“DOING LUNCH”
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].
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