Special Sauce

The resulting emulsion should be a pale yellow, and have some body, not unlike eggs that have been whipped with some cream.  

    Of the impressive savory pies and luxurious roasts, the sumptuous brunch spreads and late-night feasts, a single culinary element consistently emerges as the most appreciated by friends and family: the humble vinaigrette.  I won over my mother-in-law in what must be record time with a vinaigrette.  She uses it still.  A text message common on my phone: …hey wats that dressing u do w/mustard and stuff?? thx.  This might harmlessly come from a friend or associate; unhappily, a similar text has also disturbed the night authored by a pre-marital girlfriend.  One wonders: what sort of allure does vinaigrette possess that would compel someone to violate a strict cultural code?

    My mother put a salad on the table every night alongside whatever main dish she served.  Over time I adjusted her vinaigrette, stripping the recipe down to its essentials.  It is emulsified, but not a fussy, unstable thing.  Rather the various elements come together easily as if under their own will.  Perhaps they do; mustard, a key component, has a magical property that encourages emulsification.  Some people like to whisk the ingredients together in the bottom of the salad bowl.  This is fine, but I much prefer to prepare vinaigrette in a jam jar.  Add the ingredients, tightly close the lid, shake vigorously.  Any leftover vinaigrette will keep in the jar for two days.  

    Actually, leftover vinaigrette is a good sign; it means you have been judicious in administering it.  Few things ruin a salad like overdressing.  As is often the case, the simpler the food, the more important the technique.  Here’s how I do it: in a large stainless bowl add your salad greens, vegetables or other ingredients; drizzle over prepared vinaigrette (keeping in mind you cannot subtract once added); using tongs or a clean hand gently fold the salad over on itself until all components are lightly coated in vinaigrette; plate.  

    A word on substitution.  Even the best pantries occasionally run dry of common ingredients.  Whereas I might discourage wanton experimentation, substitution is usually fine, and often necessary.  Swapping certain ingredients might change the lovely balance of your vinaigrette so learning how to accommodate is crucial.  Olive oil has the best flavor, but neutral oils like canola might be preferred if delicacy is the aim.  Nut oils are potent and should be added in drops.  Vinegars can be more difficult.  White wine vinegar has the yeasty, fruity acid best suited for vinaigrette, but others can work.  Apple Cider vinegar is delicious and doesn’t upset the harmony, but balsamic is much sweeter and can produce a cloying result unless you reduce the sugar.   Honey can be used in place of sugar, but it will produce a thicker vinaigrette (it too is a magical emulsifier).  

    I always feel something is missing from a meal that doesn’t open with salad.  I think it’s the vinaigrette, which functions as a sort of edible aperitif, bracing the palate with acid and sweetness and some savory backbone.  But the consistency has something to do with it too.  A good vinaigrette coats the salad, but also your mouth, persisting to the next course.  Getting that consistency right is critical.  Water seems a throwaway ingredient in the recipe below; it’s perhaps the most important, fine-tuning that toothsome, lingering state.  When done correctly, a good vinaigrette is hard to forget.  I assume no responsibility, though, if an ex stalks you for the recipe.

Vinaigrette:

Dijon Mustard: 1 Tbsp

Cold Water: 1 Tbsp

White Wine Vinegar: 2 Tbsp

Olive Oil: 6-8 Tbsp

Grated Shallot: 1/2 tsp.

Sugar: 1/2 tsp.

Pinch of salt, pepper

Lightly dressed baby arugula (rocket) is difficult to top as a first course or side dish.  

Surefooted

It's the rope, dope: twenty minutes with one of these each day will lead to trim calves, a strong heart, able feet and, ultimately, grace in motion.   Not a bad deal.  

    My middle school wrestling team was a motley collection of budding athletes and what might, if I’m being generous, be termed filler.   The coaching staff was superb though, making proper competitors out of many of us.  Strangely, it is the assistant coach I recall best.  He was a compact man—perhaps 5’5” and, though judging these things can be difficult, I imagine he weighed no more than 130 pounds.  He had angular features, which suited the way he moved: silently and often before you realized he had.  He was preternaturally quick, a quality valued more than strength in most combat sports, and could make mincemeat of men twice his size.  

    The memory of this person has remained all these years because he inspired me to take up skipping rope.  He was a master, the rope a whirring forcefield, his feet moving in strange and beautiful rhythm.  He seemed to levitate within, barely out of breath.  I wanted to be a good wrestler; I wanted much more to skip rope with similar grace. 

    Form is crucial.  You must skip with good posture—shoulders back, spine straight, belly drawn taught.  The temptation is to look at the floor; resist in favor of a point on the horizon.  This will ensure your neck remains unbent and will aid in balance.  Minimize arm movement, turning the rope with your wrists rather than flailing arms.  This too will help your balance.  Don’t focus on jumping over the rope.  Like shooting clay pigeons, you must visualize where your target will be rather than where it is.  Imagine you are trying to strike the space between your feet and the floor with the rope.  A rhythm, however slowly, will develop.  

    Once one does, and you feel you can skip without a tangle for several minutes at a time, increase the speed of the rope. You may also consider footwork at this point.  Begin with shifting your weight from one foot to the other until you can jog in place alternating the jumping foot.  Next try tapping the toes of your non-jumping foot between jumps, then add heel taps.  Impressive patterns will emerge; so too will sculpted calves.  

    The list of practical advantages to skipping rope is long.  If you have difficult joints or a problematic back skipping rope is a savior, providing rigorous cardiovascular exercise at a fraction of all the pounding that accompanies running.  There is the low-tech aspect to consider too.  I am not a fitness gadget person, preferring the classic and elemental.  I use a leather rope that I’ve had for years because of its weight and speed, but virtually any cording will work—from plastic-coated electrical wire to hemp mooring rope.  If you wish to avoid the nasty welts from the former and the calluses from the latter, a quality jumprope travels easily enough.  I have skipped rope in plenty of hotel rooms; it’s particularly satisfying to channel Ali by wearing one of the terry-cloth robes provided.

    I like to do intervals of five minutes or so punctuated by sets of pushups and sit-ups.  Besides the cardiovascular benefits, learning to skip well seems to improve relations between your feet and your brain.  I don’t know if I have achieved even half of my old coach’s ability with the rope.  The discipline clicked for me, though, when I realized his confident footwork wasn’t what made his skipping so good; rather, the considerable time he spent spinning that rope is what gave him his grace.

Splitsville

Mated for life: this conservative mid-gray sharkskin suit would never work as separates.  Well, the trousers might stray.  

    If what to do with black loafers is at the top of the list of contentious menswear issues, a few rungs below is surely the hot debate surrounding when, if ever, the splitting of a suit is appropriate.  And as spring suggests itself as more than a vague concept, the debate is hotting up.

    The premise—that the issue is binary—is the problem.  I like instead to imagine a casual/formal spectrum, for which all matters of cloth, color, texture, details and historical precedent are accounted.  The further to the left the suit in question falls, the more successful the divorce; the further to the right, the better most do paired for the duration.  

    For instance, a donegal tweed suit featuring a coat with patch pockets and mottled horn buttons will stray from its trousers without a second thought.  The trousers, too, are easily worn odd.  By contrast, a dark blue worsted suit with jetted pockets and navy buttons flounders if split, the jacket (because of its details) not quite a blazer, the trousers (because of the sobriety of the cloth) rather limited.  

    Life would be simple if all suits so easily revealed their character.  But because several factors dictate formality most aren’t as obviously categorized as the above two examples.  A dark gray worsted suit with flap pockets and black buttons remains bound to its trousers—a forsaken, non-garment without them, like a single sock.  But I’m afraid the trousers aren’t quite as true, readily making themselves available to any number of outfits, from sweaters to navy blazers.  That’s just the inherent personality of gray trousers.  One-sided love is always this cruel. 

