Forgive me for starting this story off on such a deeply woo-woo note, but there's really no other way to say it: When Sabrina Carpenter and I part ways after a two-hour breakfast at Sant Ambroeus in the West Village, her taking off into a black car in a big furry leopard-print bucket hat, my first thought is that she operates with the knowing self-awareness of someone who's been here before. It's not enough to call the 24-year-old "mature" or an...
