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.
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 his abhorrence of numerous modern fashion and cultural developments. The Baron’s pen is as sharp as his late aunt’s and, so, here is his latest column documenting the evolution of that American phenomenon, the country club, with its barriers and restrictions. But times are changing, and that isn’t good news for them.
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As my long summer has drawn to a close, I reflect on a key difference between an American
summer and the European one. I am, of course, dear reader, talking of the privileged, aristocratic,
monied and exclusive summers of the very lucky, be they born into the silver-spoon-in-mouth
class (most definitely moi) or those fortunate to understand and excel in “commerce” (most
definitely not moi).
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Despite the public notion of Americans never taking vacation, there is a certain class who have
perfected it to such a degree that they have turned the noun “summer” into a verb, as in “where
are you summering this year.” Even the most indolent European aristocrat failed to magically turn an
entire calendar season into an activity. Indeed, over the course of the full season, many an East
Coaster will be actively “summering” in multiple locations. They might perhaps start and end in the
Hamptons, but drift northward toward Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, Cape Cod and Maine as
the “3 Hs” (broadcaster speak for “hot, hazy and humid”) build in late July and August.
What all these places have in common, which is fundamentally different from the European
exclusive and monied summer resort destinations such as Ibiza, St. Tropez, Mykonos and
Comporta, is exclusive membership clubs.
I think it is accurate to say that while Europeans (especially the English) invented the urban “gentleman’s
club,” it was the Americans who gave birth to the “country club.” Golf clubs had existed across
parts of Europe for a while, but the classic American country club took that to a new and better
level, with pristine tennis courts, lake-sized swimming pools, gymnasiums, elegant bars and
eateries where one would willingly go for a drink and meal — in contrast to the British golf club’s
warm gin and tonics and slightly rancid prawn sandwiches.
The American country club became a nexus of a certain type of family’s social life, with children’s summer programs and as many activities for women as for men. No self-respecting English woman (or child) would be seen dead (or welcomed) in most of the U.K.’s golf clubs, alongside the moustachioed men, bedecked in their military ties and brass-buttoned blazers.
Over the last few decades the American summer resort clubs, especially on the East Coast,
have cranked up the volume in terms of their offerings, ritziness and exclusivity. And while they
are all eye-wateringly expensive to a down-at-heel European aristocrat like the Baron, it is their exclusivity that is even more fascinating.
From Palm Beach to Locust Valley and out to the Hamptons, there are clubs that have an
unwritten but relatively unbreakable rule — access has been traditionally granted exclusively to WASPs, the white Anglo Saxon Protestant community. I say “relatively unbreakable” because Catholics have reluctantly been granted some access.
Acknowledging this barrier, but possessing as much money and desire for leisure as the next
fellow, the East Coast Jewish community has established their own country clubs in these same haunts — and it is quietly whispered that the food is better, their lawn tennis courts are of superior quality and the golf greens are to be envied. And, of course, they remain just as exclusive — but in the reverse manner.
A great friend, who is a brilliant hedge fund manager (and Jewish) bought a huge property in East Hampton. Soon after settling in he was contacted by his neighbor, the beach club of the town, with the
news that their access from the 14th green to the 15th was across his rear access driveway. It
was pointed out that all the prior owners of the property had kindly granted free passage to the
club’s golfers.
“Of course I can continue that tradition,” said the hedgie, “and perhaps in return my family and I can become members of the club?” The silence was deafening. Rumor had it that the club committee was weighing up the dilemma between letting him into their hallowed establishment or forever limiting their golf members’ games to 14 holes. The hedgie relented without joining, but enjoyed watching them squirm in their anti-Semitic stew — as they should have.
Amazingly there also are still some hold-out clubs in America that prohibit or at least limit access to women. I was a member of a venerable men’s club just off Park Avenue in Manhattan for years. The club had a rule that women were only allowed to visit the third floor dining room and were required to take the elevator and in so doing bypass the main bar and main dining room, the latter being an exceptionally beautiful room with a famous collection of silver on display.
One night, many years ago, my German wife (aka the Generalquartiermeister) and I took her
ageing but immensely elegant great aunt and husband to said club. At the end of dinner I
suggested that given the place was so quiet, they could walk down the main stairs and glance
into the bar and lovely dining room beyond. They duly did, noting four portly men sitting in the bar
area. As we turned to descend to the lobby, I overheard one of the men refer to my wife
and her great aunt by the honorific traditionally attributed to women “of the oldest known profession.”
As the great aunt was donning her mink coat, she said, “Well, it’s been a while since anyone has
called me that.“
“Oh, god,” I said, “I hoped you hadn’t heard.” Feeling emboldened by a fair quantity of wine,
I returned upstairs to the bar and asked the men if they had indeed said that. To which one particularly rosy-faced fellow patronizingly answered, “Well, young man, as a member you should know better — that women aren’t allowed on this floor. This is, after all, a gentleman’s club.” To which I calmly answered, “Indeed, you are right sir, on one key point. This is a gentleman’s club — and so I ask how in god’s name did the likes of you become a member?” I gave up my membership soon after.
All this is well and good, until one asks about club access for those who are not somewhere
in the Venn diagram of the Establishment. Indeed, there is a whole new and vibrant club scene in cities worldwide that is all but off-limits to us slowly atrophying social dinosaurs. One only has to look at the YouTube clip of Fanatics chief executive officer Michael Rubin’s 2023 “All White Party” to realize there are now scores of clubs to which the plaid-pant, tucked-in polo, flamingo-belt-wearing crowd is unwelcome. This is not because of their skin color or even their criminal fashion sense. It is because Rubin’s club membership is entirely based off of talent and skill. Everyone there has risen to the top because of exceptional artistic, sporting, fashion or musical abilities. No one person is included because of who their daddy was.
One cannot help but ask: Which clubland has more vibrancy and a greater future?