    And then there are suits where one suspects either party could stray, although it remains unclear how enthusiastically.  The Glorious Twelfth book I highlighted several days ago is packed with cloths with wandering, albeit, unsure, tendencies.  They are worsted cloths (more formal) made to look like tweeds (casual).  Some have more surface interest (casual); some are almost solid (formal); others are boldly patterned (casual).  With these types of cloths split-ability really boils down to styling, and the customer must be clear in his intentions from the outset, or risk being burdened by a suit that is neither here nor there.   

    Some clothes enthusiasts commission navy suits with gadgets like swappable buttons in brass and horn with the hopes that this may mollify any marital disharmony between top and bottom when worn apart.  The idea may seem appealing, but I question whether  all the fiddling that must go on behind the scenes doesn’t deflate any prospect of real progress.  

    My laxest suit is a three-piece in a lovely glen plaid flannel, purpose-built for maximum adaptability.  My tailor, Chris Despos, and I discussed the configuration and the cloth extensively, before settling upon a fairly obvious formula.  I kept the details straightforward—no sport-inspired patch pockets or swelled edges—relying entirely upon the cloth’s fuzzy nap and bold pattern to permit the components their individual freedom.  The trousers work very well on their own beneath cashmere sweaters, or even as an alternative to plain flannels with a blazer.  The vest too looks good worn odd, especially around the holidays.  The jacket, with its usual suit configuration, is the most difficult separate, although it does compliment darker gray flannels.  But if scandal is the goal—if I want little old ladies to faint in the street and strict traditionalists to waggle their canes in my direction—I wear it with a good pair of dark denim jeans.

Menage-a-trois: this glen-plaid three piece flannel is as likely to spend the night apart as together.  

The Constant Scavenger

Who are you calling trivial?  This sandstone fragment now conveniently displays matches.  Pity people no longer smoke.

    I have a weakness for found objects.  I am unpleasant walking company, pausing every few blocks to hover silently over some unusual stone or scrap of metal.  My wife has more than once walked ahead while I have stood contemplating logistics.  Abandoned sections of drainage pipes have tempted me (they make excellent planters) and I have watched sadly as ornamental terra cotta has been unceremoniously trucked away like ordinary debris.

    My tastes in junk are influenced by my environment—a large city.  In college this meant street signs which had “fallen.”  These are long gone, replaced by more subtle objects.  I am drawn to those that, with imagination or fiddling, can serve some trivial purpose in the home.  When  a historical brownstone on my block was renovated last summer, the sidewalk suddenly became fertile ground.  I was tempted by a copper gutter bracket, beautifully green with oxidization, but settled instead for a cylindrical piece of red sandstone that had once held an iron balustrade.  With some scrubbing and a felt base our coffee table now has a handsome (and largely unused) match holder.  

    If one lives by the sea, acquiring driftwood seems inevitable.  The best examples are uniformly taupe, cured by salt and sand, with an almost sueded surface.  I had an eye as a boy for finding the good stuff, and to this day I cannot go to the beach without scanning the high tide mark.   Though I don’t know what I would do if I found a keeper; when driftwood leaves the shore it loses its allure.  A collection of grey wood washed over in hard city light is always sad, no matter how artfully arranged on a mantel.

    That’s not to say interesting wood is unavailable in urbis. It’s worth taking a walk after a storm in search of felled trees.  If it hasn’t blocked a road, a crew will generally appear a day or so later, and I find if asked politely, the fellow with the chainsaw will usually oblige.  Large cross sections of trunk or thick branch make ideal occasional stools.  Another good time to hunt is following Christmas.  I have several Douglas fur trunks curing on my balcony; whether they will be made into uncomfortable furniture or resinous hiking staffs has not yet been decided.  

Oh, the irony!  At 75¢/pound these solid aluminum parts were likely the most valuable components of the outdated processors from which they were salvaged.

    And then there is the dumpster.  I must admit, it takes a certain confidence to go through the garbage in your own neighborhood, however worthwhile the fruits.  I once rescued a pristine fox fur coat.  Not to wear, or sell, or do anything with really; I just couldn’t bear the thought of it in a landfill.  I have a far more pedestrian find though.  A business tenant in our building dumped several old computers one day, many shattering upon impact.  Like a cracked quartz geode, one of the splintered processing towers revealed a number of cooling elements that had been milled into intricate shapes from solid aluminum.  I plucked them out, and after several days of deliberation, decided they should be epoxied together to make a modernist paperweight.

    My most cherished of these objects is an oblong stone I found as a boy deep in a Welsh forest.  I had spent that summer visiting my cousins in Flintshire which meant most of the month took place exploring the old woods near their home.  On the second to last day we spotted something of an unnatural line in the shallows of a fast moving brook.  We fished it out and brought it home.  That night and most of the following day was spent in conjecture about what it could be; my memory might be influenced by the youthful enthusiasm of the moment, but I seem to recall parents, uncles and sage locals offering opinions ranging from depleted uranium to a Medieval lintel.  In a solemn moment before I left, my cousin decided I should return to the US with the thing.  To this day the object occupies our home as we see fit, from window ledges to sideboards, and I’m thrilled to report still moves friends and family to heated debate. 

The search for an answer weighs heavily upon all who encounter the Welsh Mystery Object.

Second Skin

Hi there: gloves at the ready.

    The second half of February might seem a tad late to begin a discussion on gloves—sort of like writing about linen when the leaves have already turned.  I wonder though: are gloves really only for the depths of winter?  Between walking dogs, commuting and exploring the city, I spend plenty of time outside and my few pairs of unlined leather gloves are indispensable late autumn through the chilly opening of spring.  

    I don’t understand lined gloves though.  A thin cashmere lining hardly protects fingers from proper cold, and yet changes entirely the chemistry of glove wearing. Wallets are inoperable with lined gloves.  Worse, they don’t fit rakishly into the breast pocket of overcoats and tweed odd jackets.  Some might suggest silk lining, but the slight increase in insulation is hardly worth the extra cost and reduction in dexterity.  When it is really cold, I’m afraid the only response is the mitten—hardly dashing, but very effective, particularly if made of densely piled shearling.

    Unlined gloves have other advantages, both practical and stylish.  Remarkably, most unlined gloves seem to work with touch-screens.  There’s likely science behind this; all I know is a well-cut unlined glove looks much better than those nylon things with mesh fingertips.  You will also be able to access your pockets with a hand closely gloved in leather where a bulky lined glove would clumsily  have been removed in the past.  This is where style comes in.  Just as a good shoe closely follows the line of the foot, making it appear slim and elegant, so too does a well-cut unlined glove compliment the hand.  This is especially true of finer-grained leathers, like capeskin (sheep), that have a little gloss to the surface.

    Speaking of materials, I strongly suggest seeking out unusual skins.  Peccary—the hide of a smallish wild pig—is very handsome with its recognizable follicle pattern.  The leather is supple but almost indestructible; not refined, but ideal for casual gloves.  Deerskin is curiously strong too; it is light in weight compared to other leathers and some say warmer.  Real kidskin is very luxurious but rather expensive.  Suede is another favorite, especially in charcoal and dark green. Chamois is good too, although you will have to field questions about why your gloves are pale yellow.  (The best answer: because my glove maker was out of pale pink.)

    Finally, there are all sorts of arcane rules about the formality of the various leathers and shades outlined above.  I have no real opinion here, although obviously darker gloves tend to be better at night and lighter ones during the day.  Cream or parchment-light versions seem like a good idea, but always look like costume pieces.  On the other side of the spectrum, black gloves are about as exciting as rubber overshoes.  Reddish browns, tans, grays and greens seem to look good with all sorts of things without matching any of them—which is ideal for an accessory.  In fact when spring finally does appear, and your unlined gloves have become like a second skin, you’ll wonder what to do with your suddenly rather naked hands. 

Three of a kind: from left, peccary and crochet, hand-stitched deerskin, chamois.

Laced with Loyalty

The gold standard: Wallabees.  

