If you've ever walked from the Park Street T stop to Filene's Basement, then you've passed Emily's, probably without a second thought. This innocuous little nightspot looks like a restaurant or a deli from the outside, probably because it is, complete with a sign advertising for "subs" in the window. And apart from a sandwich board on the sidewalk advertising "Emily's - upstairs!" it looks like a deli at night, too... only closed.
But after checking our coats behind the cold cuts counter, we trotted up the oriental-rug carpeted stairs and entered the lounge area of the bar, getting our first taste of some kind of purgatory between yuppie childhood and middle age. Here is where people who spend summers at fancy summer camps come to play when they're at the age before they can settle down and join a country club for evening recreation. Think Brooks Brothers and J.Crew, not just the clothes but the lifestyle.
The music, played by a live DJ, gets increasingly funky as the inhibitions of the patrons get increasingly lower. The evening begins with Top 40 pop music, and progresses into old-school dance music, like the Humpty Dance. Someone actually knew the Humpty Dance, which for me is a fuzzy childhood memory. Slowly, the music evolves into modern club anthems like "Lady" and "One More Time."
There is one long bar with several stools around which groups of friends gather to pose for Heineken commercials. Directly opposite the bar is a living room-esque area, complete with comfy couches, rugs, and artwork on the walls. This is the perfect little place to sit while you're contemplating your first drink and deciding between dancing and mingling. If you're a self-conscious girl (and if you're not, then you're lying), one rather unfortunate architectural element is the large mirror on the wall facing you as you approach the bathrooms. When the lights are low and you're in your "zone," you can pretend that you look as cute as the beer goggles make you seem. But in the harsh light and unflattering cut of a mirrored wall, you're reminded that you are who you are, and not who you think you are... or something.
In the opposite direction from the bathrooms is the dance floor, a small space that blends into a wide hallway and is more conducive to an interesting sort of moving-while-talking motion than to actual dancing. Plate glass windows line the farthest wall of Emily's, overlooking Winter Street, and allowing passers-by to look up and check out the dance floor. It's not exactly your trendy, MTV-worshipping scene, as evidenced not only by the attire but also by the dance moves. There is not much close dancing in this place (though we did catch a couple making out on a couch, which was a bit out of synch with the vibe), since most of the men here are older... or at least act that way. They remember, and enthusiastically reenact, the days when the Roger Rabbit and the Running Man were "in" - high school for them, elementary/middle school for us. To their credit, it's hard to relax when you're still dressed business casual.
The people here are what the French call bien eleve, or well brought-up. Only once did we experience the just-start-dancing-with-her-from-behind-and-hope-she-doesn't-object technique; all the other men actually introduced themselves to us and offered a friendly handshake. Conversation never strays from the banal and never dares to be stimulating. One man was actually surprised when I guessed his profession. After explaining to him that yes, I'm an English major, and yes, I do plan on finding a job (this surprised him - apparently in the world of investment banking English majors aren't exactly in demand), he explained that he went to Penn where he studied Poly Sci and Economics.
"So you're an investment banker," I rightly assumed.
"Yeah! How'd you guess?"
I bit my tongue to keep from making some crack about looking at his fancy shoes or been-to-the-office-on-a-Saturday shirt. We only mock because we envy.
We may have stumbled upon the evolution of a Jane Austen novel in which men and women of good lineage struggle to make advantageous matches among themselves, all the time exercising good taste and proper etiquette. To a T - I found myself leaving the bar with a business card in hand, the modern interpretation of a calling card, one assumes. I suppose it marks a sort of coming-of-age, when numbers are no longer exchanged on scraps of paper or ATM receipts, or even plugged into cell phones, but on a card that says not only the person's name and number, but also his or her company, position, and phone and fax numbers. It's that much easier to become a stalker, heh heh.
The girls in the bathroom are friendly and responded enthusiastically when I initiated conversation. Outside of the bathroom, however, it's cutthroat competition for the man with the biggest... wallet. More than one dirty look found it's way toward my direction, probably thanks to my short polka-dot skirt (what was I thinking?!). A word of advice - come dressed in nice conservative pants and a cute shirt. Some girls are in jeans and button-down shirts, but those are the girls who had a few too many and were spinning each other on the dance floor, bumping into everything and everybody with wide-toothed grins, much to the chagrin of the sedate onlookers. Do: wear something cute that shows you made an effort when dressing. Do Not: wear jeans or a polka-dot skirt. We caused quite a commotion in the ladies room when we decided to stop complaining about our stupid outfits and do something about it - one girl said with incredulity to her friend upon exiting the bathroom, "Those two girls just switched shirts!" Apparently these well-coiffed women never make fashion mistakes. If only everyone had a personal shopper...
Tufts kids are in good company at Emily's, and we actually ran into a Jumbo who graduated in '98. Many patrons migrated to Boston from UPenn, and one named Choate as his alma mater. Apparently he considered it a highlight in his life, announcing it rather enthusiastically and looking around to see who was impressed. No one was - everyone here looks good on paper. The real problem is how they look in real life, and that's short. Towering over 98 percent of the population is not a good thing for a girl, and is completely unnecessary - I'm only 5'8" for heaven's sake!
Upon leaving we saw some sneaky little girls going down a flight of stairs and into a glowing green light. Jackets on, we knew we couldn't stay, but who can resist at least seeing what could possibly be glowing like that? Kryptonite? No, not exactly. Below the deli is another room of Emily's that many people walk past, apparently, since the crowd down there is significantly smaller than the upstairs bunch. The music is a tad more techno-y, and the crowd a little more self-conscious. We decided we hadn't missed out on much, though there was much more room to dance downstairs and another creative decor.
Considering that there's no cover on Saturdays and the company is pleasant, Emily's is a safe bet for a relaxing yet entertaining evening on the town. There's no riffraff to worry about, unless you count the Harvard grads, so you're free to grab a few friends and head down for the mingling or the schmoozing. And keep the business cards you'll get - you never know when you'll need the services of a financial analyst.
