Jamie Gonzalez thought he looked cool in his tropical shirt, jet black with white embroidery. He felt cool, too. His
traditional guayabera was made to fit loosely, worn outside the pants so heat escapes and breezes get caught underneath. Perfect for salsa dancing, which makes Jamie sizzle. The shirt is roomy enough for
those fancy spins and dips. Stylish and sensible. Or so he thought until he met the dress code cops at the door of the Century Club one recent Friday night.
Tuck in the shirt or you don't get in,
instructed the sumo-sized security guards at the Century City nightclub in West Los Angeles.
I beg your pardon? Tuck in a guayabera? How culturally incorrect.
Sorry. The dress code calls for tucked-in shirts. No exceptions.
Jamie tried instant sensitivity training. He wanted to walk away: Better to forgo one night of dancing than violate one's sartorial
integrity. But his American date had more practical advice.
“It’s only a stupid shirt,” she said. “Tuck it in!”
“No,” Jamie replied. “You don’t understand. It’s not just a shirt. It's a whole concept!”
My friend relented that night. But he was so offended he stopped going to the club--and eventually dropped his dance partner to boot. On Friday, at my request, he returned to the scene of the fashion faux
pas.
We met in front of the club, with its pretentious red carpet and gaggle of burly guards in big leather coats. Jamie and I couldn't help but look suspicious in our warm-weather guayaberas, worn to
test the policy.
We watched the door for a while. Surprise. Several men were allowed in with squared-off shirts hanging out. For an explanation, we were politely referred to a busy promoter with a goatee
and a cell phone. He was a walking dress code manual: White shirt and tie, sweater vest, knee-length overcoat and black shoes with a military polish.
The clothing guidelines set a standard for the
clientele, explained Marvin Estrada of Hitmen Entertainment. This is an upscale joint. People who dress tacky tend to act tacky, too.
“It’s a matter of etiquette,” said Estrada, 31, born in East L.A. of
Peruvian and Mexican lineage. “We don't want sloppy people here. We're a block away from Beverly Hills. . . . We cater to a little bit more of a money crowd. We get politicians. We get heavy people here.
They expect to rub shoulders with other people of their stature.”
I was starting to feel a little underdressed. Can my buddy and I get in with these shirts tonight?
Sure, says Estrada. Traditional
guayaberas are allowed. The trick is knowing how to tell them apart from similar styles, like barber or bowling shirts. The dress code is applied unevenly because the security guys can't always make such
tailored distinctions.
“They don't know any better,” confided Estrada. “It’s a cultural thing.”
The classic, Caribbean guayabera, made of fine linen and cotton in soft pastels, was once considered
attire for older men. But the shirt has become so hip in recent years it’s now a full-fledged fashion trend in the United States. Its origins are disputed, but a popular account traces it to central Cuba,
where workers picking guayaba (or guava) were known as guayaberos, who used the large pockets for carrying the fruit.
I read recently that the true guayabera has four pockets, two pleats in front, three
in back, and 27 buttons made of mother of pearl. Lo and behold, I have one hanging in my closet, made in Yucatan with long sleeves and delicate multicolored embroidery. It fit elegantly 20 years – and as
many pounds ago.
Guayaberas transcend humidity and politics. They were donned during the 1990s by Ronald Reagan and Fidel Castro. Modern versions come in different colors and fabrics, including a $750
designer model in suede.
Jamie got a few from Mexico City, courtesy of a visit from Mom. My new ones are made for Perry Ellis in China and Korea, and sold by Macy’s in Costa Mesa – a sign of our global
multiculturalism.
In Cuba, the shirt was considered dressy enough for formal wear. The so-called third-world tuxedo could even be dressed up with a bow tie. Presidents gave speeches in it; executives wore
it to work.
“But there's a big difference between Beverly Hills and Cuba,” insisted Estrada, ushering more young Latinos into the Century Club. “Out here, guayaberas are not seen as a form of formal
dress.”
Behind him, a young man dressed in black heads nonchalantly to the door. His shirt is out, but it has no pleats, no pockets.
Hey! That's no guayabera. That's just a shirt.
Tuck it in!
Copyright (c) 2000 Los Angeles Times
Distributed by Los Angeles Times Syndicate