    Oxfords are indispensable, and what would warm weather be without the loafer?  I’m also particularly fond of those transitional shoes that straddle echelons of formality becoming at once more versatile while remaining slightly off—like monk-straps.  Heavily soled derbies, a variety of brogues, pebble-grain boots, suede chukkas and quilted house shoes all find use in my rotation too.  But there is one shoe that goes uncelebrated: the knockabout shoe.  Sundays are for knockabout shoes.

    A knockabout shoe must be comfortable and efficiently put on and removed.  But the list of qualifying characteristics ends there; what defines this category of footwear is more about what a knockabout shoe isn’t.  Jodhpur boots in suede can balance beauty and  casual ruggedness; they are no more knockabouts as are patent pumps with little silk bows.  Similarly, a knockabout shoe is not just a retired good shoe; any trace of luxury or elegance would betray a noble birth.  The charge of a knockabout shoe is far more challenging: it must be both disposable and precious, deriving the latter from the former.  A knockabout shoe is purpose-built for its thankless station.

    The boat shoe is probably the most common example.  White, non-marking rubber soles suggest sport; the oily leather uppers seem at home beneath cotton trousers.  Socklessness is required.  They are equally invisible and familiar—a difficult compromise.  Boat shoes are not ideal though.  Winter is a challenge.  And the nautical—and by extension, yacht-club—pedigree have dislodged boat shoes from knockabout status as of late, placing them somewhere on the fashion spectrum.  

    White- and dirty bucks are very good candidates.  Versatile, relatively shapeless, certainly not serious, the buck could once be found stamping around campuses and cities as reliably as the athletic shoe is today.  They suffer similar afflictions as the boat shoe (seasonal, fashionable) although perhaps to a lesser extent.  Sadly, bucks struggle beneath an additional problem these days: retailers have conflated them with real dress shoes, charging accordingly, some even several hundred dollars a pair.  This is grounds for immediate disqualification as a knockabout.

    A canvass version of a buck in some neutral color, as can be seen in vintage ads floating around the internet, would be ideal.  Of course these are impossible to find.  I instead resort to the canvass plimsole for summer.  In blue or cream these are surprisingly versatile, looking less athletics and more aperitifs than one might think.  They also launder well on a regular cycle.  The trick is to find very plain versions, with little more to them than reinforced seams and vulcanized rubber parts.  

    My other knockabout shoe is my favorite: The Wallabee.  I’ve had mine since college, making them some of the oldest shoes in my closet.  If wear to the thick crepe sole is any indication, they have forty years to go.  I do not know what voodoo holds them together; they just stubbornly endure.  But the Wallabee's most important feature is that they are indisputably ugly.  They suggest only gardening, or cleaning the attic, and if worn in public couldn’t possibly be confused for an attempt at good looks.  They send a single, consistent message: I am engaged in some task that would endanger my better shoes.  And this is precisely why the knockabout shoe is vital—they are the vanguard, preventing premature wear or damage to the rest of the collection.  And they do so without the prospect of being taken to the Opera.  Now that is loyalty.

A rare gathering of seasonal knockabouts.  From left: suede loafers, duck boots, plimsoles, crepe-soled brogues.  

When Only More Will Do

Heart of Darkness: the highest cacao percentage chocolate is said to be good for the ticker.

I have to remind myself now and again not to be dismissive of dessert.  An aged cheddar, perhaps a digestive biscuit and, if there isn’t an early morning engagement, a small espresso always do for me rather than something elaborate and sweet.  For those people for whom dessert is deeply important my efforts fall dramatically short; when we entertain at home I always put someone more passionate in command of the final course.

    And yet I am surrounded by dessert lovers: my brother and his lovely family; my closest friends from school; most importantly, my wife.  While I am still on speed dial in matters of, say, butchery, they have long abandoned me regarding dessert.  I do have one trick though: high-grade, unadorned chocolate, the darker the better, and sold in commercial portions. I don’t know of an end to a meal that produces a better effect than placing, unannounced, in the center of the table a kilo or two of chocolate.  Guests gasp.  An obscene mound of the stuff, casually arranged, is unfailingly a thrilling sight—illicit even, not unlike glimpsing for the first time a large quantity of bundled cash.

    One of the problems with this stunt, however, is that those who have witnessed it often mistake your taste for the dramatic for some broader appreciation of chocolate treats.  I have more than once had to feign enthusiasm over an unusual box of truffles, some even featuring things like bacon or hot chillies.  Of course the intentions are sincere and the gesture appreciated—and there is undoubtedly an audience for these confections—but the unwavering point remains: the less meddling, the better. 

    My hard line extends to service: nothing more elaborate than a clean cutting board with a sheet of wax paper reinforces the drama of the moment.  Those quiet slabs are, after all, awaiting a solemn operation.  To reduce to manageable pieces, choose your sturdiest knife and issue a general warning to keep fingers clear of the board.  Select a corner of one slab; grasp the handle of the knife with your dominant hand, placing the tip of the blade on the board in front of your target.  Securing the tip with your other hand, and using firm continuous pressure, guillotine the chocolate.  An ordinary blade will produce chips and shavings; a serrated knife will crack off hunks.  Make certain not to commingle the different types of chocolate.

    If you have not yet done anything more personal for your Valentine, resist the ease of the boxed stuff this year.  No matter how attractively packaged, truffles and bonbons cannot compete with the drama sketched out above.  I am personally drawn to the darkest and bitterest specimens—those with the highest cacao percentages indicated on the labels—but slabs of milk chocolate and even white chocolate are available and have followings.  This is one instance in which more—in both volume and variety—is unquestionably better.

Ta-da: the extent of my dessert ability.

Light of Heart

    Porter & Harding's "Glorious Twelfth" is a book of 11 ounce worsted cloth made to suggest tweed.  I say suggest because non-woolen cloth at that weight will only ever be an imitation of the real ambling-through-the-gorse stuff.  The patterns and colors, however, are largely those of the country.  For some purists this is an uncomfortable compromise; Glorious Twelfth is neither fish-nor-fowl--and would certainly be helpless if confronted by either.

    The other way to view this collection: as ordinary worsted suiting with an array of unusual patterns and colors.  The trick here is to discern and ignore those with obvious country-lineage (the checks-on-light-grounds, for instance) focusing instead on the muted twills with tonal overchecks.  These would work for those occasions where navy and charcoal are too stiff, but a suit still feels right (school and informal religious functions come to mind).  

    If hearts are set on sport coats, the handful of busy little gun clubs seem to be a best bet.  I would think styling important here; skip-buttoning sleeves and patch pockets might emphasize the sporty nature of the cloth, but throat latches and belted backs might betray its light-weight, worsted heart.

The Remains Unite (Part II)

    Mondays are ideal for discussing the mechanics of leftovers.  Presumably the weekend has produced some food and, unless you wish to be like my former teammate from Part I, now is the time to consider what to do with it.  

X marks the spot.  NB:  You should not grind and ingest leftover bones; they are to be used to flavor  that which has been pulverized.

    Of course dictating specific dishes is only so helpful; a suggestion of fricasseed cod won’t go very far if cod wasn’t on the previous night’s menu.  What really needs to be established is a broad matrix consisting of categories of leftovers and methods for transforming those leftovers.  I’m rubbish with spreadsheets though, so I’ve jotted down a chart on the adjacent cocktail napkin.  Happily, leftovers fall rather neatly into four categories, as do techniques for their management.  

    The ideal leftover meat is a roast: seasoned, relatively lean, neutral.  Beef, pork, lamb—doesn’t matter.  The meat needs only be sliced from the bone (if present) or diced for use in several of the techniques to follow.  Braised and stewed meats are excellent leftovers too, but if the idea is to have a neutral meat for use in a leftover dish of a different direction than the original, some caution should be taken to first rinse away strongly-flavored cooking liquids.  Chicken meat should be pulled from the carcass; using forks makes this easy, although your hands are better if the intended application requires larger pieces.  Fish universally flakes.      

