“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].
As it is my goal to present a blog on grand People,
Places and Things each month, I decided it was time to slightly alter my
entry. For June 2017 in this blog entry,
I will not highlight a specific person.
Instead, I am now going to reveal what I seek in a man to find him date
worthy.
I’ve been waiting for decades for him, yet no man has
actually been grand. And no I don’t mean
he has to be gorgeous, fine and rich (of course, such characteristics are not
unappealing). I mean he has to stand-out
and above the approximate 616 unacceptable choices thus far. Yes, it seems I have met and dated a lot of
men, but in reality it factors to about 15 men per year for the past 40 years.
Sure, there were some who passed the boyfriend test
and stayed around. There were even three
(3) proposals of marriage. One time I
did accept until I quickly came to my senses through all the chemical
attraction. The other two, I had to
decline and move on with my life. So no,
on average, I didn’t sleep with 15 different men each year. I just kept my options and mind open to possibilities.
You see, I’ve never been conventional. Just extremely determined and patient.
Although, my patience was tested with man #616,
which was just last week. Now that I am
back in Atlanta and fairly new to Facebook.
I’ve been on the site only since December 2016. In keeping with the notion of hope, I took a random
“digital message” from a new “Friend.”
Within seconds of acknowledging that I was willing to engage in
conversation, this person proceeded to ask me a rather complex question. He wanted to know if I was “emotionally
available?”
Well, that was a first for me. I didn’t know that question/his game/jargon. I guess I’ve been approached by more
sophisticated men. Some of my dates have
been born in other countries or I have met them in Cote D’Ivoire, Germany, the Bahamas,
Britain, Jamaica….You get the picture.
So at 1 a.m., to have a man ask me if I am “emotionally available,” I
took the bait. After all, I am trying to
maintain an open mind.
Well hours later, what I call Stage One had
transpired. I thought the level of “intrigue”
and flow of the conversation was going in a good direction. Then, the situation turned. The next day, the person gave me a telephone
call (No, I don’t have a problem giving my telephone number to someone I have
never met, IF that person is known to other people I actually know and
trust.). By the end of the telephone
call, I couldn’t tell if the person was SINCERE, A PERVERT or AN ARROGANT TURD.
Since I have not heard from him in a week, I now
assume that he was a COWARD.
Such experiences have motivated me to finally
answer the question that I have been asked a million times. For years, many people have asked me why I
have never married. Simple answer—the
men were not grand. Sure, all men can be
great--ask their girlfriends, significant others, and wives. However, few men have the real capacity for
grandness.
Day after day, year-after-year, women complain
stating that it’s impossible to find good men.
Some women even step up the requirements seeking a great man. For me, the thirst for a grand man started in
my late twenties.
Yes, as stated earlier, I have had my share of
boyfriends, dates in high school, college, grad school and life. Sadly most initial meetings were predictable,
bland, and conclusive. The subtle cross
the room eye contact at a nightclub or meeting.
The mutual family or friend introduction. The shared experience or kindred soul
connection (always short lived). And
rarely, even though most exhilarating, the bold self-introduction of “I want to
get to know you.” Now those guys are
usually the visually stunning and sexy ones.
You have to be out of your mind to say “no” to a guy that confident.
But then comes the first round of dating. “How about dinner and a movie?” often offered
as a safe plan. Really, I would think to
myself. I know where this is
headed…straight to Blandville, USA. Or,
what about the new-age guys who want to do an adventure, dance classes, art
classes, museums, etc. And don’t even
mention the muscle-chasers who want to go workout. For real?
Really? The smell of strange,
crowd sweat is going to ignite and elevate my interest in you?
No. It’s
not. No more typical dates for me.
By the time I was in my late 20s, I realized that I
would take an audience seat in life and watch all the romantic disasters
unfold. There have been many to
witness. From friends and friends of
friends and their friends and relatives and neighbors and so on and on and on…
I wasn’t going to waste one more ounce of energy on this predictable and unfulfilling
game called dating. I chose to hold back
50% of myself until my “Mr. Grand” came along.
In the normal dating ritual, women and men end up
looking like fools on a quick-sand cruise.
You can write the scenario like acts in a play. First there is Stage One, the Chemical
Stage: Your body senses an interest in the
person. You admire their appearance,
smile, eyes, smell, words, gestures, etc.
Your attention is aroused and focused on the prey. You help by lingering long enough in your
gaze, your stance, the closeness, the conversation, and finally you
strike. A few test questions. They vary per person. The one of interest passes your test. You go in for the physical connection
test. You touch, by accident or maybe not. You move in close for the kiss or you stand
even closer for the heat, the initial bodily contact. Inside, you are sweating now. Stage one complete.
Stage Two is what I call the Communication
Stage. Does
he call me? Does she text you back? What about the back and forth is mutual,
exhausting, fruitful, fruitless? Does it
end in the string of dates? The typical
types of dates I described earlier. The
typical ones that lead to dread and boredom.
