Lost in (Closet) Space

And to think: this built-in once held some very questionable pajamas in Barney's haberdashery department.    

    Of the tropes employed by those house-hunting shows that clog cable in the evening, the most tiresome must surely be the one in which the wife complains to the husband about a lack of closet space in some prospective home and the husband, who inevitably likes the house because of the finished basement, turns to the camera, eyes rolling, and mumbles something about too many shoes anyway...  There are several things wrong with this.  To begin, as long as they are worn, there is no such thing as too many shoes.  Also, finished basements are always drafty and acoustically poor no matter how many neon beer signs are installed.  A cobwebbed wine cellar would be much better.  

    The biggest problem though is that these dim souls never think to suggest the solution to the problem: furniture.  Perhaps they are unaware that an entire sub-genre exists dedicated to the storage of clothing.  They might mollify their wives with a wink and a promise to find a grand old armoire.  Or a flame-mahogany chest of drawers.  A silk-lined lingerie tower?  A brass-inlaid steamer trunk?  I could go on, but I think the point is sufficiently made: closets aren’t the only players in storage.   

    Of course this is heresy for most people.  In fact, closets are so important to real-estate agents, they’ve added the word “space” to the end.  Grammatically, this is unnecessary; existentially, the closet (a small room with some shelves) has been elevated to the status of deal-breaker/maker.  Good for closets, perhaps, but bad for style generally.  

    Surely the root of the issue is that we have too much.  This is a problem hardly limited to clothes; unwearable things have a nasty habit of loitering in closets.  But if we focus for a moment on the wearable stuff, I think we generally find plenty of fat too.  I will avoid any prescriptions of how many of what one should have if one is a traveling salesman versus a downtown lawyer.  Most are aware of their needs.  I am, however, a firm proponent of the practical wardrobe.  Not monastic austerity--just honest editing.  The real demons of practical wardrobes are those garments we regard with potential, or, worse, sentimentality.  Garments that possess a vague sense of importance and little else.  And it is closets--no, closet space-- that encourages the gathering of all this unwelcome debris.   

    But what does this all have to do with style?  The answer is twofold.  One, dressing isn’t always an easy task.  Perhaps one is in a hurry, or attending some social function where clothes must be more carefully selected than usual.  It has always seemed to me that too great a variety is perilous in these scenarios.  When the variables are reduced and well organized, dressing under duress is considerably easier.    The second answer is perhaps more romantic: a beautiful armoire neatly hung with well-fitting suits can be a magnificent thing.  The same may be said of a sturdy bow-front chest containing carefully folded shirts and sweaters.  Or a brass rack with well polished shoes, each more gem-like than the last.  

    My contribution is more modest.  Some years ago when the Barney’s around the corner was moving, they decided to sell the shop’s fixtures and furniture. Using a crow bar and a hand-saw, I liberated a display unit from the haberdashery department.  After considerable wedging, sanding and painting I have a very satisfying place to hang suits.  The drawers hold socks, and the cupboard luggage.  The surface beneath the suits has indentations where I stack handkerchiefs and gloves and there’s a spot for brushes and shoehorns.  The best feature though is its size--large enough for my needs, but too small for anything extraneous.  Closet space can go boil an egg.  

Deep space: 10,000 light years from anything remotely elegant.

Upper Crust

A spring-form pan means you won't feel compelled to hold your breath while plating.  

   A rich, sturdy pastry is invaluable.  Of course, like scones, or the poor martini, it is particularly susceptible to innovation, that constant vulture of the modest and pure.  Or, too often, pastry becomes merely the vehicle--an edible utensil--and as such, isn’t thoughtfully constructed.  And though there are expensive examples from France, frozen pastry is roundly an abomination.  Pastry must be made by hand.

