Small Boo and I enjoyed a rather pleasant lunch the other day, at a hotel restaurant we’d expected to be at best vaguely competent. Later, I was idly spooooling through the establishment’s website when I came upon the mention of something called “Wine O’Clock”, which would appear to be the phenomenon we oiks might know better as happy hour. It all sounded a bit cheesy, but not bad enough to obliterate the memory of the quite excellent rhubarb and strawberry sfogliatina I’d had a few hours previously. And then: “On Thursdays Wine O’Clock pays tribute to ladies. All ladies receive a 5% discount for every inch of those high heels worn.”
Er... pardon? OK, leave aside the use of “ladies”, which sounds a bit twee to anyone who doesn’t regard “feminist” as a term of abuse. But the heel thing: essentially, they’re offering financial encouragement to women to wear heels as high as possible. Why, for crying out loud? Does an influx of tottering, unstable females automatically make the restaurant a more enjoyable environment for other diners? Does the potential for a spectacular, crashing collapse across a table, or even a more modest and discreet twisted ankle add to the savour of one’s steak or risotto? Who, exactly, benefits from this?
Not me. Heterosexual men are supposedly turned into the personification of drooling lust at the sight of a stiletto, but I just don’t get it, and never have. (The same, incidentally, goes for stockings and suspenders.) Give me a flat Courreges boot any day. And I don’t see why women should be applauded for wearing footwear that renders them incapable of running for a bus, when Nicolas Sarkozy is mocked for giving himself a little lift in the shoe department.
On the other hand I suppose it all fits. The cheaper you look, the cheaper your drinks are.
Er... pardon? OK, leave aside the use of “ladies”, which sounds a bit twee to anyone who doesn’t regard “feminist” as a term of abuse. But the heel thing: essentially, they’re offering financial encouragement to women to wear heels as high as possible. Why, for crying out loud? Does an influx of tottering, unstable females automatically make the restaurant a more enjoyable environment for other diners? Does the potential for a spectacular, crashing collapse across a table, or even a more modest and discreet twisted ankle add to the savour of one’s steak or risotto? Who, exactly, benefits from this?
Not me. Heterosexual men are supposedly turned into the personification of drooling lust at the sight of a stiletto, but I just don’t get it, and never have. (The same, incidentally, goes for stockings and suspenders.) Give me a flat Courreges boot any day. And I don’t see why women should be applauded for wearing footwear that renders them incapable of running for a bus, when Nicolas Sarkozy is mocked for giving himself a little lift in the shoe department.
On the other hand I suppose it all fits. The cheaper you look, the cheaper your drinks are.
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