Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way

Epistle 19 – The Three Martini Lunch

I was fortunate to start my business career in New York when white shirts, gray suits and wingtips were the only acceptable professional attire. Hats were strongly encouraged, especially when you were summoned to headquarters, but we young Turks held firm on that one and brought the establishment to their knees . . . sort of. One tradition I did not rebel against was the 3 martini lunch, a worthy tradition, indeed. My boss wanted me to drink gin martinis rather than vodka so the customer would know I was drunk, not stupid. Since they made me even more eloquent than I was naturally, I failed to see his point. In fact, I was quite proud of being able to glibly order “an-extra-dry-Beefeater-martini-on-the-rocks-with-an-olive-please”. It was quite a mouthful, especially with a mouthful of olives.

Of course, not everyone in the Apple shared in this ritual. Take the man in the Jersey City upstairs warehouse, for example. He was my very first sales call. After getting hopelessly lost and arriving late, he gave me 5 minutes to say whatever I was going to say to get an order, and then get out. Undaunted, I raced ahead, rattling off everything I knew about anything, coming to a breathless close with about 2 minutes to spare. “Well, young man,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not going to get an order, but that was the damnedest sales pitch I’ve ever heard. Here, help yourself before you go,” he said, pointing to a display case of briar pipes. I chose one that made me look quite distinguished and shuffled down the warehouse steps, thinking my sales career was off to a grand start. My army aptitude test said I should have been a plumber, but how could you deny the profits of my first sales call? This was the game for me.

Now, having been shaken, not stirred, for decades and the three martini lunch having gone the way of leisure suits, I can philosophically look back on that phase of my career and honestly say . . . I missed most of it. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. No, sir. The Big Apple haze is probably best remembered through a Beefeater haze. And gin-soaked olives were all I got to eat some days. Sure, there were probably a few misguided adventures, like the time I leaped into a cab like Gene Kelly and split my pants; but I was part of the fabric of American history. And I was still ten feet tall and bullet-proof.

So, all you young people in the audience considering a grand and glorious business career in the Big Apple, don’t let them talk you into a martini at lunch. Wear a hat instead.

We Will Win

Filed under: Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way

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