    Bones come next.  Pork and beef bones add excellent flavor to soups, stews and broths.  I have a friend who cleans and freezes all his leftover bones until sufficient for stock, although I’ve always found fresh bones preferable there.  A chicken carcass is a different matter.  I like to re-roast mine until golden before plunging, along with aromatics, into cold water for broth.  There is really no excuse for discarding a chicken carcass.  Lamb bones are rather gamey, and recycling fish bones is a step too far.  I understand either can add richness to a compost heap though.  

    Vegetables.  Sides seem simple but can be difficult to transform.  This is because thought has often gone into flavoring a vegetable side dish and reworking it can be either counterproductive or a shame.  I am very fond of classic blanched and buttered vegetable sides; whether this is because I am subconsciously envisioning transforming the leftovers I do not know.  The point is the more neutral your vegetable leftover, the more suited to reworking; the ultimate vegetable leftover are small boiled potatoes.  

    This leaves grains and starches (other than potatoes).  There really is only one thing to do with leftover pasta that has already been mixed with its sauce—which we’ll get to in a moment.  But unadorned noodles and plain boiled or pilaf rice are very versatile.  The one crucial step here is to add some oil or butter before storing or you will end up with something glutinous and bowl-shaped.  

    The most satisfying leftover technique must be the hash.  A small amount of leftover roast pork or chicken can be made to stretch into a filling meal if the preparer takes a few careful steps.  Chop the leftover meat into a medium to small dice and in a large pan fry until well-browned on all sides.  This step is as much about developing flavor in the pan as it is about transforming the leftover meat.  Follow with diced raw potatoes, mirepoix or other leftover vegetable, taking care to preserve the structural integrity of all that is added.  The result should be a savory jumble of browned meat and vegetable, not a mush.  Mind things don’t become greasy, and make sure to season generously with ground black pepper.  

    Unadorned leftover vegetables are ideal for soups and sauces of every description, from chowder to veloute, but pulverization is an exercise in control.  Carrots demonstrate this nicely.  A side dish of blanched and buttered rondelles can be added to broth with other vegetables for a rustic soup or permitted to simmer with potato until both begin to disintegrate for a chowder.  But when confronted with leftover carrots I find it difficult to do anything other than make a rich bisque: sauté carrots with a fine dice of onion, season with salt, white pepper and bay, adding broth along the way; liquify in a blender, adding heavy cream until smooth.  Lobster, quite unnecessary.

    The minimalist approach can be fun too—although the technique leaves little to be said.  Cold chicken?  Wheat toast and mayonnaise.  A few ounces of salmon?  Flake over salad with vinaigrette.  Cold roast beef?  Answer: Coleman’s English Mustard.

    And then there is binding, and by extension, a brief homage to the necessary egg.  If the creative juices are ever ebbing, simply fry an egg and put it on your leftovers.  No one will complain.  But to unlock the greater potential of the egg is to know its agglomerative ability.  Leftover rice, mashed potatoes, chopped or shredded vegetables—all these and others can be mixed with beaten eggs to form a batter: deep fry at will, putting your faith in the albumen.  Fritters are terrific, but something eggy and delicious lurks still.  If you regularly make pasta that isn’t drenched in sauce—say spaghetti studded with pork, spinach and onion, the best (and only) thing to do with the leftovers is this: add four or five beaten eggs, a little milk or cream to loosen and a generous grating of parmigiano reggiano.  Fry in butter, finishing in a hot oven.  Let cool; turn out onto a plate.  You can serve as-is, slice into wedges for starters, or cut smaller and insert toothpicks for hors d’oeuvres.  Whatever you choose, leftovers are unlikely.

What a tangle: pasta cake of spaghetti, spinach, pancetta and onion.

Heel Love

A good polish emphasizes the swooping shape of stilettos.

    I don’t know why, but women don’t regularly see to their shoes.  They might have a cherished pair cleaned when they are sent off for new tips or heel caps, but the women of my acquaintance don’t maintain a battered shoebox beneath their beds brimming with polish and old undershirts.  They don’t have regular engagements with their collections.  And they certainly don’t relish patina—something that would surely bloom just as readily on their pumps as it does on any loafer of mine.  

    The obvious reason might be that women acquire and dispose of shoes according to the swift current of fashion, and the idea of putting effort into maintaining any one pair’s appearance suggests a sort of unwelcome commitment.  Surely many women have calfskin heels in black and beige though, and I’ve seen suede often enough on the feet of fashionable women to know they too have a place in smart rotations.  Then there are exotic skins, pony hair, patent leathers, fabrics and fancy trimmings like sequins and crystals.  

    None of these clean themselves.  In fact it seems to me, the more elaborate the material constituting the shoe, the more prone to premature wear.  And what could be more melancholy than a sequined  evening number made unusable by three years of accumulated dust?  Well, enough already.  It saddens me to contemplate all the shelves out there sagging with neglected pumps and platforms, stilettos and wedges.  I regularly tend to my wife’s shoes, and I can attest to the brilliance that can be achieved with very little effort.  Less surface area, you see.  

    Below are some thoughts on dealing with women’s shoes.  Male readers might consider these suggestions closely with Valentine’s Day fast approaching.  These sorts of gestures seem to go over well.  The one caution I would offer (and this goes for shoes of both sexes) is to test all polishes and other products on an inconspicuous section of the shoe before proceeding further.  Once you are certain the color and finish will go unharmed have at it.  

Calfskin

Same as for men.  Start with conditioner, brush vigorously, apply polish sparingly.  Repeating this procedure with some diligence over time will bring out the marbleized patina so many shoe enthusiasts crave.

Suede

Same as for men.  Treat salt stains and water marks with a vinegar/water solution.  Permit slow, unassisted drying.  Brush against and then with the nap until desirable appearance.  

Patent

A very light coat of mineral oil seems to work best here.  Apply in circles, let sit and then brush vigorously to a blinding shine.  

Exotic skins

Shoes crafted from alligator, crocodile, snakeskin and any other unusual beast are too expensive to monkey around with ordinary products.  Find the most premium emollients specifically designed for your exotic and proceed with extra caution.  

Pony Hair

First, do not joke with your wife or girlfriend that her beloved “leopard” hide shoes are made from ponies.  Pony hair is usually the hair side of calf skin—like cow-hide rugs—and is actually more stable and durable than it seems.  The hair can get ruffled and dusty though; I find gentle brushing in the direction of the hair is all that’s necessary.   Do make sure the brush is polish-free though.

Textile

Shoes covered in textile—whether silk, tweed, or denim (yikes) can be cleaned gently with the same vinegar/water solution used for suede.  Another solution: shoes made from leather, as they should be.

Sequins, crystals and gems

You are limited here to gentle brushing with a polish-free shoe brush.  Anything more is weird.  If the shoes have actual gems (semi- or precious) take to a jeweler and reevaluate the decision tree that led to their acquisition.

Welcome to the jungle: proceed with caution when dealing with exotics.

Pants with Lineage (Part II)

Buckskins: Totally caj.  Credit: Augusta Auction Co.

    Part I finished with a promise to place jean-wearing within the context of a more classical wardrobe, but I hope the expectation wasn’t for a list of rules and regulations.  Rather, what follows is a proposal; based upon that premise, some gentle guidelines unfold. 

    Strict classical dressers, who deride jeans as vulgar and, unless mucking out a barn, inappropriate, might be at this very moment raising eyebrows at any suggestion that this everyman’s garment has a place next to their flannels and cords.  But let’s first consider the following analogy: Jeans are to the contemporary man what buckskin breeches or pantaloons were to the gentleman of the Regency era: casual, utilitarian, versatile, and crucially, widely acceptable.  I further propose Beau Brummel, that inventor and arbiter of masculine style, would, if larking about today, have embraced jeans.