The ones that lead to friendly goodbyes or mutual cheating to get rid of
the once perfect possibility. If
communication is off track then Stage Two is done. End game.
If you survive Stage Two, then ladies, you have a
good man. Congratulations! Send me an invitation to the wedding.
Of course, Stage
Three is called Staying
the Course.
I have found that Stage Three is quite confusing, difficult and
exhausting. If you have found a good
man, you are probably doing the normal American married life things: buying a
house, having children, surviving the holidays and in-laws, planning
anniversaries, rediscovering each other (date nights, sex nights, quality time)
and trying to stay healthy. Sounds
good.
If he lasts through it all, if you two last through
it with smiles, laughter, steadfast love and devotion then ladies, you have
found one of the few great men in the world!
God has shined on you both.
Now to what I seek.
Grand Stage One in a relationship is based on everything I already mentioned in Stage
One for most relationships. The only
difference is that Grand Stage Two starts immediately thereafter. I love when a man does not want to end our
initial meeting, when it is mutually intoxicating.
So, let’s talk about going deeper into a Grand Stage Two relationship. It
has to be an out of the ordinary experience right up front. Perhaps, only as a suggested scenario, the
two of us could participate in a tournament.
Why a tournament? You get to
spend quite a bit of time together without focusing on time. You get to see how the person handles competition
and working together towards a mutual end.
Does he laugh, make you laugh, gets angry too fast. You get to see if the person is into you or
has wandering ways. You might even have
lunch, dinner, and free time to see the level of the person’s etiquette
skills. Of course, you also get to see
how the person dresses casually and for dinner.
There is so much one can gain by doing out-of-the-box activities.
Repeat this type of activity and you are off to a
Grand Stage Two relationship with Vanessa.
And finally, in a Grand Stage Three relationship with Vanessa, a man would have to
understand and find most compatible, a life without borders. Yes, we could have a set address, but the
clock is ticking and I have so much I want to see and do! If he envisions a sedentary life with time
watching sports, drinking at the bar, sitting through business conferences and banquets,
and entertaining bosses and clients then count me out! Life is getting shorter and shorter. Your best years are NOW! Let’s skip the waiting for retirement.
Are you aware that African Americans are waiting to
retire between the ages of 62-66? Yet, on average most African-American men die
by the age of 59. And most
African-American women die by the age of 64.
Yes, that’s scary! So why are you
waiting for a day that may never arrive before you start to fully live your
life????
I’ve been ready to share my wondrous life. Just know that I’m seeking a Grand Man with
whom to share it.
*Vanessa Brantley Style395.blogspot.com, June 25, 2017, "I’m Seeking a Grand Man”, Volume 7, Blog 1b
[vol. 7, 1a-1c].
*Photos are provided as visuals only. I have never met most of these men nor dated any of these men. I met Will Smith and Jada Pinckett once--individually-- before they were married. I worked on the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air as an extra and Will was in the scene. I met Jada by coincidence while partying at a nigthclub. I told her I liked her orange jumpsuit. The color was stunning. I had no idea she would become a famous person. It was in the 1990s.
I met Leon at the Mandalay Bay Casino in one of their restaurants. I spoke and he said, "Hello lovely ladies."
SEE SEATTLE!
Have you ever had a day, a week when you feel the
entire planet was reserved for only you?
I don’t mean you found yourself alone on a street or in a market. I mean that everything you were experiencing
was exactly how you wanted it to go.
Your life was part of a movie and you were the central character.
It happened for me during my birthday trip to Seattle.
I don’t even recall what year it was. Every year since I turned 30, I have planned
a trip for myself to a major city. It’s
part of my life goal to spend at least 24 hours in each American state. Thus far, I have visited 43 states. On this particular trip, I was visiting Washington,
the state, and I chose to stay five days in Seattle. I made the right choice that year.
My decision wasn’t about trying to go to the
original Starbucks, although I did. My
decision was because of Nordstrom’s. I
wanted to see the flagship store. At the
time, Nordstrom was rated the #1 department store for customer service. I needed to have someone treat me like a
queen, so off to Seattle I went.
My first glimpse of the area revealed an
environment right out of my dreams. As I
love winter and its cool air along with gentle falling snow, Seattle had a
dominate backdrop view which included Mount Rainier with its snow-capped peak. It was picturesque and quietly peaceful.
I was ready for adventure.
The air was clean.
The Douglas firs were extremely tall.
And the city’s iconic symbol, the statuesque Space Needle, was a sight to
behold. Lunch would be there my second day. Revolving slowly like other restaurants in
Atlanta and Louisville with spectacular views of their majestic cities, the
SkyCity restaurant had breathtaking views of Seattle’s harbor and hills, which
were highlighted brightly in the lunchtime sun.