    The ideal is toothsome, capable of encasing country pate, or stew, or whole roasted pears.  The hardiness of your pastry will depend upon the flour you use and you might vary your choice depending upon your intended application.  All-purpose flour has the highest gluten content and will, at the expense of some tenderness, make the hardiest pastry.  Cake flour has the lowest gluten and, at the expense of structure, will make tender pastry.  I prefer a mixture of the two in equal proportions.  In fact, one occasionally sees a similar mixture sold as “pastry flour.”  

    Pastry must also be flavorful; while lard or high-grade shortening might help the flake, neither contributes much in the way of flavor.   I recommend cultured, unsalted butter made in the continental style.  Not only does it seem to hold up to the required folding; it adds a desirable lactic zip to your finished dough.  

    Coldness is crucial.  Make everything very cold: mixing bowl, flour, butter, utensils, water--salt even.  In fact, coldness is perhaps the most important ingredient.  I measure and sift the flour into a bowl with the salt, reserve the cubed butter in another bowl and, along with the water, put everything in the refrigerator for an hour prior to preparation.  Use the hour to clean a countertop.  A clean countertop goes a long way toward successful pastry.  

    Pastry is often associated with the holiday season, when it holds savory fillings alongside cocktails, or cream and fruit at the end of a meal.  It features prominently at my table from Thanksgiving through New Years, but there is no reason it should be ignored the rest of the year.  Roasted end-of-summer tomatoes sing in a deep-walled pastry tart, and it will do well atop a spring vegetable fricassee.  And, of course: quiche.  While its deployment varies, the ingredients and method do not.  Which returns us to the subject of innovation.  Pastry should not be considered a blank canvas to doctor according to a theme.  If your pastry is to hold chorizo, there is no reason to incorporate Manchego into the dough in a clever nod to Spain.  Resist the urge to season your pastry with cinnamon for your one-bite apple-pies.  Incorporating herbs, as innocent as it seems, will, perhaps only at the molecular level, alter the exquisite balance otherwise evident between pastry and beef in your wellington.  

    Permit pastry its rich neutrality.   It is a familiar expert that can improve the ungainliest partner, but that ability fades the moment one begins monkeying about with the spice rack.  Recipe/Method below photo.

The bottom leaf reveals the toothsome layers achieved by folding the pastry.  Some, but not too much puff.  

Ingredients:

1 Pound of cultured, unsalted butter, cubed

2 Cups of all-purpose flour, sifted

2 Cups of cake flour, sifted

2 Cups filtered water, cold

1 Pinch of salt (fine)

Method:

Remove the bowl of flour and the bowl of cubed butter from the refrigerator.  Distribute evenly the butter in the flour, coating each cube.  If you haven’t done so already, add the salt.  Working quickly with two cold butter knives, start cutting the butter into the flour.  This is efficiently done by plunging the knives into the center of the mass and pulling in opposite directions toward the rim of the bowl repeatedly.  The goal is very course bread crumbs, as one might expect from pulsing stale bread in a processor.  

Put the bowl of cut-in butter and flour back in the fridge for a few minutes to regain its coldness.  Use the time to ensure your work surface is clean.  Remove the bowl and the chilled water to the side of your clean work surface.  Using a wooden spoon or spatula, gently begin folding water, a little at a time, into your butter/flour mixture. The idea is to add just enough so a dough forms that will pull away from the bowl en masse, but not enough to make anything visibly wet.  You will probably have half a cup of water remaining.

Lightly flour your clean work surface; remove your dough from your bowl to your (clean!) surface.  Working quickly, begin packing your dough together until all scraps are incorporated.  Once formed, press your dough out in all directions using the heel of your hand.  Lift half of your flattened dough and gently fold it over itself.  Repeat two or three times until the dough seems capable of withstanding a rolling pin.  

Flour your rolling pin and your surface (if necessary).  Working quickly, roll your dough out to a thickness of half an inch, being mindful to retain a rectangular shape.  Fold your dough in thirds and roll.  Repeat half a dozen times.   Avoid overworking your dough; try and accomplish the above with as little contact with your dough as possible.  

Wrap in plastic and allow to relax and cool for an hour before further application. 

