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| photography by Dave Shafer |
Last spring when I was looking for a coffee table to fill a small space, a pair of low Regency-style tables caught my attention at Love Field Antique Mall. The tables sported a classic X-shaped base, currently a highly prized look. A decorator once told me that if you find a pair of anything, you should buy it immediately. I dragged the benches from their dusty enclave for a better look. Simply carved, they gleamed in gold and black lacquer. A little too gold, I worried. Maybe they look cheap, not chic. I turned one over and saw “Drexel” was stamped on it. The red sale tag had its original price scratched through, and under it was written “$350, firm.” The word “firm” was underlined twice with heavy black marker. There would be no negotiating here. I pictured how they might look, side by side, in front of my white tuxedo sofa. Hollywood glam? Or trailer park tacky? If they were so great, I wondered, why had no one snatched them up? I pushed the tables back into their booth and kept going. A half dozen times over the summer, I returned to the mall to look around. Each time, the tables were always there. And each time, I’d pull them out and study them. Maybe I could paint them black? Maybe I ought to turn them into benches with upholstered cushions? I was seized by doubts and back they’d go until next time.
Then one day, they were gone. It was fall, and by now my search for a coffee table had grown epic. I was too weary from the process to consider whether I’d made a mistake by letting the tables go. Possibly I had just seen too many. Every small table in the city was perfect, but not right for me: A shagreen version at Forty Five Ten was too animal. Voyager Trading Company’s ebonized drum table was too ethnic. A wine table at Lovers Lane Antique Market reeked of country French. At White Elephant, tables were concocted from all kinds of odds and ends. Too eclectic.
In desperation, I grabbed a friend I’ll call Second Opinion, and we headed out for one last look at the tables I’d mulled over obsessively for the last six months. The good news: He agreed that none of those coffee tables was right. The bad news: I still didn’t have a coffee table.
In a burst of inspiration, I pulled into the holy grail of antiques malls, the Mews. Visiting the Mews on an editor’s budget is like reading Vogue on a secretary’s salary—totally aspirational but why not? We scoured every inch of the place. An 18th century upholstered bench was perfect, save for one detail: It cost a whole month’s paycheck. Second Opinion was seriously considering a painted Tole tea table until I turned the price tag over. We were almost out the front door when Second Opinion exclaimed something I never thought I’d hear from a straight man: “Over here, look at these. They’re gilded, and there’s a pair of them!” I recognized them immediately. There, near the exit, were my two Regency-style tables. I dragged them into the window light. They seemed to gleam with new confidence. A coiffed saleswoman emerged from behind her desk. “Those cigarette tables are fabulous, aren’t they?” she cooed. Cigarette tables? Since when did my garish little tables become fabulous cigarette tables? I turned them over. “They’re Drexel,” she said matter-of-factly. I could have told her that. I ran my hand across the sleek wood. They were stunning. In their beautiful new environment, they had risen to the occasion. How could I have ever doubted them? My voice quaked: How much? In a moment she had the dealer on the phone. “They’re $2,600, but if you are interested in taking them today, she’ll sell them to you for $1,900.” What happened next is still a blur. The last thing I remember was Second Opinion pulling me out the door, while I was blathering the words “mine” and “$350 firm.” The thing was, they were never mine, and in their former middle class environment, I hadn’t wanted them. Glam in their ritzy new digs, I was almost blind with desire for them. There’s a lesson to be learned from the experience—about life, about people, about coffee tables. Damned if I can figure it out. But you know what? The last time I went by the Mews, those fabulous little cigarette tables were still there.
