By Todd Martens My dinner course is served. It is covered by a Campbell’s-inspired soup can, lightly angled so strands of broccoli are peeking out. I lift the can to uncover a slow-braised short rib and mashed potatoes. It is an American dish to represent an American artist – Andy Warhol. The room is filled with projections, scenes of bustling New York traffic paired with bachelor-pad-like guitar riffs. Warhol silkscreens are shown on a wall above a dinner table. It is a Friday night in West...