A Bone of Intention

   Despite the possibly limitless choice in checks, there are two types of men who might hope for something else.  The first is the man with two dozen checked odd jackets in varying scales from the demure to the frightening.  The world is his oyster, but he longs for still greater variety.  One can hardly commiserate.  The second and perhaps more interesting fellow has a tighter purse.  He has a modest collection of checked odd jackets--say three--in differing scales and colors.  He wears them often, and is confident only the pedant would take note of his rotation.  He is considering a fourth odd jacket, and while both louder and more subtle checks exist that would not go unworn, he resists in favor of versatility.  His choice?  The dark brown herringbone.

    The navy blazer of course is the classic useful jacket, and our fictitious gentleman may or may not already possess one, (although I’m not in the business of supplying the order in which someone ought to acquire what).  I have found though that the blazer, for all its famous utility, perches awkwardly between genres.  It’s often too formal for casual social activities, but usually when I wear mine to something where it would seem a sensible choice, I come away wishing I had worn a suit.  I suspect this has something to do with its collegiate and club associations, a sort of sub-genre where funny things happen to the rules of the masculine universe.

    By contrast, an odd jacket made of a dark brown herringbone seems capable of consistently striking the correct note.  It dresses up wonderfully with flannels and a woven tie, say in a deep burgundy, works more casually with corduroys and a knobbly navy knit tie, and, if you are into this sort of thing, will always seem at peace with little more than denim and a pale shirt.  The magic, I think, is that herringbone is one of those unique self-patterns that appears in both suiting and more casual cloth, seeming at once sporting and restrained.  

Brown with plenty of black, tan , grey, and possibly navy, olive, lavender…  

    Of course the key to this jacket must be the cloth.  If we assume a four-season climate, eliminating summer as an outlier, I find 12-14 ounce comfortable.  Texture is important too; it ought to have some, otherwise risk looking too suit-like.  Last, and perhaps most importantly, I think it should be quite dark.  Mine, pictured on a dummy below, is made from 14 ounce cheviot tweed.  It has a mottled, almost donegal effect, achieved by alternating flecked brown chevrons with black ones.  I’ll sidestep the classic debate as to whether black and brown can coexist by pointing to the resulting loveliness of the cloth.  The overall cast may be brown, but the black introduces a moody richness--the very quality that permits the jacket to be worn from day into the evening.  That’s important if practicality is the aim.  

    Finally, a word on just that.  Many would suggest the very premise of practicality is unsexy.  The line of thought might be that expensive clothing should be far removed from the ordinary, made from extravagant materials and in daring designs.  Practicality--that is, the idea that something is useful beyond its beauty--introduces a pedestrian quality at odds with glamour.   By contrast, I am suggesting practicality as the height of glamour.  Is the man who must check his bags for a three-day trip glamorous?  Indecisive, perhaps.  To return to our fictitious hero for a moment: a mid gray suit, three shirts, two ties, a pair of brown casual shoes, dark denim jeans and his new practical herringbone, makes three distinct outfits and fits easily into a carry-on.  There is swagger in packing light, and authority in confidently deploying items from that well-edited collection.

The brown herringbone jacket in question, photographed at the basted fitting stage.  The dummy nicely displays the jacket's shape.  The other dummy wishes he had a proper camera with him.  

Taking a Soft Line

The ready-wear market is shackled to notions of what will or won't sell--notions informed by trend, but never too far from the safety of so-called season-less plain weaves and insipid tonal patterns.  One might encounter fuzzy cashmeres and gossamer tropical worsteds on the racks but finding anything with real guts is a trial.  This is a pity as the nicest cloths embrace the season, and in doing so create delightful effects.  Form, if you will, very much born of function.  

Flannels and twists demonstrate this nicely.  And perhaps there are few better examples than Harrison's Worsted and Woolen Flannels and Minnis' Fresco (II).  The Flannels have plenty of nap--a quality intended to insulate the wearer--but it's the resulting fuzziness of the patterns that is most charming.  The Frescos have a lovely mottled surface appearance too; this time, though, the high-twist yarn and plain weave (which wears cool) are the culprits.  Different objectives--similar happy results.  

