EXT. SATURDAY NIGHT – WASHINGTON, DC
A WEEKENDING NEW YORKER approaches the entrance to Agua Ardiente, an “upscale,” “hip tapas restaurant” on the “DC Latin circuit.” He is wearing a vintage suede jacket, black cashmere turtleneck, black Prada Sport loafers with that silly little red stripe that he neverthless insists be cleaned with glycerine every time he gets them shined, and, embarassingly, the slightly weathered pair of Banana Republic khakis with the little black label carefully picked off the back that he’d been househunting in all day.
Two skinny DOORMEN, dressed all in black, brace themselves in advance of a confrontation.
Sir, I’m afraid we can’t let you in with sneakers.
No, it’s OK. These are loafers.
I’m sorry, sir, the policy is no sneakers.
But they’re not– they’re loafers. Prada Loafers.
I got them at Harvey Nichols.
(An empty lie. But he’d rather get turned away for lying about Harvey Nick’s carrying Prada than for not abiding with some obtuse provincial dress code. Besides, the man figures, it already can’t get any worse than announcing your brands at the door.)
I’m sorry, sir.
You’re welcome to come back without rubber-soled shoes.
So the definition of “sneakers” is rubber-soled shoes?
What about the khakis? Should I change those, too?
The khakis are fine, sir.