Private clubs like the Boca Resort take their cachet seriously, and much of it depends on exactly who gets turned away at the gate. That would be me and you: variously known as the hoi polloi, the unwashed masses, the riffraff. Under normal circumstances, it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a poor man to stroll under the resort's Mizner-designed archways. Or to bask beside its private swimming pools or under its waterfalls, to pick at fish tacos and sip its bloody marys under a seaside umbrella. But we're in a recession, and even Boca Resort — which is owned by Waldorf Astoria — has felt the pinch hard enough to permit a thin stream of commoners. For an affordable price ($109 a night at presstime), you're entitled to every luxury the resort routinely showers on its members. That includes a staff for whom no request is too niggling (inevitably fulfilled with brisk friendliness); some of the best sushi in South Florida at Morimoto's casual little bar; eyefuls of nearly nude girls in their early 20s who sunbathe and flirt at the Resort's Beach Club in droves; a full spa stocked with excellent massage therapists, a Turkish-style bath, and lots of sweet-smelling products; and a tiny taste of what it would be like to be rich enough to spend $110 on a mani-pedi without blinking. One Saturday night is enough, unless you've just won at Lotto (arrive early and leave late on Sunday afternoon). A door to a locked and guarded room has temporarily opened a crack: Enter while you can.