Take a spin through the gallery--but don't be surprised if you have the urge to purge your wardrobe of all the wimpy "season-less" stuff.  

A Pressing Matter

A young Sean Connery demonstrating good form, fitness manual close at hand.  Credit: ipernity.com

    A friend of mine recently started wearing a Nike FuelBand, a $150-plus device that measures the wearer's caloric output among other kinetic metrics.  It bleeps furiously when he stands still, inadvertently dropping below some acronymical goal.  He is poor company during cocktail hour.  It made me think: how many products must come and go for us to collectively realize that we needn’t first purchase some gadget in order to improve or maintain fitness?  There are no doubt useful fitness tools for the advanced enthusiast, but they are not required, and more often than not, find a way of failing us.  Either literally failing because the thing has been cheaply manufactured, or on some metaphysical level where the object itself becomes a symbol of broken promises, and because the sight of it inspires guilt, is condemned to sit heavily at the back of a closet.

    Perhaps because I value my closets, I have loyally relied upon a simpler technology for the basic maintenance of fitness.  The measured advance and retreat of the floor has been my constant companion.  I speak, of course, of the push-up.  One might say it is a classic, but with that label comes the suggestion that it has retired from active service.  That is nonsense; militaries around the world still break new recruits with the humble pushup.  It is the push-up, not the bench-press, which is the great equalizer of men.  Show me a muscle-bound and swollen-bellied bodybuilder that can do more than a handful.  Strength, I have learned, is not correctly measured by girth or weight; the ability, or inability, to effectively move through three-dimensional space is a truer test. 

    But the pushup’s real merit is its long list of practical advantages.  Is there another rigorous exercise as portable?  Not really.  Or as impressive to young children (who almost always want to see if you can still do pushups while they sit on your back)?  No; children are never interested in yoga routines.  Perhaps the most practical aspect of the push-up, though, is that it is endlessly variable.  One can do them quickly, or slowly; smoothly or plyometrically; with two hands or one; on knuckles or fingertips; with a swoop, a hop or a clap.   I have been doing pushups all my life; I am certain I have discovered only a fraction of the rich variety.  

    One must start with the basics though.  Executed correctly, the push-up is a thrilling full-body movement, one-part Pilates and two-parts circus strongman.  Rigidity is important; honesty more so.  Your body must be stiff like a plank so as not to sap resistance.  Your mind too must stay taught, not permitting anything less than a full advance and retreat to count.  I’d rather see two honest pushups than a dozen head-bobs with sagging hips and static arms.  If the movement is not challenging, you are cheating.

This is how a standard pushup is done.  

1: Choose a level surface.  

2: Arrange yourself in a tripod made up of two arms, shoulder width apart, and both feet, together.  Your chest should be approximately parallel to the floor.   

3:  Tighten your stomach, back and chest so your body is stiff and still.  

4:  Articulating first your elbows, then your shoulders, lower your chest to the ground until it barely touches.  Remain stiff.

5:  Do the reverse of step 4, this time using your pectorals, deltoids and triceps to push yourself back to the starting position (step 2), again remaining stiff.  

6:  Repeat (for a lifetime). 

The Trouser Revelations

Even cling-prone flannel drapes well in this cut.

“I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock  - T.S. Elliot

A condensed overview of my personal history with trousers would look like this:  shorts in adolescence followed by khakis and flannels worn throughout elementary and prep school.  The first major change came in college, when low-rise, sagging jeans were not just acceptable, but expected.  Up to this point I had not given too much thought to my figure, particularly as it related to pants.  But once wrapped in course denim that had been riveted into an unlikely form I realized something: my legs were shortish and rather muscled, and my torso long.  This configuration did not pair well with low-rise hip-huggers.  I realized something else, too: stiff, low-rise pants were terribly uncomfortable.   

