Editor’s Note: The Hungarian Countess Louise J. Esterhazy was a revered — and feared — chronicler of the highs — and generally lows — of fashion, society, culture and more. Over the course of several decades (although she never really counted and firmly avoided any reference to her age), the Countess penned her missives from her pied-à-terres in Manhattan, Nantucket, Paris, London and Gstaad, as well as wherever her travels took her, from California to Morocco.
And it seems the Esterhazy clan by nature is filled with strong opinions, because WWD Weekend has now been contacted by the Countess’ long-lost nephew, the Baron Louis J. Esterhazy, who has written from Europe to express how numerous elements of modern life are irksome to the point of rage.
It’s surely a truism that older folk like to rant about unimportant stuff that gets under their skin — or is it just me? About a decade ago, a couple of my offspring, tired of hearing their old man moan about irrelevant irks, encouraged me to take to what was then Twitter, so I could, like Typhon in Greek mythology, hurl my epithets at the sea. It quickly proved pointless when I struggled to reach over a few score followers and quite evidently, no one cared.
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But now, I have you dear WWD Weekend reader, and I wonder how many of my little irritants will have you quietly smirking and thinking, “Yes indeed, that can be really annoying.”
I am surely not alone when I yell down the telephone, “Well, clearly my call is not that important to you, otherwise you wouldn’t have left me on hold, being waterboarded by infernal Muzak for the last 23 minutes.”
And while industry regulators are literally in existence to care about us customers, do they really believe that we listen to, read, understand or remotely absorb the ludicrous disclaimers produced at the end of all pharma or financial product ads? If you really want your head to spin, you can do much worse than listen to the verbal soup delivered at warp-speed that end all Portuguese financial product advertisements. Walt Disney himself could not have contrived a better (or faster) voice for one of his unlikely talking animals. Daffy Duck makes more sense.
We are oft told that a well-meaning corporate has invested in the latest technology “in order to enhance the customer experience.” That is now “the experience,” which requires one to undertake all the work that was once the responsibility of a keen employee, with a career ambition perhaps or maybe a family to support. Today, my parents’ generation would be stranded at home, probably staring at the wall as they would be utterly baffled as to how to book a flight or hotel room, having always relied entirely on a cheery travel agent or willing member of staff helpfully at the end of a telephone. These days, even if they did get as far as buying the air ticket, the wretched self check-in and baggage labeling process would floor them. Increasingly, they would struggle to eat in a restaurant or be entertained at home, because downloading QR codes, entering user IDs and passwords can be the norm for something as mundane as reviewing a menu or firing up a movie from a streaming service. Even the old friendly face behind the counter in the local burger joint is now a silently glowing screen.
When one does come face-to-face with an eatery team member (aka a waiter), one is instantaneously required to be on a first-name basis following the strangely dispassionate and anodyne introduction, which seems unfairly asymmetrical to the seated guest. I have a friend who, following the “Hi, my name is Colin, and I’ll be your wait-person this evening,” makes the whole table of his co-guests stand up, introduce themselves by their first name and decorously shake Colin warmly by the hand. Give it a go. It’s only fair, no?
While on the subject of restaurants, the current fad of small plate menus and sharing plates can infuriate. A hospitality insider tells me they materially increase the establishment’s profit margin, as we all know the person who doesn’t like to share (er, OK, me!) or places the order for the “grilled sweetbreads with pig’s trotter,” knowing the dish will categorically not be partook by anyone else at the table. The result apparently is inevitable over-ordering compared to the traditional linear approach of “each to their own,” literally.
The celebrated “chef’s table” is another clever, bottom-line booster. Here’s the idea: Carve out some beastly, cramped space inside the kitchen where, in days gone by, customers were prohibited. Then charge the poor suckers a hefty premium to watch the action (branding it “theater”), get to listen to the shouts, cursing and abuse and share in the heat, steam and sweat and then, return home, relishing in the smell of fried squid in one’s hair and on one’s clothes. And then you get to brag about it to one’s friends. Crafty, eh?
Some people think it cool to import the restaurant culture into the privacy of the home. Nothing at all wrong with hiring a caterer to do the thing that you might not enjoy or are, admit it, just no damned good at. But, along the lines of the “chef’s table,” the cook behind the old “green baize door” has now become a performance artist, too, frequently being wheeled out to the assembled guests, encouraged to interrupt all conversation and launch into an all-too-detailed blow-by-blow, ingredient-by-ingredient description of what one is about to eat…only to be repeated before each and every course. And then the guests are expected to applause.
Seriously? I am often tempted to stand up and present said chef with a huge bouquet of flowers, as if to the prima ballerina at the final curtain call at Lincoln Center.
Talking of having to listen involuntarily to people mouthing off on subjects that should be banned, the recitation of a prior night’s dream has to be the worst. The German wife (aka the GeneralQuartierMeister), after decades of marriage still believes I will take an interest in her nonsensical ramblings, which apparently constitute her dreams. She follows me from room to room recounting some tale of utter gibberish, before I have even had my first cup of coffee. It’s cruel, but she seems to think it funny, watching me lock myself into the bathroom and turn on the faucet to drown out her wittering. One day, I might reach for a pair of scissors. Yes, you read my confession here.
Of course, that’s if I can find the wretched scissors, because these days they are deployed on a quotidian basis — simply to open something as mundane as a pack of bacon. Sometimes I think I should start a finger-gym for oldies. When the packaging politely demands you “Peel here,” I know without trying that my poor digits won’t get the required purchase, let alone have the power to pull and separate the vacuum-packed seal. It really shouldn’t take a chainsaw to access a packet of my beloved Polish kabanosy, should it?
And don’t get me started on Millennials and their backpacks. We recently attempted to enjoy the brilliant Vincent van Gogh exhibition at London’s National Gallery. I could just about tolerate the teeming crowd, but not the backpacks. What do these people carry in them? They all look as if they were heading off for a weekend’s camping in Devon. We all know they carry copious amounts of water; multiple liter bottles crammed into webbed side pockets…as if the camping trip is a Special Forces expedition set in the Mojave Desert and they are unlikely to come across another water source for a week. But because these backpacks swell the individual’s regular girth two or three times over, they unwittingly swing round, obliviously knocking me over like a bowling pin. After the third take-down, I had to flee the gallery for my life. I will do a lot for culture, but not be wheeled out on a gurney.
And lastly, a new gripe that I discovered only recently and can really only develop with the onset of meaningful age. It’s that moment when you are finally required to call a financial services provider that has been inactive and dormant for years, if not decades. In my case, this was a long-past pension provider I had not spoken to for nearly 30 years. And then come the security questions.
“What is the name of your first pet”. OMG, I thought…would have I given the name of one of my parent’s dogs, that goldfish I had at age 8, the parrot my mad sister gave me when I was in my 20s. I failed six animal names in a row.
Next: “What is your favorite place?” I thought hard. We were just married when I set up this account, utterly childless and irresponsible party animals. With futility, I reeled out the names of a couple of favorite night clubs and bars we used to haunt. And, again, failed.
Whatever happened to your mother’s maiden name?
Rant over. And man, do I feel better!
