version: Where Boca Festa had veneer on the staircases, Broken Arrow had mahogany; where Boca Festa had Corian in the bathrooms, Broken Arrow had marble; and where Boca Festa had a manicured yenta seating guests in the club dining room, Broken Arrow had a tuxedoed maître d’.
Flo was aware of the incongruities of life in the surreal nirvana that was West Boca, but she was of two minds on the subject. Sometimes, as at this moment when confronted with May’s schoolgirl effusions, she felt herself rebel against the mock-esthetic grandeur, the weird hierarchical distinctions, and the often provincial mentality of the residents. At others, and particularly when she heard Boca attacked by some of her “intellectual” friends up north, she rose stridently to its defense, arguing that its inhabitants were decent, often fascinating people, passionately devoted to their families, who had worked veryhard all their lives and in some cases survived the worst atrocities in world history. They had earned the right to live comfortably together in retirement and enjoy whatever luxuries they could afford. Turning up one’s nose at club life in Boca Raton always struck her as a disturbing brand of snobbism that harbored its share of anti-Semitism (or self-hatred, if coming from Jews). That is, except when she indulged in it herself.
Norman was waiting at a table for four near the window as May and Flo entered the dining hall. May was literally agape as they made their way across the intricately parqueted floor and past the tables with embroidered tablecloths and ornate center pieces of fresh flowers.
“Close your mouth,” murmured Flo. “This isn’t Chartres Cathedral, for godsakes.”
“Flo, be nice,” whispered May, seeing that her friend was in one of her moods. She was glad to note that Stan Jacobs wasn’t there. Flo was in a state May knew could be dangerous; if she saw Stan and thought she’d been put on the spot, there was no accounting for what she might do.
Norman rose to greet them and, by the miracle of his disposition—a disposition that accounted for his business success more than any particular savvy when it came to calculating the need for leather goods in East Coast department stores—managed to make May feel immediately comfortable and even take the edge off Flo’s mood.
“I always say that there are two styles of decor in Boca Raton,” said Norman after May complimented him on the beauties of Broken Arrow. “There’s the Atlantic City casino look for the more with-it crowd, and the English country gentry look for the old-money types. Old money, by the way, means it’s actually been in a bank and not in a pillowcase. That’s what we have at Broken Arrow. All the furniture here looks like it’s been hijacked from one of those
Masterpiece Theatre
productions. You know how it is—Jewish men really want to be English country lords.Our fathers wanted it for us, which is why they gave us first names like Arnold, Murray, and Norman—and your husband’s, May, wasn’t it Irving? All these very pedigreed British
last
names suddenly become upwardly mobile Jewish
first
names. The fact of the matter is that our fathers missed the point. It’s the last name, not the first, that counts. We’re talking landed gentry, not the gent behind the deli counter.”
Flo and May both laughed.
“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” observed Flo.
“I have,” conceded Norman. “And personally, if I weren’t so lazy, I’d move to the South of France.”
“Stop sounding like Flo,” said May, with more animation than was common for her. “I think it’s beautiful here.” It was apparent that she did, Norman noted happily, since he, too, for all his protesting (much of it learned from his friend, Stan Jacobs), liked it enormously. Broken Arrow was pretty much his idea of heaven on earth.
They seated themselves and began to peruse a calligraphied menu that to May was as impressive as an illuminated
Flo was aware of the incongruities of life in the surreal nirvana that was West Boca, but she was of two minds on the subject. Sometimes, as at this moment when confronted with May’s schoolgirl effusions, she felt herself rebel against the mock-esthetic grandeur, the weird hierarchical distinctions, and the often provincial mentality of the residents. At others, and particularly when she heard Boca attacked by some of her “intellectual” friends up north, she rose stridently to its defense, arguing that its inhabitants were decent, often fascinating people, passionately devoted to their families, who had worked veryhard all their lives and in some cases survived the worst atrocities in world history. They had earned the right to live comfortably together in retirement and enjoy whatever luxuries they could afford. Turning up one’s nose at club life in Boca Raton always struck her as a disturbing brand of snobbism that harbored its share of anti-Semitism (or self-hatred, if coming from Jews). That is, except when she indulged in it herself.
Norman was waiting at a table for four near the window as May and Flo entered the dining hall. May was literally agape as they made their way across the intricately parqueted floor and past the tables with embroidered tablecloths and ornate center pieces of fresh flowers.
“Close your mouth,” murmured Flo. “This isn’t Chartres Cathedral, for godsakes.”
“Flo, be nice,” whispered May, seeing that her friend was in one of her moods. She was glad to note that Stan Jacobs wasn’t there. Flo was in a state May knew could be dangerous; if she saw Stan and thought she’d been put on the spot, there was no accounting for what she might do.
Norman rose to greet them and, by the miracle of his disposition—a disposition that accounted for his business success more than any particular savvy when it came to calculating the need for leather goods in East Coast department stores—managed to make May feel immediately comfortable and even take the edge off Flo’s mood.
“I always say that there are two styles of decor in Boca Raton,” said Norman after May complimented him on the beauties of Broken Arrow. “There’s the Atlantic City casino look for the more with-it crowd, and the English country gentry look for the old-money types. Old money, by the way, means it’s actually been in a bank and not in a pillowcase. That’s what we have at Broken Arrow. All the furniture here looks like it’s been hijacked from one of those
Masterpiece Theatre
productions. You know how it is—Jewish men really want to be English country lords.Our fathers wanted it for us, which is why they gave us first names like Arnold, Murray, and Norman—and your husband’s, May, wasn’t it Irving? All these very pedigreed British
last
names suddenly become upwardly mobile Jewish
first
names. The fact of the matter is that our fathers missed the point. It’s the last name, not the first, that counts. We’re talking landed gentry, not the gent behind the deli counter.”
Flo and May both laughed.
“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” observed Flo.
“I have,” conceded Norman. “And personally, if I weren’t so lazy, I’d move to the South of France.”
“Stop sounding like Flo,” said May, with more animation than was common for her. “I think it’s beautiful here.” It was apparent that she did, Norman noted happily, since he, too, for all his protesting (much of it learned from his friend, Stan Jacobs), liked it enormously. Broken Arrow was pretty much his idea of heaven on earth.
They seated themselves and began to peruse a calligraphied menu that to May was as impressive as an illuminated
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