It mustn’t have been too much of a crisis as I went on wearing this type of pant right out of college and into my early working life.  One day though, and really I can’t say what spurred it, I must have decided I no longer wished to compromise my lower half, and so I looked into proper trousers.  As successful shifts in custom do, this happened incrementally, first adopting slightly higher rise khakis that had fuller thighs, followed by flannels with more of both.  At some stage pleats and cuffs appeared. 

I now have a tailor who understands trousers on a profound level.  My pattern calls for a cut that sits around the waist.  And by waist, I am referring to that indentation that occurs above the hips, somewhere in the vicinity of the navel.  The fabric drapes from that point over my hips and thighs, beginning a careful but definite taper from just above the knee to the ankle, were can be found a whisper of break.  Single pleat; good crease; modest cuffs.  They are thoroughly masculine, lengthening my leg, balancing my torso and emphasizing a trim waistline.  They are also remarkably comfortable.

Now ordinarily this would be a rather dull personal development, but for one very real fact: high-rise, fuller-cut trousers are anathema to men’s fashion, and have been for almost two decades.  Oh, I imagine there have been avant-guarde experiments with fuller trousers at the loftiest fashion houses, but at the consumer level the message couldn’t be clearer: trim, low-rise trousers are what men wear.  This is so ingrained today that discussion of things like pleats and cuffs and navels leave my fashionable friends in disbelief.  I literally must appear before them in my trousers as proof that such a garment may effectively be worn by someone under fifty. 

And so we arrive at the question of age and trouser proportions, and by extension, poor Mr. Prufrock.  If there is one article of clothing most associated with becoming a man it would be the trouser.  Schoolboys once wore shorts, and it was a mark of adulthood to adopt long pants.  But these days the reverse seems more desirable.  Many men hold tightly to fashionably trim and low-rise pants as a way of suggesting youth is still within reach.  And while the look may work for some time, particularly if we remain fit, eventually all men are better served by trousers with an elongated and more elegant line.  Do we associate the latter with maturity?  We certainly do.  And what is the matter with maturity?

Elliot continues the earlier image of Prufrock rolling his trouser bottoms thusly: “I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.”  While he might have meant the line as a sign of resignation, I like to imagine there is also a suggestion of pride that comes with forfeiting the anxieties of youth in favor of comfort and personality.  Which reminds me; I must ask my tailor if he can source just such a lightweight, cream flannel—perfect for contemplative walks on the beach.

Darwin agrees: a higher rise supported with side straps represents an evolution in trousers.

Tweed Teaser

I find it helpful to look at cloth swatches during the appropriate season.  It's certainly too late to have anything made up for immediate wear, but what looks smashing in July might be frightening in the stark winter light.  The same holds true of viewing lightweight cloths during the height of summer.  Here is an abbreviated gallery of Porter & Harding's refined Glenroyal book (14 Oz.) and John G. Hardy's brutish Alsport ((16-22 Oz).  

A Jarring Realization

Undaunted by reduced numbers, my jars reclaim their ancestral shelf space.  

    Something like sixty empty jam jars once buckled a shelf in my kitchen.  My then girlfriend (who agreed to marry me a few years later) thought it was weird; in fact before she would take our courtship any further she insisted I reduce my holdings considerably.  I obliged, filling my shelves with designer tumblers and, eventually, the cut-glass tokens that uselessly accompany matrimony.  For several years I longed for my stout jam jars; if not sixty, then a scant dozen to remind me that a bohemian streak glimmered still beneath the forced conformity that hobbles so many young couples. 

    Why jam jars?  A Swiss father and English mother from an early age inculcated the appreciation of warm toast, butter and jam, a pleasure I practice to this day most mornings.  With the jam, of course, comes a jar and a lid, and, when finished, the pressing question of whether to toss both or clean them for reuse.  In leaner collegiate times, one could justify the regular purchase of pricey European preserves by making a firm commitment to retain the empties.  A collection of half a dozen precluded further glassware; an expanded collection eliminated the need for tupperware.  Assuming collegiates still use things like pens, toothbrushes and razors, the jam jar is handy.  I understand they keep loose cigarettes fresh, and I had a girlfriend once who kept all her makeup in a few.  

