By: Maya Barillas Mohan, Staff Writer
“May I, monsieur, offer my services without the risk of intruding?”
Let me introduce myself first. From my white T-shirt, low slung baggy jeans, and ultra-mini platform boots, I look like a Cactus Club patron. Indeed, I am. Your city has an abundance of Cactus Clubs, I understand. I am from a not-so-distant alternate world where there is only Cactus Club. If one fails to fashionably deserve Cactus Club, there is always an Earls or a Joeys placed lowly among the Fuller Family consortium. In this world, I enjoyed endless truffle fries and happy hour highballs. The pleasure these restaurant chains provide is only accessible through sartorial cohesion. I am perpetually met with prompt, enthusiastic service at Cactus Club, but only while donning my suede booties. Servers refill my water goblet with vivacity on the tyrannical condition of a white tee. If I failed to put on my blue jean finery, I would be barred access from — not just my preferred booth — but the establishment in totality. Even at Earls, the ever-so-slightly simpler offering, the dress code was ironclad.
My time in a world ruled by Cactus Club outings “most happily satisfied” my bottomless desire for premium-casual dining experiences. “It cleansed me of all bitterness” towards this freedom of selection you speak of; I simply always knew where I would eat and that I would be taken care of. But for the pleasure of illusory choices in that blanket entirety, there was no intermediary between “me” and my role as dutiful “Cactus Club patron.” I never developed my own taste in fashion because there was simply no possible occasion or place to wear clothes external from my trend-dictated uniform. I was effectively a mannequin that lived to wear Uggs at Cactus Club, sapped of freedom to wear colour. I didn’t realize I was bored because I knew nothing else. “My fashion crime was not due to my character, but unfortunate circumstances!”
As my Cactus Club world begins to seep into yours, mon cher ami, I warn you. Cactus Club is exclusive to one kind of person: the kind of person who follows insipid trends. In order to facilitate real identity, one must stay away from the temptation of citrus calamari plated to perfection under dim but flattering lighting. If you want to be your own person and look your own way, you must follow this advice: You will not step foot into any establishment under the Fuller family monopoly. You will stay at home and you will survive on the subversive offerings of DoorDash!