    If the Regency ideal was a gentleman of some action and swagger—a man who swung into his saddle with grace, all the while looking down his nose at the overwrought foppery of his predecessors, he needed a pant that reflected his athleticism and candor.  Buckskins—buff-colored, sueded deerskin trousers—fit this image well.  Some action too is expected of today’s man; travel, sport, tending to the house, garden or kids—these things and more require a trouser of some flexibility.  And if one considers the expectation of a certain stylish ruggedness, jeans, like yesterday’s buckskins, emerge as a sensible choice.

    Jeans travel exceptionally well, both in the case and in the cabin.  In fact with all the crouching, kneeling and hoisting required of the traveler today, I shudder to think what state my favorite gaberdines would be in after even a brief flight. It’s not that denim is necessarily sturdier than wool cloth (indeed the opposite is likely true).  The fact, however, is that jeans, unlike other trousers, do not require pressing; they are not upset by wrinkles or folds or stressed seams or worn knees.  Jeans absorb these familiar enemies of tailored clothing, obscuring even the worst assaults in the very character of the cloth.   

    This is because denim is a twill—a sturdy, tightly woven diagonally ribbed textile—made of cotton yarn.  Anyone who has worn a new pair of raw denim jeans can attest to just how stiff the cloth can be.  Denim is indeed tough, but only so far as cotton is concerned.  Cotton breaks down quite readily and so while an inky and dense new pair of jeans might be capable of standing unassisted, it won’t be long before they have softened considerably.  Like good calfskin shoes, quality denim will patinate as it ages.  I recommend rotating three pairs, from the newest, darkest pair, to the oldest, faded pair.  This method assures one Goldilocks pair at all times: not too dark or stiff, but not too faded or ragged either.  

    Unlike twills in wool, though, denim does not drape well at all.  Instead it resists gravity in a sort of cardboard way—something to do with the stiffness to weight ratio.    This quality accounts for the travel versatility mentioned above, but it also limits the cut and styling.   In short, jeans should be relatively snug, and if they are snug, they are also lower rise.  This sportive cut mirrors their utility though; draped wool trousers look elegant, but they aren’t ideal for crouching in the garden.  Attempts at denim trousers have always seemed disingenuous to my eyes, as if the cut itself betrays the cloth (or visa versa).  And just as low-rise thigh-hugging tailored pants of wool have no place in the classical wardrobe, neither do full-cut jeans.  I’m not recommending drain-pipe tightness—just those that conform to the hips and taper with the leg.  Sadly, there is no formula for getting the snugness factor correct, and I would be fibbing if I suggested anything but trial and error results in success.  The fact is you want jeans that start life quite stiff and snug; they will soften and loosen over time, reaching the parabolic apex of perfection before descending into the donation bin. 

    Lastly, jeans are undeniably versatile.  What other pant feels purpose-built for those varied and informal days that might include farmer’s markets, brisk dog-walks, lunch with wives or girlfriends and the odd house chore?  With the smart addition or subtraction of things like suede loafers or crepe-soled chukka boots, button-down-collar shirts, merino sweaters, navy blazers and tweed odd coats jeans remain appropriate.  

    In this sense, jeans don’t just supplant Regency-era buckskins but emulate their style:  utilitarian, close-fitting, versatile and in possession of some swagger.  But jeans, like buckskins, aren’t without their limitations.  Brummel and his lot didn’t wear theirs for more formal occasions, and certainly not those that took place in the evening.  So too might the contemporary man limit his deployment of denim to those times where leisure and activity are, if not imminent, probable.  This takes discipline; if wearing jeans seems even remotely incorrect reach instead for the flannels or cords or gabs.  And this really is the crucial point to be made about jeans: those very characteristics that make them desirable are also what dictate good practice in wearing them.

Jeans, having just departed the Goldilocks phase,  with navy coat and pink oxford.  Tea at the Ritz?  No.  Bordeaux-browsing with the wife?  Sure.

The Remains Divide Us (Part 1)

Some see three pork chops.  Others, three pork chops, two pork sandwiches, one plate of scrapple and bones for soup.  

     Early in my married life I played on a club soccer team.  The team captain—we’ll call him Matt—was a decent guy whose wife was an enthusiastic fan of our rather modest Saturday morning performances.  Win, lose or draw, she would produce from her car a cooler full of post-match beers and sandwiches.  Over the course of a few weeks she and my wife became friendly and it wasn’t long before we were invited over to Matt’s house for dinner.  The only night that seemed to work for all of us was Friday, and though loathe to sacrifice even one  precious weekend meal at home to the perils of an unknown kitchen, we obliged.  

       Matt and his wife were perfectly pleasant hosts, but something curious did occur as the evening wound down.  They had served a large roast chicken with mashed potatoes and vegetable sides but had obviously anticipated larger appetites for plenty was left over.  My wife and I helped clear the table, and, innocently enough, inquired after the tinfoil to cover the leftovers.   We were met with astonishment, and after a few pregnant moments, Matt curtly responded that they do not keep leftovers.  He and his wife then rather quickly scraped the chicken carcass—still heavy with meat—and several cups each of potatoes, carrots, spinach and corn into the garbage.  Sensing my urge to dive in after the fowl, my wife tugged silently at my rear belt loop.  

    We took a thrashing the next morning.  Matt and I—both midfielders—couldn’t seem to  communicate well on the field.  Worse: there were no sandwiches or cold beers offered following the match, and after one or two more similar showings, Matt joined another team.  Some say to avoid politics, religion and sex in social or professional settings; I say: do not discuss leftover food for what we do with it exposes our very marrow.  

    I am staunchly, fervently a leftover person.  Our kitchen is a buzzing place where large cuts of meat, whole fish and baskets of produce enter twice weekly; weeknight dinners, packed lunches, coursed weekend meals and Sunday lunches flow steadily out.  But for the volume, ours might be a hotel kitchen.  And like any efficient operation, very little goes to waste.  Those Sunday roasts frequently stretch into Wednesday packed lunches and weeknight dinners often feature some recycled aspect.  

    This is hardly a new concept.  If one peruses the ne plus ultra of cookbooks, Le Guide Culinaire, one quickly determines many of the dishes are really just ways of preparing leftovers.  Take this charmingly archaic entry (#2475) for Hachis a l’Americaine: “Sauté an equal amount of small diced potatoes as there is meat in butter until golden brown; add half to the meat and mix together with a little tomato puree and reduced veal gravy; reheat without boiling.  Place the mixture in a deep dish, sprinkle with the remaining potatoes, which must be nice and crisp, and finish with a little freshly chopped parsley.”  (Escoffier, 299).  So easy, and a great excuse for regularly having veal bone gravy on hand.

    My misguided teammate aside, most do indulge leftovers.  Tupperware exists, doesn’t it?  But I’ve long suspected that we sacrifice an opportunity when we simply ladle in the mashed potatoes and fork over the  slabs of corned beef with nothing more involved than the nuke it later protocol in mind.  Actually Escoffier’s fancy beef hash perfectly demonstrates a number of the rules that I follow when using leftovers.  

    -  To begin, simple reheats are not permitted.  Not only are they unimaginative, but a steaming plate of microwaved chicken and boiled potatoes will only ever be a pale shadow of its original self.  The far better route is to visualize something new.  If not a simple chicken hash, then why not whip up some easy pastry for a platter of meat pasties?

        -  A well-stocked pantry is essential.  Spices, oils, vinegars and starches should always be on hand, but I extend my pantry to things like eggs, cheese, milk, bread (fresh and stale), lemons, leftover wine, canned tomatoes, tomato paste, parsley, carrots, celery and onions.  Bacon, too, for its ability to improve just about anything.  

        -  Leftover meals are not an opportunity to purge your icebox.   Restraint is vital.  Escoffier could easily have added green beans and a dodgy looking carrot to his Hachis but that would have altered the familiar harmony of beef and potatoes.  If you really must use those slightly limp celery stalks that have been haunting your vegetable drawer for a fortnight, brace them in cold water, thinly slice and toss with a vinaigrette for a side salad.  

