Not even the Germans have a word for "schadenfreude about another's thwarted schadenfreude," but Bruce Wasserstein, 60, revels in how wrong almost everyone has been in gloating over his irrelevance for the past 20 years. This morning, as he checks the Lazard stock price on his computer terminal and is bemused that it is down a dollar—"On nothing! For no reason!"—there is much to inspire wonder at his cunning and resilience. Wasserstein, the man you didn't want anywhere near your deal by the time the go-go '80s were (mercifully) winding down, is now the C.E.O. and largest shareholder of 160-year-old Lazard, perhaps the most surprising survivor amid this season's Wall Street swoon. (View slideshow.)

From his 62nd-floor office in Rockefeller Center, in Manhattan, Wasserstein commands a view to the north, over Central Park, its foliage orange and shimmering. The floor above him as well as the nine floors beneath his feet are occupied by the bank he now runs, and much farther down are the streets of the city in which he built, lost, and is now restoring his reputation as a financial shaman.

In just six years, he has maneuvered Lazard into the sweet spot on troubled Wall Street, and his private equity fund, Wasserstein & Co., has made some savvy high-profile media investments. In fact, it seems nobody has made more money from investment banking since 1993 than Bruce Wasserstein. His success could keep a generation of bankers behind their desks instead of jumping to the nearest quant fund, where, until recently, they could have become stupidly rich. You can do it in banking, Wasserstein might tell them, as long as you ignore the fads, focus on your biggest clients, and ensure that the best deals you make are always your own.

Of course, this is not the same chubby, ursine Bruce Wasserstein who became the gauche embodiment of a decade of rapacious dealmaking. He is now slim, and the famously rumpled suit and untucked shirt have been replaced by tailored wool and crisp linen. The jowly face has aged into a more somber cast, the thin lips are always threatening to break into the familiar pout, and the large eyes are squinted and framed by a filigree of wrinkles. Brown hair is combed over his high, arched, liver-spotted forehead. It's a description that probably makes Wasserstein sound unattractive, but in person, his physiognomy is pleasing. After all, you don't get to be worth north of $2 billion without having some personal charm.