But the majority of the clientele -- pretty much to a man all those forty and down -- make for a stark contrast: sweatpants, tank-tops, flip-flops; clothes so bad I should think one would not wear them to I take the trash out. It's an odd thing: the waiters, when they come to Versailles, dress for a cult cafe with great tradition; but the 40-and-down clientele of Versailles appears to be passing through here on their way to the garbage dump.
These are not the underclass, mind you (Versailles ain't cheap). No. This is the new dress code of the European middle class. This is how Germans get up to the philharmonic nowadays: I could not believe my eyes when I first saw it in 2005. Germans? You know, those people who look so well in smart uniforms?
It isn't smart-casual, either. It isn't even casual. It's just really really bad. It is so bad, in fact that it looks like an intentional effort to look awful; and perhaps it is intentional? Perhaps -- goodness me, perhaps it is calculated to have just the effect it does? Perhaps it is meant to... offend?
A French philosopher (one with a special hair-do) might see in this a kind of social demonstration. You, waiters, are so lowly that you must dress well (and smile and call me "sir"); but I am so high up the totem pole (relative to the little you) that I might as well come in my pajamas. (And, look at that lady over there: I think she has!) Coming in in one's pajamas --would this be the unspoken equivalent of calling the helpers "help"?
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If so, it does not speak well of them.
Among the many deep and important lessons which I have learned in India was to study people by observing the way they dealt with their servants. (This is a lesson applicable very broadly in India, where nearly everyone has a servant, it seems, and even servants have servants). The employers of decently-dressed servants were invariably the better sort: better off usually, yes, but also and kinder, gentler, more accommodating. They displayed their power, if you wish to be French about it, by being generous with their underlings. But a badly dressed servant always indicated a mean -- though not always poor -- master. This is the wisdom: stay away from men with dirty, poorly dressed servants: their dirt is an index of their master's meanness.
But perhaps in our topsy-turvy world of Europe one has to tweak the wisdom: avoid the men who insist on looking markedly different from their servants (whether better or worse dressed). Insisting on marking clear differences between us and our underlings is a mark of -- well -- meanness: it is a way to emphasize the social divide; and only mean masters do: they do it only because it gives them pleasure to wallow in their thus emphasized superiority. After all, there is no social need for it: the servants always know who they are.
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But in the case of the 40-and-under middle class in Versailles, something else seems worth commenting upon: the loss of the pleasure of dressing up.
One of the joys of going to a live concert has always been to me - getting ready for it: washing up and shaving, picking my clothes and tie, selecting the cuff links, polishing the shoes, combing my hair. A kind of foreplay, if you will: it puts me in the mood, it heightens the pleasure. To me, going to Versailles is a little like that too: I dress up and that very act makes the whole afternoon feel special.
It is also indispensable, I find: the pasteis in Versailles aren't all that great: being in the right mood is therefore more than half the pleasure. And here is the point: they, the badly dressed under 40's, do not get the mood effect of dressing up and making a big deal of it. And if that doesn't matter, then mood doesn't matter, then what does the ambiance of the place -- the marble, crystal and gilt -- matter to them? Why bother with Versailles, at all? Would not McDonald's across the street do as well? Why don't they go there?
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