The several requirements—real or imagined—are:

You'd willingly be caught dead in a button-down Oxford-cloth shirt, an argyle sweater, cuffed chinos, and boat shoes.

You respect the inherited traditions of New England mores and etiquette, you needn't adhere to them, but you at least respect them and will not be caught slandering them in public.

You are an affected individual who takes grace and form to be a second nature attribute of your character.

You make every effort to be well-spoken and gentile.

You appreciate a fine wine, haute cuisine, Beluga caviar, foie gras, canapés, artisanal cheeses, tea of the finest variety, and other culinary delicacies. Your general opinion of decadent cuisine is, if I can afford it, its a glorious dalliance; And if I cannot afford it, I would partake of such finery at the next possible juncture.

You and your fellows (herein referred to as 'club men') are honour driven, and even though you are all capitalist pigs you willing share and distribute the wealth to better build an oligarchical empire, an elite. You will support and defend each member of the fraternity, whilst admittedly seeking your own fortune. It is permissible to save yourself only if your own welfare and the welfare of the fraternity our severally called into question.

A love of such recreational activities as golf, polo, la crosse, equinal pursuits, stalking, shooting, &c.

Generally, members are latitudinarian broad church Episcopalians—merely a social distinction, nothing more; you needn't actually believe in God, though it does help.

This general disposition, without strict adherence is the glue that binds all club men of the Fraternal Association of New England Patricians together.

(Most F.A.N.E.P. fellows are longtime patrons of H. R. Wesley, and know that it would be an affront to traipse about in anything less than the merchandise of this esteemed clothier. One is permitted to purchase cigars at the Barton Boutique, though.)