I survived a day without internet at the flat and am happy that the router was reset today.
Last night I had the rare and exquisite opportunity to be Peter U.’s guest for dinner at his Reform Club. It was elegant entry into a time warp. Located among Embassies, near Trafalgar Square, the Reform Club was founded in 1836 by those pledged to support England’s Reform Law and the early Liberal Party. Today, the Club is a social venue for members only. It is located in “clubland” near St. James and is one of the architypes for men’s clubs that flourished in the 19th century (think: Kickerbocker Club in NYC; the Algonquin in Boston; the California Club in LA). It was the first of its kind to admit women (1981), although the vestiges of a men’s sanctuary are heavy.
The butler who greeted me at the door asked how he could help (a clear indicator that I was on “intruder” status). I mentioned my name and that I was a guest of Peter U. The butler instructed me to deposit my coat downstairs in the “ladies cloakroom” after which he would “announce me to Dr. U.” I was led to the sitting room where we exchanged social pleasantries before being asked to the dining room.
The architecture is overpowering. Of course, I did not assume to take photos as that would be both gauche and embarrassing. From the internet, I found these images which represent very much what I saw.
Harkening back to bygone days, the dinner menus had no prices. Peter had a little tablet to handwrite our orders for the waiter (and I assume it served as a chit for accounting purposes). I had a lovely sea bass and salad. After dinner, Peter toured me though the building and showed me the exhibit he has created of Reform Memorabilia for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. He has quite a collection of vases, bowls, buttons and urns from 1836 commemorating the passing of legislation which reapportioned representation for England and Wales and enfranchised more voters.
There was a card room where several tables of men and women were playing bridge. That was a contrast to the dining room where most tables were men only. The library was fairly empty at the dinner hour except for the large collection of volumes (they have a full time librarian). The smoking room was extremely roomy with a large fireplace and a variety of green leather chairs for enjoying cigars and pipes.
Although it was a lovely evening where I got a Brit’s perspective on everything from Scotland’s bid for independence to the state of produce in London markets, it was too reminiscent for me of the days of serious and genteel gender inequality.
I recall being a young college student invited to lunches and dinners at the LA Athletic Club, and the Jonathan Club. Both, like the Reform Club, had very restrictive dress codes. None allowed women or people of color to be members; but, on certain days of the week, a member could bring the wife, a date or his children up the “ladies elevator” to the one dining room where women were allowed admission.
At the time, the same etiquette prevailed as I observe at the Reform Club 2012: the waiters spoke only to the men and we were given menus sans prices. At the time, I was working in downtown and going to USC. My boss, Mr. Harvey, was eager to match-make and introduced me to two of his single, “eligible” clients. It was always quite uncomfortable for me. One very nice man owned Peruvian restaurants (the Inca on Beverly and the other one out on Wilshire Boulevard); he was about 30 years old—which was ancient to this 18 year old. In retrospect, Gabriel was probably gay. His parents and Mr. Harvey were distressed at how such a suave, fit, good dresser could not find a nice, Catholic wife. We became friends, but there was zero chemistry. Despite the lack of attraction, he kept inviting me to lunches and dinners at his clubs as well as a few swimming outings at the Beach Club and evening soirees with his family. For the most part, my associations with those times and the restrictive mores for women and people of color are not fond.
It seemed to me then that the continent was separating into two cultures—like Teutonic plates moving in different directions. Somewhere in about 1968 or 69 the girl who saved paychecks to buy cunning, fashionable four inch heels and little hats at J. Magnin’s morphed into the one who was more comfortable wearing jeans, hanging out with the pot-smoking protesters for civil rights and against the Vietnam War. I felt that when the cultural divide between generations occurred, we had to pick sides. It was also obvious that it was not about age since many of my age cohort joined the conventional culture while the counter culture had some geezers, too.
My ambitions when I left home at 17 were to finish college, marry a rich cat (Catholic goes without saying) who had impeccable manners; the plan was to create a lifestyle around what I had observed from the outside: tennis, country club, bridge, a lovely home decorated with colors of celery and paprika and as many children as the rhythm method of birth control provided. What a difference a year made.
Perhaps those stilted, less than authentic adventures at the LA men’s clubs provided a window into the oppression that was part and parcel of the fantasy dream bubble I had imagined as my future when in high school. All I really aspired to was avoiding those painful kitchen table sessions of bill-paying which seemed so fraught with anguish.
Far from a feminist at the time, I had some inkling that the dream came with a big price of loss of self. When granted access to the world of the wealthy in a role beyond “babysitter,” I had an instinctive revulsion at the setup which confined “ladies” to men-pleasing mannequins with few opinions in exchange for being provided for. That is not how women in our family behaved.
Because I was a scholarship student at USC, I was on the outside of most social activities, too. On weekends, the other scholarship students, the orthodox Jews, and the Black athletes were the only ones left on campus. Our group and for the most part those who became friends—were those I kicked it with for leisure. That had much to do with my evolving awareness of injustice and the mandate to participate in change.
I have a mountain of papers to grade and some London wanderings to do.
Ciao
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