No. I've just returned from a quick trip to Texas including a shopping trip to their ultra-luxe mall, The Galleria. Upon my return from the Republic, the customs agent in Arkansas asked me if I had anything to declare. Channeling Guy Ritchie, "Yeah, don't go to Texas." The Galleria was everything bad about a mall and everything bad about Texas with little to redeem it other than a good variety of stores.
Let me first say that I have a strong preference for boutique stores that are in downtown areas or even in shopping centers over a nearly identical store in a mall. However, I do like to look around Saks, and that usually means a mall. There are, however, malls that I don't mind. The Phipps and Lenox malls in Atlanta are quite nice with a good selection of stores. Phipps has a Saks as its anchor, and (quite literally) across the street Lenox has a Nordstrom's as its anchor. The smaller shops play to the anchor stores' crowds, as do the restaurants. It can be a nice shopping experience, but that isn't because of the mall aspect. It's in spite of it. The people make those malls great. The service at the stores in Lenox and especially Phipps is beyond reproach. I've had especially wonderful help in the Hugo Boss store, and I trust the staff there so much that I'll occasionally call and have gifts shipped with just a brief description of what I want to send. If I have to set foot in a mall anywhere, it's going to be that one.
Contrast Dallas. Upon arrival at the mall I was greeted by an exceptionally superfluous line of hispanic men in red jumpsuits and Santa hats. It was January 3. These were apparently the valet staff for the mall, all of whom waved me forward. I never did really understand where I was supposed to valet or why I would want to valet park with hundreds of open parking spaces only about 10 yards away from the driveway. Of course, those were all reserved for the valets, so I had to drive around until I found a space. As I was arriving at about 6 PM, they must have expected a post-dinner Saturday night rush on the Versace store, to the tune of around a thousand reserved parking spaces.
After I finally got in, I was equally irritated. With the exception of some fine help at Nordstrom's (an oddity, if you ask me), I was apalled at the service in every shop I visited. The most attrocious example (mainly because it encompassed every other complaint) was at Thomas Pink. I have loved going into Pink stores for years, and despite the fact that I increasingly wear custom shirts, I still buy from them when I have a chance. Pink makes one of the best off-the-rack shirts available, and they carry wonderful accessories. In every other Pink store I have visited, even during the busy periods, the service is attentive and informed. Not so in Dallas. The staff consisted of one man and one woman, both in their early twenties, and the store was bustling with one (1) customer besides myself.
I say that there was one customer because despite the fact that there were two people in the store, they were a couple and the woman was clearly the customer. Her mate was apparently an excuse to buy men's clothes. I saw a lot of this in Dallas, women dressing their men like Ken dolls. Sometimes it's cute, but the frequency (and obvious extravagance) made it simply seem pathetic. Dallas, it seems, is a town of good-ol-boys with piles of oil money and cheerleaders.
I was at Pink to buy clothes for my own girl (who can, in fact, dress herself quite well), and, as such, was hanging about the women's section of the store. Pink uses UK sizing, which meant nothing to me for women's clothes. As such, I needed the shopgirl. Enter the shopboy. As he approached after about 15 minutes of watching me look at women's clothes, it occurred to me that he probably wouldn't know the women's sizes. After all, Pink is primarily a men's store, and he probably had little call for translating sizes for the women who obviously did all of the purchasing in Dallas. I was correct. Despite the presence of a chart, he still could not advise me on converting from American to British sizing and was especially baffled at the question "How do these run?" He was much more concerned that I learn that there would be no returns on sale merchandise (strange since virtually the whole store was on clearance). After returning to his co-worker to clear up the sizing, I was then left to my own devices with no advice, no helpful suggestions, and generally no service. Odd given that I was clearly carrying bags full of merchandise from other stores, most of it women's. Maybe I smelled bad. I had been driving past cattle farms for what seemed like days.
Upon leaving the mall I was treated to my final Dallas moment. Walking out past the jumpsuited hispanic Santas, I was approached by a woman somewhere in her forties. She was with another women her own age and a gaggle of nineteen-ish girls. "Would you mind takin' a silly picture of us?" I agreed. The girls promptly lined up with the woman in front. I was unclear about how this would work given that she was taller than most of them and was wearing some fairly high heels. Then I understood. She looked over her shoulder and said, "Ready girls?!" In response two of the teeny boppers kicked their beheeled legs into the air somehow balancing on one 4-6 inch heel as they held the toe of their vertical leg above their head. The forty-ish woman then, without any apparent effort dropped into the splits. All I could think was: "She's going to destroy her shoes on the concrete. Wait? Should I be turned on? No, no, definitely not." I snapped the picture and left... quickly.
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