Rum or Whiskey?
Now won'tcha have a
Double with me?
(The Noisettes, Never Forget You)
Last week saw my first foray into San Francisco society whereby The Missus was accorded an invitation to a cocktail party to celebrate, moreover promote, an upcoming Junior League fashion show. For those that do not know, Junior League is a women only charity organisation that raises money for, and helps to improve the lives of, disadvantaged people in the local area. Thanks to Wikipedia I now know that it is not only in the US but also Canada, Mexico and the UK. For those back home, think W.I. but with less of an emphasis on jam and vegetable competitions. According to one hopeful Junior League applicant one of our party met, the Junior League is all about, "...helping really really poor kids and cool stuff like that". Well there you are then.
The invite with more than a nod to Pan Am
For obvious reasons I have no knowledge of either the inner nor the outer workings of the W.I. It may well be cocktail parties are also their thing. Perhaps there has been a reality TV show rebranding programme that I have missed. "W.I. Raw" presented by a funky young media savvy type (Alexa Cheung or Flo from Florence and the Machine may be) who strip away all the stereotypical images to relaunch a new, stuffy free, chintzless WOAHman's Insitute for the internet generation. Perhaps.
The party
The Junior League do know how to pull in the punters. The target demographic being what would seem rather wealthy and well dressed, by well I mean expensively, dressed women from San Francisco society circles. To entice the well healed, a surprisingly fun local band called Pop Rocks played rocked up 80s classics, all with tongue so firmly in cheek there was a risk of it coming right through to cause a nasty wound no one wanted to see. Not only this, but a wine raffle with a guaranteed win (my kind of raffle) and the chance to win a $1,600 diamond necklace. The latter prize I would, throughout the night, repeatedly joke to anyone unfortunate enough to have to listen, "...would look great on me". Sadly this was another of my gags failing to produce hoots of laughter but instead simply bemused, confused smiles. Smiles that almost seem to implore help from The Missus. I need to work on my American humour.
Now, I have never been to a cocktail party before. In my mind they have always been a feminine focused type of evening entertainment. Not that I have any problem with that. I have never made a conscious effort to avoid such parties, they've just never come up. However, I took the opportunity to launch my first social media based experiment. A quick post of Facebook that read,
"Need to know a) dress code for a man at a reasonably formal cocktail party and b) acceptable man drink for such an occasion considering Old Fashioned has been done to death and I am not Don Draper"
and I was ready with a list of cocktails to try and a mission to try as many of them as I could. I do love a mission. So I arrived list in hand and styled by my friends. I really am embracing social media.
Rockin'
Not wanting to sound too vain, but I did enjoy experimenting with my friend-designed outfits and now, a few days after the event, I am disappointed I did not think to wear my Pan Am t-shirt which would have fit in perfectly with the aviation theme. My other regret, not wearing mismatching socks. If they could have been fluorescent, even better. This is a look I shall cultivate later, Cocktail Party, Service Pack 2 if you will.
Luckily I took the advice of wearing a suit to fit in, at least in small part, with the society attendees. Yet, this was the first time I'd worn my suit since, I think, one of my anger inducing Paris work trips from my former life. I know this to be the case because my inside pocket was still weighed down with three company issue pens and a Eurostar ticket. To soften the suit blow, I accessorised (for I believe that is the term) with the jazzy socks and trainers you see in the photo above. I tried, as best as I could, to rock the Doctor Who-chique look.
Just call me Matt Tennant-Baker
The most popular cocktail suggestion was a Whiskey Sour and I am ashamed to admit, I'd never tried this before. This was the first served and though tasty, it did seem to be layered with toilet juice of the frothy urinal kind. A little off putting but I am always willing to push on through.
Whiskey Sour (on the froth)
Despite the unnerving top layer, this was a hit and The Missus opted for this once the sparkling wine had run out. I moved onto the second on the list, a reassuring gin and tonic but with a dash of bitters. The G&T had to be done. I am, after all English. Middle class at that. The bitters however was whatever unit of measurement is less than a dash, a piddle?
Tanqueray & tonic with bitters
This is two drinks in and like most other countries but not like home, the US is not shy when serving spirits. Things are starting to get hazy. Again, having not eaten, alcohol was rapidly entering my blood stream but no matter, those Junior League gals were on hand to serve canapes. I did enjoy the crab meat on an endive leaf but please America, please all women, please my lovely wife, no more bloody cupcakes.
Blurry cupcakes to match my degenerating vision and snack disappointment
No matter, onto the next drink. A bourbon and ginger. By this time I am starting to get a measure of each of my friends and their tastes. This will be remembered for future entertaining. Not being a fan of whiskey type drinks, this was a little too whiskey tasting for my tastes. Yet again though, my British resolve and stiff upper lip meant I drank that and pushed on through to a Manhatten. Oh, more whiskey, that was a mistake.
Only the bourbon is mine
Enjoying some nourishment with my Manhatten
My last drink, before the bar closed because, of course like any true Brit, I was there to the very end, a trusty, comforting and well deserved beer. A cop out you may say, but rather enjoyable.
