december 23, 2019–january 5, 2020 | new york 19
“But we’re not the fun police,” says
Gareth, my new best friend, at the Shoe
Bar, where he is giving me the full experi-
ence. He recently moved from Seattle to
work at the New York store, and though
I’m certain the job description didn’t
include dealing with an inebriated me,
Gareth is all about making this a day. He
explains that, while drinking is prohib-
ited in some areas, nobody will “tackle”
me should I saunter from level three
(booze) through level four (no booze) to
level five (booze!) while holding a drink.
Nordstrom’s gambit, it turns out, is that
it can beat the retail odds by acting like
the perfect hostess.
I’ll be honest: At first, Gareth seems
slightly alarmed at having to procure a
drink and six different pairs of Western
boots for me to try on. But by the time he
hands me my second Greenwich Village,
we’re in a groove. Now he says, leaning for-ward conspiratorially while I sip, “Do you
have a combat boot?” We try on several. As
a lithe bartender with a short Afro brings
me my third cocktail in 45 minutes, Gareth
recognizes a new willingness to experi-
ment with footwear. “How about heels?”
Gareth certainly isn’t my fun warden; he is
my fun enabler. I clap my hands and slip
on some red patent-leather stilettos.
At this point, I am sort of slurring. I tell
Gareth “to make me pretty” before having
a slight breakdown as I discover I’ve gone
up half a shoe size. I need to get lunch.
I leave Gareth with two hugs and a prom-
ise to come back for the boots. (I will for-
get to do that.) As I shovel French fries
and crispy chicken wings into my mouth
at one of the on-site restaurants—clearly,
they anticipated that shoppers would
need drunk food—I realize the people
around me are not on my level: shoppers
buying Christmas presents and an older
gentleman eating alone and reading thepaper. I go in search of kindred souls.
Back down at the Shoe Bar, I discover two
women finishing martinis. They’re from
Dallas so are not as impressed by the abil-
ity to shop and drink freely. (Dallas has
one of the 13 other Nord stroms with
liquor licenses.) They grab their big Louis
Vuitton totes to make their personal-
styling appointments, where they’ll be
trying on gowns for their friend’s black-tie
wedding. They’ll have a bottle of prosecco
while they do it, they explain.
I decide to follow the rule of Legally
Blonde: If you’re feeling lonely, find the
nearest nail salon. In Beauty Hall (level
one), one can, yes, order a drink but also
get a blowout or a wax or, as in my case,
hold a manicurist hostage while sipping
prosecco.
It is now 3 p.m.—the official happy
hour—and I am drunk enough for my
final challenge: drinking among clothes
that cost more than what’s in my bank
account. I enter Space—the in-store bou-
tique for hip, young designers—and move
on to the Dries Van Noten boutique,
where I bury my face in a pair of high-
waisted gray wool pants that Shiv Roy
would definitely own. They’re available
only in a size that’s roughly two smaller
than I usually wear, but when a salesper-
son asks if I want to try them on, “What
the hell,” I say. “Why not!” And while we’re
at it, I’ll grab dresses that look like they’re
made for small Amish children, pants
that are half my rent, and leather shirts,
even though I sweat a lot. She takes me to
a dressing room, then I order a drink
called a Billionaire.
Fifteen minutes later, while I’m trying
to wriggle myself into those Dries Van
Noten pants we all knew weren’t going to
fit, I’m startled by a knock. “It’s me, with
your drink,” the salesperson says cau-
tiously. I lunge for the door and hear a loud
rrrrzzzzziiip from the pants. Remember
how John trusts his customers to drink
around clothes? Well, here I am disap-
pointing John. I open the door, refusing to
look down at the damage, and grab my
bourbon cocktail. Door closed, I assess.
The pants didn’t rip; I just forgot how zip-
pers work. Next, I try on a dress. I use the
iPad by the mirror to change the lighting
to “clurrrrb” dark, and I stand there sip-
ping bourbon in my slinky black velvet
dress and decide, I’m buying.
At some point, I’ll be mad about the
money I spent, but right now, I am a new
woman with a new dress, who will return
to this new Nordstrom, the best bar in
New York. And a week later, in fact, I head
right back. Sober. To return the dress I
bought when I was drunk. ■or avoid knocking over an intricately
designed handbag display. Nordstrom
allows us to drink, eat, and shop all at the
same time, like we’re living out some sort
of Etsy cross-stitch mantra.
Fun hasn’t been synonymous with
department store for some time, and on the
day I visit, I’m immediately reminded why.
There’s the too-bigness, the migraine-
inducing fluorescence and pop music, the
Christmas decorations. The chaos of too
many purchasable shoes and beauty prod-
ucts and jewelry and jeans and dresses
makes me want to sit on the floor and cry
like an overstimulated toddler.
