“DOING LUNCH”
Originally,
I wrote this essay in 1994. Here it is
2017 and the truth remains, there was no grander restaurant for true
fashionistas than the Zodiac at Neiman Marcus.
Whether shopping in San Francisco or Philadelphia, Neiman Marcus made
you feel right at home. No, I didn’t
have the money to buy my basic wardrobe there each season, but I did have the
means to “Do Lunch” on Saturdays.
Here
is the original essay with a few added updates:
There had been no reason for me
to feel at home in Los Angeles until went window shopping in Beverly
Hills. Standing majestic amongst the
lavish hotels on Wilshire Boulevard was my connection to a life left in
Atlanta, GA. Like a child on Christmas
morning whose name was on the largest gift under the tree, I was overcome with joy.
Slowly, I pulled open the heavy
door. The marble floors glistened and
the chandeliers above helped to cast the California sunshine throughout the
magical store. Pearls, crystals, silver,
and gold sparkled under the glass top jewelry cases. Leiber evening bags and Louis Vuitton trunks
lead the way to Chanel high-tops and other shoes I could never afford.
Curiously, I searched every floor
following the familiar scents of fresh herbs, exotic spices, smooth coffees and
expensive colognes. I was getting
closer, the aroma was growing. My head
turned to the right and there it was, my Saturday obsession—The Zodiac!
This was no ordinary
restaurant. It was the
restaurant. Eating was secondary. Being seen and seeing was everything. It was the premiere place to partake in the
ultimate fashion sport of “Doing Lunch.”
You had to look and smell the part.
It was the sport of ladies.
Attention was the preferred
fashion signature. Runway pieces were the
coveted prize. Wear a label or die. If you insisted on breaking the rule, the
stares would surely kill you.
Hairstyles varied. The over 40s had to cut or tease. The under 40s knew instinctively that one’s
hair could never over-power one’s attire.
Lips ranged from red matte to red gloss or pale nude to nude brown. Wearing any other color was a sure sign of a
poor imitator.
Jewelry had to make a trend
statement or a financial proclamation.
Nails were kept medium to short and colored to match one’s lips. Your fragrance had to announce your arrival,
but conceal your presence.
Never smell like a garden for you’d
be mistaken for the gardener.
Direct eye contact was to be
avoided. Professionals knew to simply
stand in line and wait to be seated.
Points were given for every
person whom you out dressed; therefore observing the competition was
mandatory. Quick glances, once up, once
down, were all that was allowed. Longer
stares were not tolerated. It was
considered rude and common.
Finally, I was at the front of
the line. “Good afternoon,” said the
host. “How many are in your party?” he
asked. “One. Non-smoking, please.” I replied.
As he showed me to my to my table, I could feel the points being
scored. Competition was keen today. I came unprepared. I was carrying an older designer purse and
they knew it. Luckily, it was a shoulder
bag, so I draped it to the back of my chair.
I was still in the game.
Ordering was a trick in
itself. Always notice what has been
ordered around you first. The rule
clearly states: “If one or more diners shows interest in your meal, the maximum
number of bonus points is automatically awarded.” Knowing this valuable piece of information, I
cleverly stated my order. “I will have
the shrimp and chicken Caesar salad-HEATED, with no anchovies!”
Heads turned! The waitress smiled. I was winning. No one had anticipated the mix of order plus
the word “heated.”
I had tested this order a couple
of months during the week. It received widespread
approval, but the weekday lunch crowd was comprised of regular laymen. These were the Saturday professionals. I had taken a risk…and won.
The heat from the salad sent the
smell of rosemary chicken permeating throughout the dining room. Several ladies who “lunch” nodded and smiled
openly. A couple of over 40s even asked
what I had ordered. They knew a good
order when they smelled one.
And now for the check. Even players who were behind in points had
the opportunity to regain their status when it came time to pay the check. Those who paid with cash may have well have
been wearing polyester double knit. For
shame.
Orange MasterCard, Blue VISA and American
Express green card holders were greeted with polite kindness. The real fashion high rollers only carried
the tiny chocolate brown charge card that confirmed membership in the “Doing
Lunch” club. I am proud to say, I never
left home on a Saturday without mine.
Many states and cities later, I
find myself back in Atlanta, GA.
No more do you find the “Doing
Lunch” crew. Nowadays, new money has
taken over. For them, stripper pole
outfits and dudes with pants riding low are the accepted norm. No longer is fashion respected and
followed. It is butchered and torn,
thugged-out and poorly worn.
The few people who remember, and
know what it meant to have class and style, are no longer brave enough to
endure the violent stares and potential for criminal encounters. I try to remind myself that I deserve to have
one last go at the past.