Sweet amber nectar
All in all, cocktail parties are a fine thing and the Junior League put on a great evening. I would definitely enjoy another and would do even more (practical) research before attending my next. Sadly this was a muddling free zone and so mojitos and caipirinhas will have to be left for the next indulgence. My heart however still lies with a cozy pub and a pint of Landlords, but that's just me.
I am now back in San Francisco after a return to old Blighty, finishing off unfinished business. The American move is more real than ever since there is no longer the comfort of a return to sanity, pleasingly warm beer and my wonderful friends, looming comfortably on the horizon. Now, as far as the metaphorical eye can see, lie the vast open plains of Getting Settled in America.
My return to the Mother Country did give me time to reflect on initial life here and gauge just how American I had become in a mere six weeks. Let me reassure all that know me now though, that I do not intend to naturalise to the American way. There will be no assimilation, no upspeak, no "rad" no flagrant use of the word "awesome" and I hope no significant gain in weight. Though the latter is not a promise, food here is very, very hard to resist, especially when "getting to know people" can always be relied upon as a firm excuse to eat out.
Yet, despite being proud to have been often labeled "the most British person" I had only just arrived into London from Heathrow when I found myself queuing in a pizza restaurant, fantastically and vocally irritated by the staff's deliberate attempts at ignoring waiting customers. While my tolerant companion apologetically excused the busy restaurant's poor service, I quizzed others in the queue to find out if they had also be stoically ignored too. I am ashamed to admit that in less than four hours from landing in the UK I had used the cringeworthy phrase, "This would never happen in America" and I fear this may not have been the only time. Oh how the worm, only gently tickled in the middle, turns. Send me to The Tower now, your majesty, I am a traitor.
Great Britain, the UK, England is renowned for poor customer service and like all stereotypes there lies an element of truth but it is by no means a trait isolated to the British Isles. Take for example the French, more specifically the Parisians. So shocked are the Japanese at the near genocidal rudeness of the not so chic Gauls, the recognised psychological disorder "Paris Syndrome" means that unfortunate tourists have to be repatriated by their embassy for fear of lasting damage. There really is a specific department in the Japanese Embassy established to save these poor souls and return them home where service is not delivered on the sharp end of a machete.
Getting back to GB, I flew on United Airlines, the sweet luxurious happiness of BA First Class no longer an option for me. Now before I compare the two let me offer an apology because my First Class travel post had a small twist of truth. A white lie so white it was translucent yet, for one sharp superb individual, yes Lucy I mean you, this bending of truth should have never been. So, never again will this blog bend a timeline or mislead in anyway. My crime was simply to blur one trip with another to save on time but, having been pulled up by my friend on this, I resolve never to repeat the offence.
70's service epitomised by Basil Fawlty, lovingly recreated by American Airlines
United has an interesting offering sitting somewhere between budget carrier and standard airline. If there is an opportunity to charge, in true Michael O'Leary style, United for the most part, will. Want a glass of wine on your transatlantic flight, that'll be $7. Want a meal resembling any recognisable food substance, pre-book online please and pay $20. The best part though, the marketing blurb actually says "Want some personal space...?" then goes onto explaining how paying an extra $100 per trip will offer legroom approaching a standard acceptable to Frodo and his mates.
Having experienced so much luxury on BA it should not be hard to understand how this return to the back of the plane and, let's be honest, the only place I really belong or can at least afford, caused considerable concern. Yet though the experience was of course considerably less comfortable than my previous flights to and from San Francisco, it was not as bad as I feared.
United bases many of its crews in its destination cities so my UK to US flights have always had a British crew who have been friendly and, though not so eager to please as BA, certainly in no way as disdainful of their customers as American Airlines staff. United seemed to me a logical comparison between the UK's stereotypical service and the the US.
Of course, I am not comparing like for like here but my fear of no free booze has not yet been realised for on every United flight, I have been offered at least one complimentary drink. Whether this is down to my excessive British politeness, good looks or most likely the crews' unwillingness to fetch a credit card machine I couldn't say, but at least one free G&T has been offered on everyone one of the four United international flights I've taken. That's enough to retain my business. Yes, I am cheap.
You can bet the first swine on the plane to fully recline his seat will be sitting in front of me
A full flight in cramped steerage is never a pleasant experience yet weirdly I am starting to think that getting drunk is not the best way to cope. The airlines' tightfisted reticence may be going almost as far to improve my liver's well being as it does their balance sheets. Notice I used the word "steerage" expect it to come back into the common vernacular soon. The divide between service in first versus standard mimics the ever growing divide between classes in society and the difference in experience gets ever more comparable to the levels of travel offered on Titanic back in the Gilded Age. One marked difference between now and 1912 though, should we end up unexpectedly dumped in the waters of the Atlantic, no one's getting home, regardless of how much has been paid. There'd be no weasingly out of the right thing to do for Micheal O'Leary, the Bruce Ismay of our time.
So I have decided, there's rubbish service everywhere. In the US good service is expected so that bad service stings, whereas in the UK, poor service is at the back of everyone's mind so when it's good it soothes and shines.
Perhaps I'll see you on a United flight one day. I'll be the man making little fuss but working hard on scoring another free gin. I remain, forever English yet what an Englishman really wants from customer service is a greeting, eye contact and a sincere smile.