        -  As for food safety (for I know the subject bubbles just beneath the surface of any discussion involving leftovers) I will offer these unscientific guidelines that I follow.  Clear the table of leftovers, wrap in plastic or foil and refrigerate as soon as possible.  Leftovers are to be used within a 72 hour window.  Don’t push it.  Use common sense; if the leftover in question is unappetizing, don’t eat it.  It’s always advisable to thoroughly heat-through leftovers.  If in doubt, substitute your usual table wine with high-proof grain alcohol.

    Writing this now, I mourn the spectral corn puddings, carrot soups, chicken hashes and spinach timbales that could have resulted from the remains of my old teammate’s dinner table.  What stings most cruelly is not the actual waste of food (though that too is shocking), but the sad waste of all those lovely meals that could have been.  

Speaking of which, Part II of this series will deal directly with methods, ideas, and recipes for the leftover enthusiast.    

Clockwise from upper right: Grilled bread, deviled eggs, pinchos de puerco, braised carrots, deviled eggs,  celery vinaigrette.  All from leftovers.  

Pants With Baggage (Part I)

Jeans: black and white? 

    Jeans are difficult.  Difficult to get right; culturally fraught; increasingly expensive; terribly high-maintenance and, perhaps worst of all, ubiquitous.  For starters, what people wear are jeans and yet shops that sell the good stuff refer to their collections as denim.  Denim, of course, is synecdoche but we don’t go around requesting to see the whangee when what we're after is an umbrella.  In fact, the lore surrounding the naming of the cloth and resulting pants makes the history of “tweed” seem straightforward.  Whatever; there was durable cloth and workwear made from that cloth at a time and a place and most of it was blue with indigo.  Whether Genoa or Nimes is more responsible for our modern relationship with the garment is less important than this: jeans/denim are/is here for the duration.  

    Now for most this isn’t problematic.  In fact jeans represent a great equalizing opportunity; on the surface, at least, jeans really are egalitarian workwear.  Whether that work is hammering nails or hammering six-figure contracts is unimportant—what matters is one can do both in jeans, and do so unencumbered by the metaphysical implications of, say, a canvass jumpsuit or pinstriped DB.  We have invited jeans into our collective wardrobes, and in doing so, they have transcended their station.

    However, jeans do seem to raise the hackles of a few.  The rare etiquette expert, (and their common manifestations the event planner and the concierge) consider jeans more as a concept than a garment.  For these self-anointed arbiters the presence or absence of jeans represents a clear division between “normal” and “dress,” where anything north of jean-wearing is considered the latter.  This sort of binary thinking leads to very strange happenings.  I once attended a wedding where the single attire request was “No Jeans.” I was tempted to arrive in a vintage sarong and a pair of huaraches to test if that mercurial instruction was what the wedding planner truly meant.  I wore my trusty navy hopsack instead, and, with the exception of the minister, was marooned in a sea of khakis, polo shirts and orphaned suit jackets.  This is because, as I’ve previously stated, informality is often a perilous place.  

    As for restaurants, bars and, increasingly, country clubs, the once prevalent “Coat and Tie Required” has largely been supplanted by the far less helpful “No Jeans.”  Here the  code depends not upon the presence of certain articles of decorum but upon the banning of one, seemingly random garment.  A sign outside a hotel bar might just as well read; “No Agatine Eyelets, Please”.  Baffling; then again, revealing of a deeper layer in this complex story.  We live with a latent fear of appearing elitist.  Rather than risk telling people what they should wear we instead discern a scapegoat—jeans—and hope all participants understand the real or imagined implications of such a garment.  In my estimation, this sort of mystical propriety is far more elitist than asking someone to tie some silk around the neck.

    Of course this makes it sound as if I am advocating the general use of jeans for any social or business occasion—an especially curious position as I have in the past made clear my preference for real trousers.  But that’s not it at all.  I am merely confounded by the infamy of pants made from denim, versus, say, pants made from chino—another cheap cotton twill.  One type of pant is laden with baggage whilst the other glides anonymously beneath the noses of the persnickety.  I’ll offer a shaky theory as to why this may be.  The former is the clothing of laborers, while the latter a descendant of a military uniform.  Are the romantic colonial connotations of khaki what gains its acceptance?  And are grizzled, denim-swathed gold-rushers the reason jeans are shunned at the golf course? 

    There aren’t neat answers to cultural phenomena, and so I will finish part one of this exploration the way we started: jeans are difficult.  Somewhat more satisfyingly, Part II broaches the reality of wearing jeans rather than the philosophical act of doing so.  I am convinced jeans should be rectified, even within the context of a classical wardrobe.

No. Layered.  

Topical: Tropical

    We all know wool is versatile stuff, but ideal for the tropics?  So-called tropical cloths hover below the 10-ounce mark (positively stout by today's standards) but for many clothes enthusiasts remain the  benchmark for conservative warm-climate dress.  Of course not all tropicals are equal.  Many are tightly woven, slippery, lustrous… and about as breathable as a sandwich bag.  

    H Lesser's, pictured below, are rather different.  This edited collection is matte, breathable, traditional and dry.  For the true tropics?  Perhaps not.  But certainly ideal for summer throughout much of the US.  Which hints at the final point to be made about lighter cloth: despite the bone-chattering current weather, now is the time to see your tailor for those balmy months ahead.  

The Welcome Poacher

"Oi, Mum, wot's wiv dem eggs?"  High tension in Velazquez's Old Woman Poaching Eggs, 1618.

   If braising is for winter and grilling for summer, where does poaching belong?  Seasonlessness is not even poaching’s biggest problem; cooking anything in water runs the significant risk of being confused with that most fearsome of British cliches--the boiled dinner.  Of course done improperly, poaching is indeed boiling, or worse, the heave-worthy warming through often suffered at the hands of well-meaning aunts.  Done correctly though, poaching is terrific.

    If you simmer water before slipping something in, say carrots or cubes of beef, you are poaching.  But as simple principles so often belie nuance, so too are the details of a quality poach crucial.  To start, poaching requires that your liquid truly simmers.  Food-science people will tell you this occurs around 180 degrees (f), but rather than clipping a thermometer to your apron and nervously checking every few moments, learn what this looks and sounds like.  Basically the liquid should gently, just audibly bubble.  Anything more and you are boiling; less and you are Aunt Listeria.  If you are romantic (or French) you might refer to your pot as smiling, although this puts you in the same camp as those who clip thermometers to their aprons.  

    Next you must flavor your poaching liquid with aromatic vegetables, herbs and salt.  Add these things along with the cold water; as the liquid comes to a simmer it will extract flavor.  A standard mirepoix (carrot, celery, onion) will always work, especially when a bay leaf and several white peppercorns are included.  In fact, the addition of acid in the form of white wine and lemon juice to the above will roughly achieve a court boullion--that most classic of poaching liquids.  Fancier additions like tomato and fennel add a Mediterranean note, but do avoid anything from the Brassica family (broccoli, kale etc.) as they tend to dominate.  

    Perhaps the best thing to put into a court bouillon is very fresh salmon.  The fish should be skinned and searched for pin-bones; I like mine cut into chunks before poaching for ten minutes.  The result is mild and distinctly savory.  If you brush a few ramekins with olive oil before filling with your poached fish and vegetables you can chill the result until service.  Turn each out onto salad plates and garnish with lemon slices and parsley for a lovely timbale starter.  I often give precisely this to my daughter; it reminds me of those commercials where cats are lovingly served crystal platters of food by gloved hands.

