table?" Mr. X wondered. "Bernie Brillstein probably cancelled." Along the western wall sit the high-powered agents and lawyers. Today's contestants were Jake Bloom (attorney to 80s action stars Bruce Willis. Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jerry Bruckheimer) and William Morris's own, Alan Gasmer, a big lit agent eating a big tuna steak. Along the east side is where the producers hang their hats, and today it was this section that had The Grill's most noteworthy diners. Uber-exec Lucy Fisher was breaking bread with former head of Warner Brothers, Bob Daly. What's more, Daly had his arm in a sling. Mr. X thought maybe Fisher had roughed Daly up before lunch, but they seemed friendly to me. The only other bit of excitement came when a man who looked suspiciously like recently de-Hobbited Peter Jackson walked in. Everyone craned their necks in anticipation until they realized it was just another shaggy guy with a beard.

Did I mention the broiled salmon with saut ed sugar snap peas was delicious? It totally was.