Metropolitan and the Club Holiday Party
Another reminder of pomp and circumstance came during my annual rewatch of Whit Stillman’s Metropolitan (1989) which details the going-abouts of a group of preppy young debutantes and escorts during the debutante ball season in Manhattan. Much can be said about the movie, and almost everything that needs to be said on the matter has probably already been. Pomp and circumstance in a world that is rapidly changing is the true theme of the movie. It was almost as if the revolution of the earth around the sun dictated that the holiday season be one of dressing up, socialising, and long nights of conversation and intoxication.
The last hope for pomp and circumstance lies in Clubland. New York’s University Club annual holiday dance, which yours truly was spotted at in a shawl-collar tuxedo, stipulates both good dress and dancing to the tunes of a chamber orchestra, a reprise for Stillman’s Metropolitan, and perhaps the last of the great club holiday parties. Boston’s Union Club requires its members and guests to adhere to the dress code while prohibiting electronic devices from everywhere but the dedicated study, nicely cordoned off in a back room. No sneakers and laptops, puh-lease. New York’s Union Club is similarly pukka, and ties aren’t optional, much like University Club.
Club-hopping in Manhattan is quite the night out: get off at Grand Central, wash off the dirt and the slime in the steam and sauna at the Yale Club, proceeding downstairs to play some pool and get their bartender JP’s double-strong drinks and pick up a tie from the JPress in the back, before slowly making your way downtown to The Players for their bartender Eddie’s renowned martinis, and eventually landing up at the University Club for dinner. No need to go black tie on your club-hopping soiree: khakis, an OCBD, and navy blazers are adequate to the task at hand. Ties are most certainly not optional, unless you want to dip into the bin of odd ties that almost never make for cohesive outfits at the door of the University Club (or Union, for that matter, if you’re an Upper East Sider).
Further north in Boston, the circuit looks similar: start at the Union Club, conveniently located steps away from the Massachusetts State Legislature, with a drink at the Everett Bar, where Shawn’s pours are rather clubby, as are his stories, before making your way to University Club, about a fifteen-minute stumble away, and then to Harvard Club. Take your dinner at the Union; it has the best food. On the plus side, you’ll pay less for drinks overall; you’ll be in beautiful surroundings; everyone around you will be well-dressed, and you’ll never have to hanker for attention. The only downside here ought to be the five minutes it takes a man to get dressed.
There is a certain air of nostalgia around, to be clear. But it’s not just that. Who needs Woody Allen and a forlorn alley in Paris to be whisked out of the humdrum of everyday life and into some fantastical world, when there’s something right in front of you, easily accessible, fun, and frankly frugal? The pomp and circumstance of going clubbing—our clubbing—is the possibility of having a civilised night out while Rome burns.
And, then, when holiday season rolls by, you’re never going to feel alone again. From one club holiday party to another, you’re going to be at home, well-dressed, polite, and then, when the clock turns after-hours, and you move from the dining room to the bar, a tad rambunctious, nay, even boisterous. You start looking forward to the pomp and circumstance, and to the inner elevation it gives you. It’s almost like you gained half a foot in height. Deb season might be on the wane, but, you, my Urban Haute Bourgeois reader, have something else to look forward to.