As a doorman in New York, London, Paris, Hamburg, le Sud de France, and Beverly Hills from the 1970s I to the 1990s the bosses always asked about my criteria for admission. Many other doormen said, “Shoes.”
Me, it was a look.
A look like you wanted a good time without any trouble, although I never gave entry to undercover cops. Their shoes were dead giveaways. Cop shoes. Of course if they were off-duty, then they were fine, but I always warned them, “Don’t pull any cop shit inside or else I’ll never let you in.”
And they didn’t, although a few clients scootered out the back door. They knew trouble when they saw it and I checked on the 12.
One, an undercover cop from the 76th Precinct in Red Hook, Rob Cea, explained, “People get nervous when they see us ”
“It’s the shoes. Change ’em next time. And next time come alone.
Damned, Rob Cea did, and no one left the club, when he came in after that.
Ari my cobbler. I’m his Shabbas Goy.
