Smarty Pants Only

I further assimilated as a Washingtonian with some recent digestive activity at this place. A friend told me I shouldn’t mention it by name if I wrote about the experience (everywhere I go, everyone I know, everything I touch – all possible material, so beware) because the DC institution could have people monitoring any and all mentionings of the place.

I’m not scared, but for the sake of faux suspense, I’ll keep the name to myself and just let you click the links above. Click it, click it now (in the spirit of whip it, whip it good).

It’s a private (read: elitist) social (read: if you’re deemed worthy of socializing with) club (read: intellectual’s treehouse). Gracing the who’s who and who knows how much social scene since 1878, the club only began allowing women to join 110 years later (!!). Membership is reserved for those kids (gray haired big boys and now girls) “in virtually every profession that has anything to do with scholarship, creative genius or intellectual distinction.”

For some reason I feel the need to say, “checkmate.”

Why did I attend this old boys club? My boss (whose husband is a member and therefore has the right to bring guests) took our office there for a co-worker’s birthday.

Anticipating this lunchtime field trip, I projected that my feminist feathers would be ruffled by the experience and in turn felt compelled to dress in defensive mode (wearing a feather boa and fishnets). Alas, though, I wore pants and a cap sleeved sweater in mild defiance. Pant suits are for Hillary.

Not to ruin the ending before I give you the middle, but I had one heck of a lovely time there. The club was formerly a mansion, so entering each room felt like opening a jewelry box; you just didn’t know what you were going to see. Some rooms had gold leaf trim, ornate interior accents, and masterpieces painted on the ceiling. A library hosted a shelf marked, “books recently published by club members.” Alright then.

Lunch began with a waiter toting a carb-infused basket, gracing each of us with a popover. Yowsa. That was the best roll I’ve ever had. Memorable in my heart and on my inner thigs. Story of my (edible) life.

No prices on the menu because the cost of anything consumed just goes on the member’s account. I have one gem of a boss, believe you me.

The use of cell phones and electronic devices is prohibited in the dining area. These people are down-to-earth hedonists. Who the hell would have thought? Meals void of technology – bravo. And no note taking (not even a vowel) allowed either. This proved irritating as I planned to blog about the adventure and wanted to jot notes between bites of my popover(s).

The place prides itself on having Nobel Prize winners as members. My boss pointed across the room to a former Secretary of Defense (or something along those lines). At that point I looked around the room of accomplished men (plentiful) and women (scarce) – each a surprise achievement unto himself/herself – and announced, “I think I should just plant myself at the bar and hope for the best.”

When my boss and I went to the loo, she showed me what had been the women’s entrance during the time (110 years!) when women weren’t eligible members (perceived as worthwhile, unless when horizontal and near a mattress).

I wonder how they felt (feel?) about Jews. Just wondering. When I saw a portrait of an African American club member in another room, I felt an internal, hearty Mazel Tov surge through me.

Upon entering the “Powder Room” (verbatim the door’s plaque), my boss said that this is where she gets all of her nail files and proceeded to take a handful and put them into her purse. Alright then.

The one and only disappointment of the afternoon was the skimpy size of the desserts. Bottomless popovers prevented me from getting too angry over the rationed key lime pie and mud pie (quick to melt).

As a Floridian, I have to say that the Cosmos Club (oops!), while not the happiest place on earth, is a northern rival to Disney World. I drank their kool-aid (and their iced tea).