    I must have consumed jam at a faster rate than my friends smashed or stole my jars, for I found one day in my early working life I had amassed several dozen.  For one reason or another, my apartment became a sort of regular meeting place for friends and colleagues, and my jars rose to modest notoriety.  I occasionally speak to old acquaintances from those carefree times who recall, if not much else, my jam jars.  

    I should pause here to specifically address the jam jar’s place as a drinking vessel.  Moonshiners once favored the preserving-type jar for packaging their liquor, and similar molded glass cups and mugs have served in busy bistros and beer halls across Europe since the widespread manufacturing of the stuff began two centuries ago.  Today’s jam jar is an ideal tumbler: strong, correctly sized, and unprecious.  The lid is handy should you have to dash suddenly but wish to retain your drink, say at a house party which disturbs the peace.  In more civilized surroundings the lid becomes a coaster, protecting grateful sideboards and mantels.  And then there are the ineffable qualities to consider.  A jam jar seems to cheer up poor wine; very good wine drunk from a jam jar will feel illicit--as if you’ve stolen the bottle from an oppressive employer.  

    Other uses.  If you have any inclination toward pickling things you will quickly discover large mason-type jars are too big.  (Who really is going to use a pint of pickled okra)?  The small jam jar is different; its manageable size will encourage experiments with the dregs of your vegetable drawer.  Pickled kohlrabi, for instance, is delightful with cold beef, and I credit the jam jar for the discovery.

    If you enjoy pottering around the house, try this: firmly glue several lids to the bottom of a shelf.  Once affixed, the jars can be screwed into the lids creating transparent and convenient storage for nuts, bolts, clips, tacks and twine.  Actually, if you are the crafty sort, you doubtless have other ideas with which to fill the comments section below.  

    Strangely enough, following a dreary eight year dearth, jam jars once more dominate our shelves.  Stranger still is the culprit for the reinvigorated collection: a baby.  In a sweet I told you so moment the other day, I glanced over my shoulder to see my wife with two jars.  One contained left-over soup, which she uncapped and popped in the microwave for our daughter’s lunch.  The other she gave to our daughter who methodically filled it with odd bits of her sidewalk chalk.  I couldn’t mask a smile.  Perhaps these uses aren’t in the same romantic spirit as those cocktail parties of years past, but it makes me immeasurably happy to think a tradition might have been created.

House Party Dash:

Throw several ice cubes (or a handful of crushed ice) into a jam jar along with two ounces of whiskey, an ounce of lemon juice and a sugar cube.  Put the lid on and shake vigorously until the sugar has mostly disappeared.  Top with a splash of soda.  And keep the lid handy for Pete’s sake. 

Bread and Butter Kohlrabi Chips:

Thinly slice some kohlrabi and put it in a sterilized jam jar.  Heat up two cups of apple-cider vinegar in a small saucepan with ten whole peppercorns, a teaspoon of mustard seeds, two bay leaves and a a tablespoon each of salt and sugar.  Pour the mixture into the jar and seal with the lid.  Put in the refrigerator.  You’ll notice the jar will vacuum-seal itself as it cools.

Pickled things, plus several ounces of rendered bacon fat.

Cloth Between Brothers

The navy suit in question, made of Lesser 13 ounce hopsack. 

Several years ago, in the intimate ballroom of Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel, I stood and delivered a best’s man’s speech to the guests of my older brother’s wedding reception.  It was a mixed crowd; a younger set expected the groom to be well roasted; the aristocratic forehead of the Bride’s father, prominent and frightening even from a distance, reminded me, however, that his friends filled a majority of the seats and they expected banal brevity lest the consommé cool.