Before I can yell, “This is why we stay
home!” and bolt, I’m approached by an
employee named John, who, maybe pick-
ing up on my crazed energy, gently takes
my arm. “The store can be overwhelming,”
he says soothingly, as he begins to show me
all the ways I can destroy my liver and my
credit score in tandem. “Here is ladies’
athletic wear. And over here,” he coos, “is
the area where you can buy fine jewelry but
also get your ears pierced Thursdays
through Sundays.”
And then the two bars: first, a refined,
pastel-heavy nook called the Broadway
Bar, where shoppers can sit and unwind
while looking onto, well, Broadway; it
offers signature cocktails like the $1 7
Husband Daycare, which I imagine is
insulting to some men. Second is the Shoe
Bar, a large, vaguely Art Deco establish-
ment in the center of the lower-level shoe
department that I predict will turn into
the store’s “party central.” Both provide
places to sit while you consume, but you
can also stop any sales associate to order
whatever you want—from a glass of
Champagne to a goblet of wine (yes, even
red)—as you roam.
While we tour, I feel compelled to con-
firm that any spot I stand in can be turned
into my own little bar. In designer shoes,
I ask, “Oh, John, might I request a tequila
on the rocks to sip while I try on these
Gucci loafers?” (Aggressive, but yes.)
While he shows me the dressing rooms
with smart mirrors, I ask, “Wait, John, can
I drink in there while I try on jeans?” (Yes.
You can even order a drink via a screen—
and control the lighting.) “But John,” I say,
as we weave through racks of high-end
designers, “what if I were to spill my glass
of Cabernet on this Burberry?” (“We trust
our customers!”) “Should you, though?”
(Yes.) “Yoo-hoo, John! I wanna get drunk
and try on lipsticks in beauty! Can we?”
(No.) What? No. Booze can be served only
on five of the seven levels—not on level one
(beauty, fine jewelry, non-shoe accessories)
or level four (women’s clothing).As a bartenderbrings me mythird cocktail in45 minutes,Gareth recognizesa new willingnessto experimentwith footwear.TRANSMITTEDY ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EIC ________ COPY ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EIC2619INT_Column2_lay [Print]_36445288.indd 19 12/17/19 7:28 PMdecember23,2019–january5, 2020 | newyork 19“But we’re not the fun police,” says
Gareth, my new best friend, at the Shoe
Bar, where he is giving me the full experi-
ence. He recently moved from Seattle to
work at the New York store, and though
I’m certain the job description didn’t
include dealing with an inebriated me,
Gareth is all about making this a day. He
explains that, while drinking is prohib-
ited in some areas, nobody will “tackle”
me should I saunter from level three
(booze) through level four (no booze) to
level five (booze!) while holding a drink.
Nordstrom’sgambit,it turnsout,isthat
it can beat the retail odds by acting like
the perfect hostess.
I’ll be honest: At first, Gareth seems
slightly alarmed at having to procure a
drink and six different pairs of Western
boots for me to try on. But by thetime he
hands me my second GreenwichVillage,
we’reina groove.Nowhesays,leaningfor-wardconspiratoriallywhileI sip,“Doyou
havea combat boot?”We try onseveral.As
a lithebartenderwitha short Afrobrings
memythirdcocktailin 45 minutes,Gareth
recognizesa newwillingnesstoexperi-
mentwithfootwear. “Howaboutheels?”
Garethcertainlyisn’t my funwarden;heis
myfunenabler. I clapmy handsandslip
onsomeredpatent-leatherstilettos.
Atthispoint,I amsortofslurring.I tell
Gareth“tomake mepretty”beforehaving
a slight breakdown as I discover I’ve gone
up half a shoe size. I need to get lunch.
I leaveGarethwithtwohugsand a prom-
ise to come back for the boots. (I will for-
get to do that.) As I shovel French fries
and crispy chicken wings into my mouth
at one of the on-site restaurants—clearly,
they anticipated that shoppers would
need drunk food—I realize thepeople
around me are not on my level: shoppers
buying Christmas presents and an older
gentleman eating alone and reading thepaper. I go in search of kindred souls.
Back down at the Shoe Bar, I discover two
women finishing martinis. They’re from
Dallas so are not as impressed by the abil-
ity to shop and drink freely. (Dallas has
one of the 13 other Nord stroms with
liquor licenses.) They grab their big Louis
Vuitton totes to make their personal-
styling appointments, where they’ll be
trying on gowns for their friend’s black-tie
wedding. They’ll have a bottle of prosecco
while they do it, they explain.
