“If men dine alone, 10 men together, how they dress*** I really don't mind. I'm not there. But if a man takes me out to dinner, I like him to smell of a nice soap, to wear his best suit, maybe a black tie, so that I can wear my nice little dress. I will know then he has kindness of heart, he has said to himself, ‘I will make a little effort so that she can look her best’.” – Louise De Vilmorin
Her point is well taken. Then, there are a few things she should remember, as well, and I am sure she does.
For one, not to keep him waiting too long before they even start out, while she decides that her makeup base is too light or her stockings too, well, purplish or something, and changes them. In most fair to good restaurants these days you need a miner's cap to read the menu by, anyway. Ten gets you twenty the man you're with won't notice what color stockings you're wearing, if any, but he'll certainly notice the three cigarettes he had to smoke while he waited.
She should carry the minimum equipment. If she knows she'll need a complete ballot and ring job by mid-evening, it's simpler to bring along a veil. I know a girl who tapes a lipstick, a dime, and a folded dollar bill above her knee (is she could slip them into her bra too) before she goes dining and dancing. This makes great sense – no swollen velvet pouch to end up in a man's pocket and make him heavy on his feet, or hers. (Of course, a girl must carry a small bag she is lost without Compact, cigarettes, and so forth. But it should have a wrist strap or loop, so she can wear it while she dances.)
As for mad money, you don't hear much about these days, a charge account at a cab company can be handy. It is a no-host evening, she won't need much money along, either. Sonia Goodkid always hands Bill Youngenbroke her contribution before they leave. Or if it is entirely her celebration, she'll have stopped in earlier and arranged with the restaurant to bill her later. (However, she better watch her step with this routine, or Bill will get the habit, and first thing you know, she'll be putting him through med school.)
A working girl, at any age in any job, pays for own lunch when she lunches with a man. Or, at any rate, she is expected to, unless this is a budding office romance (as most wives will assume it is, if their spouses lunch money starts disappearing with twice its usual feverish rapidity). She can give him a few dollars before they go into the restaurant – for her share of the bill – and hope she gets her change back.
Or, if she knows he isn't sensitive about these things – and there's no reason he should be, at a business lunch – she can simply pay her own check and leave her own tip. Either way.
By the way, these financial matters should always be clearly understood all around, whether the situation is business or social. A woman I know gave a lavish restaurant party for three couples – she had been visiting in the city and this was the only way she could return their royal hospitality. The champagne flowed; she urged upon them the pressed duckling, the grapes after the fashion of Suzette, the brandy; and her guests needed little urging. Finally, when she asked for the check, it developed that one of the gentleman had already paid it. She protested, but he was adamant. All she could do was send him a note and a gift – a desk clock, it was. He owned to already, but she still feels indebted to her friends.
The worst female restaurant menace, according to men is the woman who stops to chat – standing – with acquaintances at another table. A man feels ungentlemanly if he doesn't rise, and uncomfortable if he can't sit down immediately thereafter. A sweet smile from the lady, and a brisk hello, are sufficient, before she strides on. If she has to say something, she can send a note by the waiter.
Finally, to the matter of ordering. This is a male prerogative. Giving the order to the waiter will – back to our original touchstone – somewhat build the male ego, if he is knowledgeable about these things, and cares. But not if he isn't and doesn't. He'll properly consider it's not worth the effort, if the menu is abstruse, or if the lady shuffles nervously from Crab Thermidor to the Lamb Chops, with a short but dramatic pause at the Curry Indienne along the way. If she can see her way clear, or if she wants to discuss sauces with the waiter, she'd better do her own ordering.
If there are more than two people at the table, each had better order. The hosts usually can't remember all that. Like a wraparound skirt in a high wind, the whole thing is apt to blow up.
And so to a few rough notes on the Social Gathering, as it concerns men and women, and etiquette.
It is true that a man gets gold stars on a ladies ledger – which cancel some of the black marks on his rap sheet – when he tells her how pretty she looks ( or handsome or well put together, as the case may be) before they go to a party, or while they are en route. But he gets double credit for telling her once they get there, for then it has twice the impact. The reason is this: Before she leaves home, a woman is tolerably satisfied with how she looks (or she wouldn't have left). Indeed, she is often delighted with her appearance – the naked black basic, the company face – wholly different from the rather soul – shattering reflection the mirror handed her early that morning. But once they arrive, her innocent glory is apt to be dimmed by all the other naked black basics and company faces, which in her excitement she had forgotten would be there. At this point, especially, she must know how she stacks up, this is the time to tell her.
Still, this is a minor point. A major one – or, to put it another way, what makes women the maddest – is the male tendency to herd together, drinking and talking shop. Many a woman asked for it, with her crossfire chitchat about purely female concerns, which drives the man perforce into the tall timber where the bottle is. But many a woman who doesn't ask for it gets it, too, which can have unhappy repercussions. After all, she didn't put on her company face and her nice little dress just to swap tatting patterns with Irene and Thelma. She'd be glad to do it for a while, mind you, but not all night.
The fact is that the virtuous housewife – if she doesn't work outside the house – sees and talks to few males alone, except for the milkman and the little old codger in the Blanket Department twice a year at White Sales. And this party – she thought – would be a chance to shine a little, showing a few pretty facets that may have rested a bit at the kitchen sink. If she doesn't get to go – if, on the contrary, she goes home feeling like the little woman in the tight permanent, with a pocket full of tuna recipes – she'll feel like kicking the cat.
This sorry state of affairs, with the sexes is getting no practice in attracting and interesting each other, is often reflected in a certain lackluster performance in the bedroom, particularly where our heroine is concerned. Nothing has come alive for her, including herself, though the moon shine ne'er so brightly over the cow shed.
* "An almost outmoded grace that still thrills me actually is to have a man take his hat off an elevator when I enter. It makes me feel feminine and cherished – makes me feel, and act, much nicer for at least half an hour." ~ Kay Taylor
** I don't know what makes them think they're auricles. It's common knowledge that female writers and resemble either horses or birds, and their fingers are usually smudgy from changing typewriter ribbons.
***This goes for the convention hats with the funny tassels, too. Sometimes the boys forget, and keep them on and restaurants.
From Peg Bracken's 1959, "I Try To Behave Myself"