    Chicken and tender beef or pork may all work here too, but you must increase the cooking time, especially with poultry.  In fact, let’s briefly touch on the science(y) aspect here.  As cooking techniques go, poaching is a very efficient heat delivery mechanism.  The poachee is surrounded by a dense, evenly heated medium (the liquid) which penetrates crevices and quickly transfers its heat.  Compared with roasting where hot air swirls about or grilling where each side is independently cooked, poaching is far quicker and far less likely to go wrong.  The result is food that consistently emerges moist, tender and free of burn.  The downside to all this mild pleasantness is just that: crispy, fatty, caramelized goodness will never result from a poach.  Generally, lean, skinless meats that might otherwise become tough do well poached, but do use common sense in selecting your mark.  Sea bass?  Brilliant!  A baby goat?  No. 

    You may experiment with other liquids.  Assuming refrigerators frequently contain bottles of left-over red wine, the most delicious poached eggs are at your fingertips.   Fill a skillet or small saucepan with whatever scraps of red wine you have (Beaujolais being the best and most obvious choice).  Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer.  Slip in a few eggs and lightly poach for salads or dinner-worthy eggs Benedict.  If you are nostalgic for the 60s, poach clove-studded pears in Port, or, if you don’t wish to waste $60 worth of booze, orange juice.  A whole sub-genre of milk-poaching exists too, but I don’t have any experience there--anybody?

    Dietitians like poaching because, unlike every other cooking method, the addition of fat is unnecessary.  I suppose this is true right up until one douses the eggs with hollandaise or spreads the poached salmon flakes on buttered toast points.  This is an important point, actually.  Poaching is really just an efficient way to cook things for a relatively neutral result--a mechanism for creating a mild, always appropriate edible.   And while it pains me to do so, on this point I must agree with the dietitians.  Slathering on the mayo post-fact might be desirable, but some very satisfying results can also be had when one allows a good poach to speak for its mild-mannered self.

Poached salmon timbale: an ideal starter for adults or lunch for two-year-olds. 

A Brief Defense of Black Loafers

The black loafer in its natural habitat.

    When I was a little boy of perhaps eight or ten, I delighted in wearing a pair of shorts executed in a wintery camouflage pattern.  To my young mind, the whites and grays were superior to the muddy browns and greens of ordinary woodland camouflage.   Whether this was because snow camo was considered comparatively rare or just more flattering to sunburned legs--I don’t recall.  However, I do quite vividly remember pointing out to my friends the inherent humor of my shorts: when would one be required to hide in the snow and remain well-ventilated?  

    I think of those shorts now and again when confronted with certain grown-up articles of clothing that have attracted the ire of those gentlemen (of the internet, for the most part) who give serious thought to traditional men’s clothing.  The wearable paradox is frowned upon in these circles.  Propriety is, if not king, then the lofty goal.  And if one item of men’s dress is condemned more vehemently than others, it is surely the black loafer.  

    The paradox is the fact that loafers are inherently casual but black is always reserved for formal occasions.  The black loafer, however, suffers from an additional layer of condemnation; brown leather is, by this same crowd, universally preferred for its ability to patinate and appear mottled and lustrous.  The same is only slightly true of black, which might develop some subtle marbleization over two decades of regular wear, but is really at its most correct when it is glossy and, well, black.  

    And so the black loafer languishes, too somber for most, too casual for the rest.  In my opinion, this is a pity.  If we really need to identify incongruities within the realm of menswear, then low-hanging fruit abounds: three piece city suits of country cloth; suede oxfords; the rough finished homburg; patterned dress hose; woolen neckties.  Even the humble silk knot, a personal favorite for linking the cuffs, is in danger.  Each of these (and many more) violate the same “rule” that black casuals do; they conflate genus and species.

    The same list might just as well appear with the heading: “Favorite Items of the Famously Well-Dressed.”  We won’t run back through ascribing each to someone notable, suffice it to say everyone from Cary Grant to that natty little resignee, the Duke of Windsor, employed one or several paradoxical articles.  And if pressed, we might even point to an insistence upon suede or button-down collars as not just an element, but the beating heart of an individual’s style.  What these items do so well is blur the lines of propriety; they confidently straddle adjacent echelons of formality, dipping their host into both.  When one expects polished gold links, and encounters instead fraying silk knots, the effect if pleasantly jarring, particularly when the remainder is correct to the last stitch.  

    My black loafers are technically of the penny variety, but the details are subtle and the shape elegant rather than clunky.  I wear them on warm summer evenings while entertaining at home and out to causal dinners.  I don’t care for them with suits, but they do well beneath tan and grey odd trousers when laced oxfords would be stifling.  Sock-less, they seem particularly insouciant.  And while I don’t go about pointing out the incongruity as I once did with my snow-camo shorts, I do take private pleasure in noting the paradox.

Pursued by menswear zealots, these silk knots find safety in numbers.

When The Spirit Moves You

    Somewhere in the middle of 2007’s “There Will Be Blood,” Daniel Plainview, played to great effect by Daniel Day Lewis, sits for an afternoon meal with his son.  They order steak, milk for the kid and, for Plainview, a ruthless oil tycoon, a large tumbler of whiskey.  It is a tense scene, fraught with balance and nuance, but I don’t think the writers had the gustatory aspect in mind when they penned it.  And yet, I can’t help but be reminded of Plainview’s hard stares and his son’s discomfort whenever I am confronted by the curious practice of accompanying food with hard liquor.      

   I may welcome whiskey after a rich steak dinner, but the idea of joining the two doesn’t appeal to me.  I don’t know if this has something to do  with the whiskey itself, or the fattiness of grilled meat, or just the missed opportunity of a firmly structured red wine.  Whatever the case, drinking spirits with food is a tricky business, but when it works it can be memorable.  

    The martini, by which I mean gin and vermouth in desperately fought-over proportions, has a mercurial savory side.  I’m not talking about the custom of adding a brined olive, although I imagine that practice stems from the very quality to which I refer.  Even when adorned with the more sensible lemon peel twist, the martini gives the impression that it works with food.  This must have to do with the herbaceous core of the gin and the fruity, yeast-like quality of vermouth.  The combination seems to cry-out for salt.  I recommend a dry-ish martini and a plate of steak tartare.  This works for two reasons really.  One, the mineral character of the fresh beef seems to respond to the bracing quality of gin.  The other reason is more practical: between all those garnishes (chopped capers, raw shallots, etc.), seasonings and raw egg, the prospects of a successful wine pairing seems dim.

    Very cold vodka drunk alongside shellfish is another good idea.  I discovered this several years ago during a dismal New Year’s Eve party, enlivened only by what must have been an expensive fruits de mer tower.  At some stage someone produced a bottle of good vodka from the freezer which, we later learned from the host,  was left behind by his Russian ex-girlfriend.  It was glycerine-like when poured and, rather than potent and flavorless, which had been my impression of vodka before that evening, had definite body and mineral complexity.  We drank quickly from small ceramic shot glasses between bites of crab, oyster, clam, prawn and smoked salmon.  I think the success of the union had as much to do with what wasn’t present in the vodka--namely, strong taste--as it did with what was there.  It was a cold and clean foil to the fish, far more adept than any wine would have been, including Champagne.  

    Of course I’m not the first to recognize these happy marriages.  Russians, who wash all sorts of things down with vodka, including fish in several forms, would be the first to point this out.  The Scandinavians with their delectable smorgesboards drink akvavit, which, while often flavored with spices and herbs, serves very much in the same capacity as did the Vodka that revelatory New Years Eve.  One may read these things with some level of interest, but there really is no substitute for personal discovery.  Which makes me wonder: perhaps I ought to give Mr Plainview the benefit of the doubt and pour whiskey the next time I cook a steak.

You will find keeping things chilly crucial to enjoyment.  Crystal flutes can't hurt either.

An Odd Business

More patterns than sense.  

