Polo Loungewear

The first step toward becoming Hollywood elite

The Beverly Hills Hotel, much like its rivals (the Chateau Marmot, the Sunset Tower Hotel), is located just off of Sunset Boulevard. Over the years, it’s played host to various a-listers, and if there’s one thing we know about a-listers, it’s that they like to act like absolute monsters in hotels. It was here a former president (WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS!) conducted a slew of sexual affairs while furthering his reality television career. But that isn’t the only notable BHH brush with politics. The Polo Lounge was also where Jeb Stuart Macgruder took the fateful phone call from J. Gordon Liddy authorizing the Watergate raid and incriminating the Committee to Re-Elect the President (WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS!). Talk about glitz and glam!

For me, it will always be where many of my beloved Real Housewives of Beverly Hills go to unwind. And so I’ve always promised myself when I sold my first television show or screenplay I’d go and have a drink to celebrate. But if the stories above have taught me anything it’s that you can be a financially irresponsible criminal and still enjoy yourself. Enough waiting around for Hollywood to remunerate my genius, in money and fame. I didn’t need to be a legend to drink martinis until my eyes bled.

I rounded up my sister, her fiancée, and friends, and we hopped in an Uber and headed due West.

That was the responsible choice given the fact we would be drinking, could mostly not afford to eat, and the valet parking was $20. We unloaded at the valet station onto the pink-carpeted entrance amidst guests arriving for a black tie rager. Just kidding, I don’t think that a black tie wedding at a hotel is “rager” material, though I’m sure it’s very nice.

We marched into the calm lounge, where a man read a real newspaper in front of a fireplace emitting a gentle flame into the air-conditioned air. The temperature outside was hovering somewhere in the mid-80s. A complete disregard for the environment in pursuit of luxury? We really were going to get to cosplay rich people!

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: My sister, posing between two pink bungalows, perhaps one of which played host to the former president (WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS!).

In that vein, I really wanted it to seem like I’d been to the Polo Lounge before, but honesty is the best policy, so I asked the where to go. She directed me up a small set of wide stairs and there we were. A sign in front denoted a dress policy forbidding ripped jeans. My jeans were ripped. I strategically wrapped the long silk panels of my blouse around the offending areas and stepped in.

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: The notice posted at the entrance to the polo lounge, including two signs that say “POLO LOUNGE,” a menu, and a note about dress code and cell phone policy. Cell phones, blessedly, are allowed, which makes sense given that historically each booth had a rotary phone available for guest use.

The host, all of I would guess 18 years old, told me that they probably could not accommodate such a large party at the moment but would we be interested in trying their other bar at the other side of the lobby that was not the Polo Lounge? I turned up my flirtatious charm and said we had to catch a movie soon so we wouldn’t be long. He acquiesced to my feminine wiles, AKA felt bad for an old, desperate woman. He said we could take a booth until seven.

We slid into the green leather and looked out at our peers. Unfortunately no real housewives presented themselves, but some kept women certainly did. As we sipped our second cocktails (martinis all around) an older couple walked in and took what context clues denoted was their regular booth. The said hello to everyone by name—the waitstaff, the piano player, the chef, who had come out to greet them. The trip had already been worth whatever we were about to pay.

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: The author, mid-martini, at what will soon be known as “her” booth.

What we were about to pay was roughly one million dollars. To be fair, my sister had ordered a plate of truffle fries that were topped with real truffles and I had ordered a cocktail literally called a millionaire so this seemed right. Yes, I’ve been largely unemployed for almost the same amount of time I was in high school, but sometimes you just need to turn the air conditioning and the fire on at the same time while the world melts around you.

Then we went to look at the other dumb not-the-Polo-Lounge-bar where the child host had tried to send us. It was a nice hotel bar. The thing about the Polo Lounge is that it’s a bar in a hotel but it’s not a hotel bar. The balcony of this other bar overlooked the pool and its yellow-striped cabanas, which was kind of nice, but frankly I’d rather be staring at a mysterious older couple with unknown Hollywood powers.

When we left, I knew it wasn’t for the last time. I’d be back. I wouldn’t have to ask where to go. They wouldn’t dream of directing me to the other bar. I would sidle in, right to my booth, where I would sit back, take incriminating phone calls and greet the waitstaff by name. I’d sign the bill, take out my fat wallet full of the billions of dollars I just made from selling Dolls: The Musical: The Screenplay and tip generously. Because I’d be back again. And again. And again.

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: The bottom corner of a photograph in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Stuck into the frame is a caption, which reads: “1952: Enjoying lunch at the Polo Lounge from left to right; hotel manager, Hernando Courtright, Johnny Meyers, baseball star Joe DiMaggio, Charles Morrison and soul and blues singer, Billy Daniels. (Photo by Slim Aarons) / For over 78 years, the iconic Polo Lounge has been considered ‘Hollywood’s commissary’ and has been called ‘the epicenter of power dining in Los Angeles.’ Its legendary history and time relevance offers diners a rare experience of looking forward and backward all at once.” Couldn’t agree more, especially regarding the time relevance! Can’t wait for my picture’s caption!