Breathe. You
are living in the glow of life right now.
Recommended for a visit by hundreds of people,
before and during my trip, the next day was reserved for the historic and most
popular, Public Market Farmers Market. Located in
downtown Seattle, with cobbled-stoned streets near the lower section of
Seattle’s water-lined edge, Public Market Farmers Market was a busy, busy marketplace
filled with restaurants, fresh produce, seafood, fish, fruits, meats, and
merchandise. I must have gained 10
pounds by lunch, mainly from consuming every morsel offered for the
tasting. Gratefully, due to the expanse
of the market, I managed to walk off the extra weight by dinner. With several sips of my after dinner coffee,
purchased from the original location of Starbucks hidden deeply in the maze of
the market on Pike Place, I walked back to my rental car, happily strolling with my sore feet
from a fully engrossed day at Public Market Farmers Market.
I’d go again at the drop of a hat.
The following morning I was up early to catch the
ferry to Bainbridge
Island. It was to be my first
ferry ride. I was really giddy and
excited. Pulling up to the ferry, I was
told to stay in my vehicle, drive onto the large carrier and park directly
behind the car in front of me. “Are you
kidding?!,” I thought. Really! Wow!
Wow!!!
This was just like in the movies. I’m in my rental car riding across the Puget Sound
on a very large vessel. Yeah. I did that.
We landed on Bainbridge Island. I was still amazed by the image of us driving
off the ferry. First, the cars then the
motorcycles and bikes, and then the people who simply had walked on board. Oh, this image would remain with me for
life. Such a simple trip for the
residents, yet oh so foreign for a visitor like myself.
Onward. I
was famished so, I went to the first little eatery where the locales had
suggested. It was on a back bay-like
area, very small and non-descript. I
wanted a view, thinking I would be seated by the front window, but no. I was ushered to the back of the place,
facing a long narrow waterway. Hmm…I
wondered. Is this their racism? You can only sit in the back of the
restaurant.
Moments later, as my salad was served, I realized
that I was getting more than a view. I
was about to get an experience. For on
the river was activity. There were a few
boaters slowly drifting pass. A dozen or
so large river birds flew by to land on various trees branches. Then the sound on the river, faint echoes of light
waves in varying hues, repeated softly under a changing sun. What a day and what a great meal of quiche.
Yeah, Bainbridge Island. I’m loving this trip.
Driving through the back roads of the island and
trying not to get lost, I saw a sign that would take my day to the next level
of excitement. It was 5 miles
ahead. The Susquamish Clearwater Casino Resort. I had forgotten Native American casinos would
be here. There were two casinos on this
little island. The other one was called The Point
Casino. Yippee! Fun.
Fun. Fun.
I left the island rather late that evening. I know it was after 7 p.m. Going across Puget Sound back to Seattle, I
had moved inside to chat with a few people I had met much earlier in the
morning. They told me to get ready for
yet another great view.
Shining brightly from left to right and in all
directions, there was Seattle at night.
Lit up like crystals, broken and splattered on a sandy beach, the twinkling
lights of Seattle at night were both romantic and warmly comforting. Happy Birthday, Vanessa! You’re having another successful trip.
And it wasn’t over.
I had not been to Nordstrom’s yet.
Morning traffic in the heart of Seattle was like
any other big city. People were hustling
and bustling. My spa appointment at Nordstrom was
not going to wait. If you run child, you
can make it in time to shop first.
Looking up at eleven floors of clothing heaven,
there it was…the one and only Nordstrom. I scoured each floor searching for the right
birthday gift to myself. I must have tried
on two dozen items from shoes to suits. I was in a magical land of designer labels. Settling for jewelry, I was finally off to
the grand spa at Nordstrom.
I asked for something to soothe my aching feet; I
had walked for days in Seattle. A good
rub down was needed. The recommended
treatment was Reflexology, a really great selection, I noted. However, with all the pampering, time had
slipped on past. I had completely forgotten
I wanted to see the main library and fine arts museum. So, there I was once again ripping and
running all through town, wanting to see it all and do it all. Yet, no time to spare because the clock was
ticking without pause. Seattle had cast
its spell on me and I was mesmerized willingly.
I love that city.
Like any last night in a town, I make sure some of
my money goes to the African-American community. I had heard about a savvy-smooth Black-owned
restaurant with roots in the South called Simply
Soulful. Featuring the recipes of a
relative from the state of Mississippi, a mother-daughter team had taken the
classic recipes of soul food to the next level of yum. I would spend my last bundle of dollars
eating everything in sight and taking a couple of desserts back to the airport
with me. I had left my heart in Seattle.
With pleasure, I knew I would return one day to
retrieve it.
*Vanessa Brantley Style395.blogspot.com, June 18, 2017, "See Seattle!", Volume 7, Blog 1a [vol.
7, 1a-1c].
