Biltmore Fashion Park: Part two of "Look What They’ve Done to My Mall, Ma!"

Mr. Pela's account of his declasse shopping experiences did tug at my heartstrings. Not, it must be admitted, to any great degree -- but after all, the degree of pathos which one can extract from the subject of haberdashery is limited.

I decided, therefore, to satisfy his longing for supercilious affront by writing a scenario, which I hope meets with his approval.

* * *

(Pela enters upscale men's clothier.)

Young Clerk (spotting Pela): The service entrance is at the rear of the building.

Pela: I'm not a tradesman. I'm here to buy clothes.

Young Clerk (giving Pela the once-over with a practiced eye): No soliciting.

Pela: You ARE an insolent monkey, aren't you? I demand to see the manager. At once.

Young Clerk (barely stifling laughter): The manager? I'm afraid he's busy at the moment.

Pela: Doing what?

Young Clerk: Managing.

Pela (reddening): I'm quite serious. Get the manager out here -- now.

Young Clerk: I might be able to get you the senior sales person. Just a moment. (Disappears behind a curtain.)

(A distinguished, elderly man in a three-piece suit, with a measuring tape draped round his neck, emerges from behind the curtain after an interval.)

Senior Salesperson (speaking through a frozen grin of the sort worn by someone who has sat in a spot of wet paint, and is mortified lest it become known and he is made the butt of public jest): May I help you, sir?

Pela: Is this a haberdashers or the monkey park at the zoo?

Senior Salesperson (smile freezing by 20 degrees): The last time I checked, sir, it was the former.

Pela: Very well, then. Your clerk seemed unsure. I'm looking for a pair of slacks.

Senior Salesperson (full of false obsequiousness): I'm afraid there has been a misunderstanding, sir.

Pela: Oh?

Senior Salesperson (almost apologetically): You see, we're actually a bespoke tailor, catering to gentlemen of means. We don't do off-the-rack. (Gives Pela's khakis another look while superciliously raising one eyebrow a sixteenth of an inch.) And we don't sell safari-wear. You might try Banana Republic across the way. (Gives a smirk which says: "I am given to undertand that THEY sell to anyone.")

Pela: Do you mean to tell me that I don't meet your standards?

(At this point, the Young Clerk reappears from behind the curtain and mercifully intervenes.) Young Clerk (regarding Pela like someone caught pocketing the silverware at a dinner party): Can I help?

Senior Salesperson: Perhaps you can supply this gentleman with the name of that new downtown shop, which caters to persons of his...taste. I can't for the life of me seem to recall it. You know...the one named by that blasted Wolfgang Puck.

Young Clerk (thinking furiously for several moments): Oh! You must mean SYKH. (Young Clerk pronounces this as "chic".)

Pela: SYKH?

Young Clerk: It's an acronym. You know, a word that...oh, never mind. It stands for "Snarky Young Khaki-wearing Homosexual".

Pela: You interest me strangely. Give me the address.

(Thirty minutes later, Pela walks into the SYKH Boutique. Steely Dan's "Gaucho" is playing over the sound-system.)

Thin Young Man: Look what the cat dragged in!

Pela: Can it be that you are addressing me, callow youth?

Thin Young Man (looking at Pela's salmon colored polo-shirt and no longer immaculately creased khakis): We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Can I interest you in something with Mechlin Lace at the collar and cuffs?

The End

Mr. Pela's account of his declasse shopping experiences did so tug at my heartstrings. Not, it must be admitted, quite so much as The Bridges of Madison County -- but one can only extract so much pathos from haberdashery.

I decided, therefore, to satisfy his longing for supercilious affront by writing a scenario, which I hope meets with his approval.

* * *

(Pela enters upscale men's clothier.)

Young Clerk (spotting Pela): The service entrance is at the rear of the building.

Pela: I'm not a tradesman. I'm here to buy clothes.

Young Clerk (giving Pela the once-over with a practiced eye): No soliciting.

Pela: You ARE an insolent monkey, aren't you? I demand to see the manager. At once.

Young Clerk (barely stifling laughter): The manager? I'm afraid he's busy at the moment.

Pela: Doing what?

Young Clerk: Managing.

Pela (reddening): I'm quite serious. Get the manager out here -- now.

Young Clerk: I might be able to get you the senior sales person. Just a moment. (Disappears behind a curtain.)

(A distinguished, elderly man in a three-piece suit, with a measuring tape draped round his neck, emerges from behind the curtain after an interval.)

Senior Salesperson (speaking through a frozen grin of the sort worn by someone who has sat in a spot of wet paint, and is mortified lest it become known and he is made the butt of public jest): May I help you, sir?

Pela: Is this a haberdashers or the monkey park at the zoo?

Senior Salesperson (smile freezing by 20 degrees): The last time I checked, sir, it was the former.

Pela: Very well, then. Your clerk seemed unsure. I'm looking for a pair of slacks.

Senior Salesperson (full of false obsequiousness): I'm afraid there has been a misunderstanding, sir.

Pela: Oh?

Senior Salesperson (almost apologetically): You see, we're actually a bespoke tailor, catering to gentlemen of means. We don't do off-the-rack. (Gives Pela's khakis another look while superciliously raising one eyebrow a sixteenth of an inch.) And we don't sell safari-wear. You might try Banana Republic across the way. (Gives a smirk which says: "I am given to undertand that THEY sell to anyone.")

Pela: Do you mean to tell me that I don't meet your standards?

