Читать книгу Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night - Lewis Grizzard - Страница 22

Fit to Be Tied at the Plaza

I was staying at the Plaza Hotel in New York recently (my publisher was paying for the room, that’s why I wasn’t at a Motel 6 in Newark), and I went to have lunch in one of the hotel’s spiffy restaurants.

For the occasion, I wore a blue blazer, accentuated by a pair of khaki trousers and a white golf shirt I’d worn only once before.

I knew I was in trouble the moment I saw the maître d’. He was a tall wisp of a fellow who was probably born with his nose turned up that way.

I wasn’t absolutely certain he was light in his loafers, but when he traveled across the restaurant escorting guests to their tables, he touched the floor only once or twice.

“Table for three,” I said to the maître d’, once he had landed back at his station.

He looked at me as if he were looking at a dead cat in the highway. The right side of his lip curled upward, his nostrils half flared, and the lid of his left eye went to half-mast.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “are required to wear ties when they dine here.”

There are a number of phrases I enjoy saying at times such as these, but my two companions were ladies, and I was afraid Donald Trump, who owns the Plaza, might be within earshot, so I abstained.

I wear ties only to funerals of close relatives or heads of state. I stopped wearing ties during the late to middle seventies because they made me feel uncomfortable.

I especially hate to eat while wearing a tie. Once I was at a banquet and they served barbecued chicken with lots of red sauce on it.

My tie at the beginning of the meal was blue. At the end, it was red. I gave the tie to my dog. He ate it.

I’m also convinced ties restrict the blood flow to the brain, causing such disorders as forgetfulness, blurred eyesight, and even criminal tendencies.

Al Capone was rarely seen without a tie. The same goes, incidentally, for Richard Nixon.

Anyway, I don’t see what difference it makes whether or not you wear a tie into a restaurant at least as long as you are wearing a jacket and clean underwear.

I told the Plaza maître d’ I didn’t own a tie, and he went into a closet and fetched one.

It was black. Perfect for a blue blazer.

The trouble was, I couldn’t remember how to tie a tie. Neither of my companions could either.

Getting terribly hungry now, I asked for help from the lady checking coats. She did a little better than the rest of us. When she finished tying the tie around my neck, the thin part that’s supposed to be short was long, and the big part that’s supposed to be long was short.

Although I now looked like a complete idiot, wearing an incorrectly tied tie with a golf shirt, I was shown to my table.

I chuckled as I recalled a sign I saw recently in one of Atlanta’s Long Horn Steak Houses. Long Horns don’t care much about pretension.

The sign said NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE. BRA AND PANTIES OPTIONAL.

The meal was excellent. I got mayonnaise on my tie.