Here's a rumor about Anna Wintour we're trying to track down. Vogue's famously imperious editor was picking up her usual burger at the Conde Nast cafeteria. Bloody, in case you're wondering. The burger, that is. Anyway, the server, not knowing he's in the presence of greatness, taps his spatula impatiently against the metal. For this impudence, he's now out of a job. [Of course, he's just signed a six-figure deal on the tell-all book.] Anyone have any more details? Send them to tips@gawker.com.