I decide to follow the rule ofLegally
Blonde: Ifyou’refeelinglonely, find the
nearest nail salon. In Beauty Hall (level
one), one can, yes, order a drink but also
get a blowout or a wax or, as in my case,
hold a manicurist hostage whilesipping
prosecco.
It is now 3 p.m.—the official happy
hour—and I am drunk enoughfor my
final challenge: drinking amongclothes
that cost more than what’s in my bank
account. I enter Space—the in-store bou-
tique for hip, young designers—and move
on to the Dries Van Noten boutique,
where I bury my face in a pair of high-
waisted gray wool pants that Shiv Roy
would definitely own. They’re available
only in a size that’s roughly twosmaller
than I usually wear, but when a salesper-
son asks if I want to try them on, “What
the hell,” I say. “Why not!” And while we’re
at it, I’ll grab dresses that look like they’re
made for small Amish children, pants
that are half my rent, and leather shirts,
even though I sweat a lot. She takes me to
a dressing room, then I ordera drink
called a Billionaire.
Fifteen minutes later, while I’m trying
to wriggle myself into those Dries Van
Noten pants we all knew weren’t going to
fit, I’m startled by a knock. “It’s me, with
your drink,” the salesperson says cau-
tiously. I lunge for the door and hear a loud
rrrrzzzzziiip from the pants. Remember
how John trusts his customers to drink
around clothes? Well, here I am disap-
pointing John. I open the door, refusing to
look down at the damage, and grab my
bourbon cocktail. Door closed, I assess.
The pants didn’t rip; I just forgot how zip-
pers work. Next, I try on a dress. I use the
iPad by the mirror to change thelighting
to “clurrrrb” dark, and I stand there sip-
ping bourbon in my slinky black velvet
dress and decide, I’m buying.
At some point, I’ll be mad about the
money I spent, but right now, I am a new
woman with a new dress, who will return
to this new Nordstrom, the best bar in
New York. And a week later, in fact, I head
right back. Sober. To return thedress I
bought when I was drunk. ■or avoid knocking over an intricately
designed handbag display. Nordstrom
allows us to drink, eat, and shop all at the
same time, like we’re living out some sort
of Etsy cross-stitch mantra.
Fun hasn’t been synonymous with
department store for some time, and on the
day I visit, I’m immediately reminded why.
There’s the too-bigness, the migraine-
inducing fluorescence and pop music, the
Christmas decorations. The chaos of too
many purchasable shoes and beauty prod-
ucts and jewelry and jeans and dresses
makesmewanttositonthefloorandcry
like an overstimulated toddler.
Before I can yell, “This is whywe stay
home!” and bolt, I’m approached by an
employee named John, who, maybe pick-
ing up on my crazed energy, gently takes
my arm. “The store can be overwhelming,”
he says soothingly, as he begins to show me
all the ways I can destroy my liverandmy
credit score in tandem. “Hereisladies’
athletic wear. And over here,” hecoos,“is
the area where you can buy fine jewelrybut
also get your ears pierced Thursdays
through Sundays.”
And then the two bars: first,a refined,
pastel-heavy nook called the Broadway
Bar, where shoppers can sit andunwind
while looking onto, well, Broadway;it
offers signature cocktails likethe$1 7
Husband Daycare, which I imagineis
insulting to some men. Second istheShoe
Bar, a large, vaguely Art Decoestablish-
ment in the center of the lower-levelshoe
department that I predict willturninto
the store’s “party central.” Bothprovide
places to sit while you consume,butyou
can also stop any sales associatetoorder
whatever you want—from aglass of
Champagne to a goblet of wine(yes,even
red)—as you roam.
While we tour, I feel compelledtocon-
firm that any spot I stand in canbeturned
into my own little bar. In designershoes,
I ask, “Oh, John, might I request a tequila
on the rocks to sip while I tryonthese
Gucci loafers?” (Aggressive, but yes.)
While he shows me the dressingrooms
with smart mirrors, I ask, “Wait,John,can
I drink in there while I try on jeans?”(Yes.
You can even order a drink via a screen—
and control the lighting.) “But John,” I say,
as we weave through racks of high-end
designers, “what if I were to spill my glass
of Cabernet on this Burberry?” (“We trust
our customers!”) “Should you, though?”
(Yes.) “Yoo-hoo, John! I wanna get drunk
and try on lipsticks in beauty! Can we?”
(No.) What? No. Booze can be served only
on five of the seven levels—not on level one
(beauty, fine jewelry, non-shoe accessories)
or level four (women’s clothing).
As a bartenderbrings me mythird cocktail in45 minutes,Gareth recognizesa new willingnessto experimentwith footwear.