Stop That Mullet!

Saturday’s story in the Times about the picky doormen at Chelsea’s Marquee club had one of the best ledes in recent memory:

The German guy with the mullet never had a chance.

Of course it didn’t help that his female companion seemed to think an aggressive display of cleavage might neutralize her urgent need for orthodontia.

Wass Stevens considered the couple for just a moment before muttering, “Let me crush ’em,” out of the corner of his mouth.

As the doorman at Marquee, the model-and-celebrity-magnet of the moment in Chelsea, Mr. Stevens had already dashed the party plans of several hundred people who swamped the sidewalk on this cruel, cold winter night. When it came to the German tourists, Mr. Stevens approached the task with evident relish.

There’s something about this whole milieu that makes you side with the doormen against the masses:

After two decades on the ropes of New York City clubs, Mr. Stevens has become a skilled alchemist prized for his ability to gauge and mix a room. Too many Europeans can be stultifying, too much testosterone can ruin the vibe, and too many women can create a different sort of tension. “Women come to clubs to be desired, adored and taken care of,” Mr. Stevens said. “If you go over 70 percent, the women start getting catty and competitive.”

There is no surefire way of making the cut. Packs of men are almost always turned away, and Mr. Stevens seems to frown on women of limited height. “My father always taught me that there are winners and losers in this world,” he said. “My job is to make sure this place is full of winners.” Standards, of course, vary depending on the night, and are more stringent on weekends.

By midnight on a recent Friday, several dozen shivering people were lined up awaiting judgment, smoking incessantly and to trying to mask their anxiety. On the wrong side of the velvet rope, milling about with agitation, the recently rejected worked their cellphones, trying to reach people they imagined might be able to spin some magic on their behalf.

Then there were the big spenders, cocky businessmen who stepped up to the rope with impressive wads of cash. Although they readily accept clothing, designer footwear and tips from patrons already on the inside, the doormen are forbidden to accept entry bribes. Still, over the course of the evening, at least a half-dozen people indiscreetly proffered amounts as high as $500.

When Mr. Stevens ignored a man who held out a brick of bills, the man, a Chinese-born tech entrepreneur who gave only his first name, Simon, upped the ante to what he claimed was $1,000. “Confucius said that everyone has his price,” he explained, counting out the money for all to see.

Mr. Stevens countered with his own axiom: “Flashing a pile of cash is a complete and total admission that you don’t belong here.” Defeated, Simon got back into his BMW and drove away.

Confucious said, “Flashing a pile of cash is a complete and total admission that you don’t belong here.” Brilliant . . .