There is a certain type of woman who eats lunch alone at Marshall Field’s. While others her age need walkers, she can still glide gracefully (if slowly) on tasteful Italian pumps. A hat could upset the balance of her expensively arranged coiffure, but she still dons one on special occasions. And she doesn’t wait for winter to wear gloves. The Walnut Room typically draws these women, although they’ve been known to inhabit even the seventh-floor cafeteria, where they provide a stark contrast to those who survive on soup, coffee, and all the saltines they can stomach.
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One’s here right now, in the cafeteria, at the table next to mine. An archetypal Field’s luncher. A flattering upsweep of bright red hair–as natural as can be imagined on a woman of Nancy Reagan’s generation. Lush, perfectly arched eyebrows and just enough makeup–no spidery false eyelashes or ghoulish Baby Jane jobs. She wears–what else?–a wool suit, probably Chanel; the jacket’s collarless, the blouse silk. She knows her age and looks good despite it–or maybe even because of it. The woman’s got class.
I must lean over to hear her.
“Of course,” she adds, “that was a service accorded the ladies, not the whores like us!”
I explain I’m teaching but also a grad student.
She cocks her head quizzically. “Chaucer? Canterbury Tales?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t be talking–like us. You know?”
