Last night, Grey Cloud took us to his home away from home.
I'm very torn on the Olympic Club.
On one hand, it's an uptight, elitist, sexist and probably racist private club, which my father and brother belong to, but to which I am denied membership. On the other hand, it's kind of like being in a movie, it's where my family have spent a lot of important occasions and it's always packed with cute, rich boys.
Keep in mind, as a rule, cute rich boys are douchebags.
Anyway, Grey Cloud has booked every Thursday night while he's in town at the Club, because as every good Olympian knows, Thursday night is buffet night.
And you know, it's rare you get to see a good ice sculpture these days.
We got ready at 916B, Grey Cloud typically dressed to the nines and me finally breaking in my new stilettos. Mikey, who is a fancy pants banker and dresses as such, arrived home, took off his tie, had a martini and grabbed his keys.
"You're not wearing a tie?" I asked casually.
He ignored me.
We arrived early and set up shop in the bar, ordering drinks from Manny.
(Quick story about Manny; The last time GC was in town, we grabbed drinks at the Club. I approached the bar to get another glass of Chardonnay and Manny asked to whose account he should charge my drink. When told the name, he asked me to point Grey Cloud out. "That guy, sitting over there in the grey suit." Manny casually replied, "Oh, you mean C. Thomas Howell? Got it."
I. Love. Manny.)
Suddenly, a group of 20-something, well-dressed and hot guys showed up. There must have been 10 of them. I leaned over to Mikey. "Oh, look. It's a douchebag convention." Grey Cloud, caught in a rare moment of sipping on plain water, replied, "Jesus Christ. It's like Boiler Room."
He was right. There was a high Vin Diesel vibe going on.
Manny came by and informed us our table in the main dining room was ready. We hopped in the elevator, went up a floor and approached the hostess desk. Immediately, GC declared, "We're ready for our table. And a tie."
It is at this point, I thought Mikey might kill himself.
"Oh my god."
"Mikey, I told you at home."
"I thought you were kidding."
No. Olympians are very uptight about these things.
The dining room is kinda like being on a cruise ship. There are huge chandeliers. Everyone's really dressed up. The food is kinda 'eh' and the service is kinda random. Mikey sat down, grumbling next to me. "The only reason I'm okay with this is because I just saw the douchebag convention is picking out ties in the foyer."
We ordered wine and Mikey removed his jacket, hanging it on his chair behind him.
Immediately, a server appeared and asked him to put it back on.
"Are you serious?"
Yes. Olympians are very uptight about these things.
We headed to the buffet, where I suddenly heard, "Beth!"
Oh look. It's my godmother and family. Much like Willie Brown, all of the men stood as I approached the table.
Which I adored.
I introduced my boys, who were far more concerned with deviled eggs and the carving station than meeting my people. And then, another, "Beth!"
And I'm standing around, wobbly on these goddamn heels, trying to balance a plate of creamed spinach while simultaneously hugging people I see once a year.
An image of me loudly crashing to the floor popped in my head. I excused myself and went back to our table, where Mikey pointed out the obvious.
Aside from getting to pretend you're in a movie and getting to charge everything to Grey Cloud's oblivious father, you've get crappy food in a really uptight, slightly too-bright environment and you have to run into your parent's friends and be charming and polite and well-behaved.
So, again, I'm torn on the Olympic Club. Their treadmills have built in flat screens and the little sandwich shop overlooking the indoor pool has incredible curried chicken salad sandwiches. And there's a constant douchebag convention going on, not to mention weird chocolate mousse in wine glasses and a ridiuclous dress code, just to make everyone nervous...