 I found my solution in my inbox.  For the better part of the previous year my brother and I had exchanged dozens of emails concerning the commissioning of a dinner jacket for the occasion. This had not been an ordinary exchange.  My brother is rather particular, and as even a casual reader here may gather, I too have my opinions.  Among other preferences, my brother does not tolerate any cloth that even remotely itches.  He wishes to be swathed in gossamer, and though I do not understand the compulsion, and tried mightily to sway him toward stouter stuff, it was his wedding, not mine.  

 And so what developed was a semi-technical exchange concerning microns and mohair, barathea and grosgrain, peaks and shawls--the sort of discussion to which anybody who doesn’t count themselves as a clothing enthusiast might raise an eyebrow.  My brother’s illustrative written style made my job easy when it came time to deliver the speech; why tell jokes when direct quotations, delivered in a controlled deadpan, prove far funnier?  

 At the heart of this light-hearted moment though is a debate about cloth.  The opposing camps could not be clearer: the majority seeks the finest, lightest and most ethereal cloths, whatever the cost, whereas a small but vocal minority rejects the modern efforts in favor of heavier, drier and more durable suit-stuff.  In many ways, it is the familiar “new” versus “old” debate in which one side (from behind German, rimless glasses) suggests technological innovation and the other (briar clenched between teeth) bloviates about longevity and tradition.  In short, I love my brother but he has despicable taste in cloth.  I imagine he would say the same of me.

I suppose wool itself must shoulder some of the blame.  It really is too versatile for it’s own good.  Italian firms in particular can make worsted suiting of such fineness one might easily confuse it for sheer linen.  Conversely, I have held 18 ounce semi-milled worsteds that might prove useful should one suddenly need to refinish a wooden skiff.  Confusing things is price.  Fine super cloths can be very expensive; the ready-wear market pushes suits in these cloths as luxury items and charges accordingly.  Of course a suit made of quality heavy British worsted is also an expensive item, albeit not one adopted by the ready-wear market.  There is another layer of complexity too: proponents on either side have launched propaganda campaigns.   One side suggests anything heavier than eight ounces is obsolete since the advent of central heating; the other responds with tales of split trousers and sleeves being ripped clean off by a determined enough breeze.  

The first suit Chris Despos made for me began life as a navy blazer.  I had wanted something sturdy for travel and weekly wear and had considered cloths from twists to serges.  I settled eventually upon a 13 ounce hopsack from Lesser’s 303 book.  The swatch seemed magical, rebounding from however I crumpled it in my hand and had a deceptive sort of weight at once greater and less than what the book’s cover indicated.  I’m not  sure we made it to a second fitting before we decided to add trousers.

 I realize opinion on a 13 ounce, densely woven hopsack suit might be divided.  It would positively send my brother to the funny farm.  But I must admit an obsession with the garment.  The depth of color is remarkable, managing to be unmistakably navy and not black or blue, a fate many a “navy” suit suffers.  The subtle weave is dead-matte in daylight, with enough surface interest to seem at home with madder, knit or woolen neckties.  It transforms at night, though, when that surface awakens with lustrous depth and richness enough to set off the sheen of foulard and satin.  Most importantly though it feels to me like a suit of clothes rather than a set of pajamas, a quality that should not be dismissed considering this suit has become my favored choice for more serious affairs where one might appreciate not feeling so exposed.  

Speaking of pajamas, a few months after his own wedding my brother was invited to an old friend's own nuptials, another Brit living in New York.  He was looking forward to the event until he learned the bride wished the groomsmen to wear morning suits.  My brother has lived in the States too long to necessitate morning clothes and so was compelled, along with five other saddened individuals, to rent.  On the day, the itch from the burlap-like cloth became so severe he felt he had no choice but to stop at a mid-town discount mall and purchase flannel pajamas which, despite a high in the mid-80s, he wore beneath for the duration.  

 Oh how I wish I had that gem the night of my speech.

Texture and depth: just two of the benefits of heavier cloth.