(At this point, the Young Clerk reappears from behind the curtain and mercifully intervenes.)

Young Clerk (regarding Pela like someone caught pocketing the silverware at a dinner party): Can I help?

Senior Salesperson: Perhaps you can supply this gentleman with the name of that new downtown shop, which caters to persons of his...taste. I can't for the life of me seem to recall it. You know...the one named by that blasted Wolfgang Puck.

Young Clerk (thinking furiously for several moments): Oh! You must mean SYKH. (Young Clerk pronounces this as "chic".)

Pela: SYKH?

Young Clerk: It's an acronym. You know, a word that...oh, never mind. It stands for "Snarky Young Khaki-wearing Homosexual".

Pela: You interest me strangely. Give me the address.

(Thirty minutes later, Pela walks into the SYKH Boutique. Steely Dan's "Gaucho" is playing over the sound-system.)

Thin Young Man: Look what the cat dragged in!

Pela: Can it be that you are addressing me, callow youth?

Thin Young Man (looking at Pela's salmon colored polo-shirt and no longer immaculately creased khakis): We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Can I interest you in something with Mechlin Lace at the collar and cuffs?

The End

Mr. Pela's account of his declasse shopping experiences did so tug at my heartstrings. Not, it must be admitted, quite so much as The Bridges of Madison County -- but one can only extract so much pathos from haberdashery.

I decided, therefore, to satisfy his longing for supercilious affront by writing a scenario, which I hope meets with his approval.

* * *

(Pela enters upscale men's clothier.)

Young Clerk (spotting Pela): The service entrance is at the rear of the building.

Pela: I'm not a tradesman. I'm here to buy clothes.

Young Clerk (giving Pela the once-over with a practiced eye): No soliciting.

Pela: You ARE an insolent monkey, aren't you? I demand to see the manager. At once.

Young Clerk (barely stifling laughter): The manager? I'm afraid he's busy at the moment.

Pela: Doing what?

Young Clerk: Managing.

Pela (reddening): I'm quite serious. Get the manager out here -- now.

Young Clerk: I might be able to get you the senior sales person. Just a moment. (Disappears behind a curtain.)

(A distinguished, elderly man in a three-piece suit, with a measuring tape draped round his neck, emerges from behind the curtain after an interval.)

Senior Salesperson (speaking through a frozen grin of the sort worn by someone who has sat in a spot of wet paint, and is mortified lest it become known and he is made the butt of public jest): May I help you, sir?

Pela: Is this a haberdashers or the monkey park at the zoo?

Senior Salesperson (smile freezing by 20 degrees): The last time I checked, sir, it was the former.

Pela: Very well, then. Your clerk seemed unsure. I'm looking for a pair of slacks.

Senior Salesperson (full of false obsequiousness): I'm afraid there has been a misunderstanding, sir.

Pela: Oh?

Senior Salesperson (almost apologetically): You see, we're actually a bespoke tailor, catering to gentlemen of means. We don't do off-the-rack. (Gives Pela's khakis another look while superciliously raising one eyebrow a sixteenth of an inch.) And we don't sell safari-wear. You might try Banana Republic across the way. (Gives a smirk which says: "I am given to undertand that THEY sell to anyone.")

Pela: Do you mean to tell me that I don't meet your standards?

(At this point, the Young Clerk reappears from behind the curtain and mercifully intervenes.)

Young Clerk (regarding Pela like someone caught pocketing the silverware at a dinner party): Can I help?

Senior Salesperson: Perhaps you can supply this gentleman with the name of that new downtown shop, which caters to persons of his...taste. I can't for the life of me seem to recall it. You know...the one named by that blasted Wolfgang Puck.

Young Clerk (thinking furiously for several moments): Oh! You must mean SYKH. (Young Clerk pronounces this as "chic".)

Pela: SYKH?

Young Clerk: It's an acronym. You know, a word that...oh, never mind. It stands for "Snarky Young Khaki-wearing Homosexual".

Pela: You interest me strangely. Give me the address.

(Thirty minutes later, Pela walks into the SYKH Boutique. Steely Dan's "Gaucho" is playing over the sound-system.)

Thin Young Man: Look what the cat dragged in!

Pela: Can it be that you are addressing me, callow youth?

Thin Young Man (looking at Pela's salmon colored polo-shirt and no longer immaculately creased khakis): We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Can I interest you in something with Mechlin Lace at the collar and cuffs?

The End

Mr. Pela wrote:

"...a "tea emporium" called Teavana; and a restaurant known as True Food. (Who comes up with these names?)"

Wolfgang Puck. After the market for mediocre frozen entrees topped out, he started a registry of copyrighted restaurant names. According to Fortune Magazine, the idea came to him while surfing the Internet, after inadvertently misspelling a website name and being redirected to a page owned by a company which had registered seemingly every possible variant on that name, along with many others.

Now, every time a new restaurant opens in any major city -- a development which his vast team of legal barracudas keeps track of by reviewing city licensing requests on a regular basis -- the owners are contacted with an intimidating legal document notifying them that they are in violation of copyright law...but also informing them that the name is for sale.

All of the good names, of course, are exorbitantly priced, which in nine out of ten cases means that owners are either forced to think up a name so eccentric that even Mr. Puck's name-generating software was unable to produce it, or else to settle for a name which is less expensive but graceless and peculiar, like something from an L. Ron Hubbard novel (Teavana) or a farmer's market run by a Luddite collective (True Food).