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The first time I was mortally offended while going out, I was 10 (give or take). It was an upscale restaurant in Old Montreal, an establishment called Chez Queue that is amazingly still there, and I had ordered a dessert of strawberries and vanilla ice cream. Only, I didn’t like vanilla at the time. So I asked for chocolate ice cream instead. The waiter pulled a face, a disgusted face, as if I had ordered the strawberries with relish and hot sauce or something equally weird. I was outraged. My parents were far from impressed, and we never went back. Oh, I look back and laugh now. But the incident, and the sheer absurd insult of it all, is the defining memory I have of that place.
And that is pretty much how I feel about a recent experience at the Edison bar.
The Edison is this swanky joint in downtown L.A., a hop away from the CalTrans building (aka the Death Star). Located in L.A.’s first private power plant, the place is a marvel of architecture and retro-industrial interior design. Dark and moody, chock-full of pipes and the mechanical accoutrements of a power generating station, the Edison is a snazzy, jazzy steampunk cabaret with inspired cocktails and surprisingly good bar food. I’ve been there a few times before without incident except slightly sub-par service. But this was the first time I actually hadn’t been allowed in. The reason? I was wearing sandals. Not flip-flops, mind you. Not cheap plastic things, or beach footwear, but nice black, tastefully gladiatorial leather sandals (style #71 at www.kiwisandals.com). The rest of my ensemble was business casual; a modestly dressy black short-sleeved shirt, black pants. Not a tux, but not jeans either. Still, no go: entry denied.
To be fair, the Edison does have a dress code — available on its website. But since I had worn comparable ensembles (with nice sandals) before to the Edison, I wasn’t expecting the fashion police. I would have been less offended if the bouncer enforced a dress code that had at least some kind of internal logic. They wouldn’t let my nice sandals in, but they let in some guy wearing an untucked shirt and scruffy blue jeans? And women? The ladies I saw going in were getting away with pretty much anything: strappy sandals, ballet flats, clogs, short skirts – business casual, not remotely ultra-elegant clothes. Men. Why do women get to wear sandals in formal settings but not men?
It’s Just Not Cool
I suppose I should have paid better attention to that dress code, but really, the dress code itself is offensive on so many more levels than a bouncer’s snootiness. It’s un-L.A., for one thing. This isn’t a news flash: it’s hot here. Fancy clothes do not have an air conditioning effect. Neither do shoes. So what’s the big deal about wearing sandals given our weather?
Answer: the Edison’s dress code isn’t simply an isolated case of apparel snobbery and an example of the rule that women are encouraged to show skin while men are expected to hide themselves in monkey suits. It reflects the cultural trend of allowing women more fashion freedom than men, both in dress codes and in the number of stylistic options available – as proven by any visit to a shoe store or fashion boutique. The flip side is, this freedom comes with high expectations of beauty and sexual desirability, implying, ultimately, that the gild comes with a cage. But never mind all that. It’s simply a sexist double-standard, books could be written about it, and there are other reasons why Edison’s embrace of this double-standard ranks highly on the suck-o-meter.
Reasons like it’s just not cool. The Edison, like the poshiest of posh establishments, confuses cool with exclusivity and luxury with snobbery. They don’t understand cool. Cool isn’t the “popular” kids in high school who clique together: cool is the kid who effortlessly manages to be friends with everyone. Cool isn’t the celebutantes that give TMZ and their fellow tabloids endless fodder: cool is Steve McQueen. Cool is all about the flow, being relaxed, being laid-back. “Strict” isn’t in the vocabulary of cool. Customer service, however – service that’s all about the customer – most definitely is. There are any number of things the Edison could have said, like “Hey, we prefer shoes on guys, but go on in and just remember that for next time.” Still sexist, but at least it’s not uptight.
Alas, the Edison prefers to keep the party to themselves with people of their own choosing. And in all fairness, their house, their rules – they can surround themselves with whatever kind of people they want. That’s fine. Technically, this kind of playing-with-yourself attitude is called wanking. But, whatever. I don’t need to go the Edison, either. I don’t need to support a snobbish establishment based on exclusivity and conformity rather than hospitality and individuality, especially since L.A. has no shortage of swanky, welcoming joints who understand that you can’t truly be cool when you have a stick – or, in the Edison’s case, a dim light bulb – stuck up your bottom.
Frédérik invites you to discuss today's column and more at his blog (frederik-sisa.blogspot.com).