So on one Friday each month, I
avoid the “new-money posses” to enjoy a warm popover and the memory of the
Zodiac, the once infamous restaurant in Neiman-Marcus.
*Vanessa Brantley Style395.blogspot.com, July 24, 2017, “Doing Lunch”, Volume 8, Blog 1b [vol. 8, 1a-1c].
“HELLO,” MR. JORDAN
It would be an exaggeration to say I know
Michael Jordan. Yes, I have met the
man. Yes, I have worked around the
man. Yes, I have taken a picture with
the man. And yes, I have spoken to the
man, even had short conversations with the man.
Yet, I cannot say that I know Michael Jordan.
Assuredly, I will say that he is a man whom
I respect and admire.
I think it was the summer of 1988, before
starting my graduate study at the University of Georgia. I had been hired as one of the two wardrobe
stylists on the Kenny Rogers’ Classic Weekend television show.
It was a televised show highlighting talented athletes from several sports,
particularly NBA basketball superstars of the time.
NBA superstars like Michael Jordan, Isiah
Thomas, Larry Bird and Dominque Wilkins were some of the ‘A-Listers the 2 years
I worked the show. I was also given the
pleasure of dressing other celebrities such as Gladys Knight, Travis Tritt
and the smoothest of them all, Smokey Robinson. Try not to be too
jealous ladies, but my right hand was kissed by Mr. Robinson--as he is the
greatest gentleman.
Yet, of all the celebrities and players, no
other star was as magical in person as Michael Jordan.
My first profound conversation with him was during
the first summer of the show. I was in
the kitchen, seated with my head down reading instructions--learning how to use
the washer machine and dryer-- when I sensed someone else in the kitchen with
me. Low and behold, it was the young,
later to become legendary, Michael Jordan.
Beyond his extraordinary talent, he was the man of the hour because a kazillion
women on the planet were in mourning from the unexpected news that he had just
gotten married.
As I was not confident enough to think that
a Michael Jordan would ever enter my circle of life, I had no reason to be in
mourning. Such a possibility of dating
and marrying a Michael Jordan was not on my radar of reality. So when my head lifted and the very tall
basketball icon of the time (and now history) stood before me, with no
chaperone or bodyguard around, my natural instincts as a woman should have
kicked in. I should have naturally
grabbed him by the ankle and not let go, screaming out like a banshee just to
be in his presence, but no, not one hair on my arm stood erect.
Something about Michael Jordan made me feel
that I was being given a gift from the gods…a private moment with Michael. I could not blow this moment. I just could not do it to myself nor to him.
Michael had been bombarded by the entire
world. I was about to give him a rare moment
to breathe.
He politely did the church nod and I
followed his lead. I didn’t know if he
would stay a minute or a nanosecond. I
just knew that he was there. Standing a
few feet away.
I was mega-nervous. Why was I so nervous? I thought. It’s not like I’m breaking into his
house. I’m working. And this isn’t his house. We are both working right now. We are in the kitchen on the EXTREMELY large
estate of Kenny Rogers. And I do mean
LARGE! I’m talking nothing you can ever
imagine as a private residence LARGE.
Based on my old, fading memory, Kenny Rogers’
estate featured not only the main house and guests’ residence, but also a
full-size equestrian arena, basketball court, full lake, golf course, and performance
venue. I’m telling you it was a massive
property with Michael Jordan and Vanessa Brantley frozen in a slice of time, about to have a conversation in the kitchen.
Breathe.
Here goes.
“Hello, Mr. Jordan.” I said with reverence.
“Please, call me Michael,” he
responded. I think his next statement
was something basic like “Looks like you have your work cut out for you. You have to wash the outfits and uniforms,
too?”
Basically, he was referring to the fact that
I had to get the measurements and descriptions of all the outfits for the
players and performers; conduct fittings and do the alterations; plus maintain
the looks-- which is why I was doing the laundry. Remember, it was only two stylists and one wardrobe
supervisor. In general, the supervisor
worked with Kenny Rogers and we (the two stylists) handled everyone else.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s the nature of the job.” “So how is it
going, thus far?” I nervously asked.
Not really sure whether I meant the show or
his new marriage, I guess he assumed because everyone had been asking the same
question. He faintly smiled and gave me
the scoop of all time.
No, I will not repeat what he told me. However, I will say that we shared a very short
and honest conversation about the hottest topic of that year. I had an
exclusive one-on-one with the grand Michael Jordan. The conversation will forever remain private,
for he is above all, just a man. And I
can say with pride and honor that I have shared a brief moment with Mr. Jordan
during his incredibly legendary life.
Michael, you deserved it all!
*Vanessa Brantley Style395.blogspot.com, July 9, 2017, “’Hello’, Mr. Jordan”, Volume 8, Blog 1a [vol. 8,
1a-1c].