    I was sad to discover that I can no longer find an old photograph of my senior year English teacher--Dr. Bird, no less--who sits beaming from a rickety chair in our school’s cafeteria.  He wore a mustache and longish, albeit receding, hair better suited to a man half his age.  But his clothes always outshone his tonsorial habits.  Despite the years that have passed, I can recall the elements from that missing photo: a blue and white bengal striped shirt; a navy foulard bow tie, tied without precision; a burgundy sweater with a deep V; a pecan and cream checked odd jacket with rust overcheck; medium gray flannels; shoes of snuff suede with crepe soles.  This was dressing in odd elements at its finest, possessed of an elusive tension between propriety and indifference.

     I find myself dressed in casual separates more often than not too.  My odd jackets and odd trousers are made of the usual suspects: flannels and tweeds in cooler months; linen and cotton for our precious window of warmth.  I like to wear a jacket to casual dinners out, but wouldn’t hesitate to appear in flannel trousers and a lightweight sweater over an open-necked shirt to a family gathering, even on the holidays.  I suppose ease and practicality are the guiding principles, but it happens not without difficulty.

    There is a latent complexity when dressing in odd elements, the most obvious example of which might be pattern (or its absence).  Striped tailored garments do not work as separates because they shout business--a condition which defeats the premise of casual dress.  Checks do, although often awkwardly in combination, and solid worsteds are right out as their smooth and even surface belies their formality.  Eh... except for worsted trousers, but only those executed in mottled gray, and possibly olive; blue worsted trousers look orphaned from a suit (but can look dashing in cotton or linen).  And this is well before we broach the crucial matter of Fairisle.  

    Confounding--and enough to drive one to dress exclusively in the practical navy suit (and is likely why smart public figures, like politicians, usually do).  I admire the navy suit, but what a drab place it would be if there were no flannel, or, worse, tweed.  It becomes obvious that just as we require sombre hues and solids when we wish to convey seriousness, so too are patterns, color and texture necessary when leisure is the goal.  So how do we navigate more casual clothes?

    Questions like this leave the door open for rules and it is at this crossroads that we arrive at the counterintuitiveness of casual dress: it is far, far more challenging to do successfully than more formal correctness.  The options are many more than those proscribed by greater formality, but the line between dégagé and indignity remains terribly thin.  Put simply, the choices are infinite, the guidelines few, and error lurks freely.

    To my mind, masters of casual dress (like the inimitable Dr. Bird) operate by basic principles that, when applied in concert, create that covetable impression that survives long after photographs are lost.  My suspicion is these broad strokes concern texture, scale and color, but I would be flattered to hear what my knowledgeable readers have to say.  If there is interest, I’ll compile the results into a snappy post.

Flannel, tweed and a paisley pattern so large it would do equally well as drapes.

The Building Blocks of Fitness

The standard block below; an 18-pounder on top.  Both are taped to preserve your manicure.  

    For two summers during high school I worked a construction job for a family friend.  My older brother had done the same, and while I wouldn’t say it was a right of passage, choosing instead an internship (as current high schoolers seem to prefer) might have been regretted.  The second year, after my job had ended and before heading off to college, I visited some friends in the South of France.  I arrived with calluses, a badly blackened thumbnail, and, I am not ashamed to admit, muscles.  Not the grotesque, rippling sort popular today, just the burnished leanness one acquires from proper labor.

    As I’ve mentioned in the past, I have a firmly rooted distrust of fitness gadgets.  If pressed, I can make a few concessions though.  One would be a ledge of some description or, better still, a sturdy tree branch.  Pulling oneself up, like pushing oneself up, engages complex muscle groups and is efficient and portable.  Besides the floor (for push-ups) and branches (for pull-ups) I can recommend another excellent fitness tool: the cinder block.  

    In the last few years a vogue has developed for fitness regimes involving all manner of junk--chains, tires, rock-filled duffle bags.  The idea--a good one, I think--is to motivate the user who may have fallen into a rut by introducing unconventional routines and objects.  In basic terms, one looks and feels impressive doing pushups with heavy-gauge chains wrapped about the torso.  Of course it seems silly to pay a club or a trainer to gain access to these things.  A better approach is to identify a poorly guarded construction site and pilfer a cinder block.  

    Cinder blocks exist in various shapes and sizes, but the standard is the 8X8X16, which is the iconic double-chambered block one thinks of when asked to picture one.  This type of block has a number of advantages beyond its wide availability though.  It is around 30 pounds, give or take, which, for the average male, is an ideal weight to hoist about.  The shape is important too; the central chambers and the ledges at the ends allow multiple ways of grasping the block.  The material itself--coal ashes mixed with cement--provides excellent grip, even when wet.  One might choose to file any burrs, or even tape the edges, but in its original state, the standard cinder block should be ready to use.  You’ll notice no batteries, chargers, long-term contracts or unhinged personal trainers are necessary.   

    Perhaps the thread that ties these low-tech exercises I’m fond of together is their relationship to momentum.   For years momentum was thought to be the very thing that should be eliminated from exercise, and this remains the case today for the bench press, the dead lift and  a list of others.  But momentum isn’t universally unwanted.  The key is in understanding when momentum is making an exercise easier or dangerous (bad) and when it is providing the challenge (good).  Effective exercises either resist or use momentum as a way of engaging many more muscles than the obvious ones, especially those in the torso. Done repeatedly a cardiovascular workout is inevitable; it’s simply impossible to execute repetitions of complex movements without raising the heart rate.  One might consider shoveling snow or loading hay bales on to the back of a truck as examples.  

    But why exercise like this in the first place?  Why hoist building materials when air conditioned gyms lined with pristine, neoprene-swathed equipment exist?  To answer that we must briefly return to the South of France.  The friends with whom I stayed that summer had access to hotels and beach clubs, each with sparkling gyms, and while I spent the majority of my time swimming, nightclubbing and eating, fear of losing the definition I had developed in the weeks prior compelled me to spend an hour each day exercising.  I would curl and bench and squat and, worst of all, use an elliptical, which was considered tres chouette at the time.  Perhaps it was the uncommonly good food, or the countless aperitifs, but despite all the effort I noticed I was losing, if only to my eyes, some of my brick-lugging physique.  Actual labor, I now understand, requires serious expenditure over a period of time rather than the short bursts of energy used to create beach muscles, and short of securing work as a part-time laborer, exercising with a cinder block achieves the same efficiency and effectiveness.  Portability is another matter.

For the skeptics, here are a few moves to try with your cinder block.  Run through two dozen repetitions of each exercise and at least two circuits of the routine.  Follow liberally with Pastis.

The Twelve-O’clock Block

With the block on the floor in front of you, form a stance over it allowing your feet to be more than shoulder width apart.  Grip the block how you see fit--the most sensible way being lengthwise by the protruding ledges of each side.  Starting with your legs (and with a straight back) lift the block, permitting momentum to assist your arms in carrying it up and over your head.   Hold for a beat, and then return to starting position.  The block should go from a 6 o’clock starting position to a 12 o’clock extended position and then back to the 6 o’clock.  The movement should be explosive but smooth.

The Faux-Hay-Bale

Begin by grasping the block as above, this time permitting the block to hang from your fully extended arms somewhere by your pelvis.  Feet should be shoulder-width apart.  Lower the block to your right side, twisting and bending your torso as you do.  Once the block is as low as your knees, power it back up in a diagonal sweep to your left above shoulder level.  Imagine you are picking something heavy from low on your right and putting on a shelf high up to your left.  Or loading hay bales.  Do the same but to the other side.  

The Semaphore Shuffle

Permit the block to hang from your fully extended arms in front, as above.  Feet should be shoulder width apart with plenty of bend in the knee.  Hoist the block up in front of you, arm extended as far as comfortable, and straight over your head.  Slowly lower the block down behind your head by bending at the elbow.  Return the block to the starting position by doing the above in reverse.  Use the spring in your legs to help your arms, and tighten the abdominals to steady the movement.  You should resemble a semaphore operator guiding an airliner from the runway.  Do be careful not to scalp yourself on the approach.  

For the truly dedicated.  Max Steiner Design, Brooklyn.

Reflections on a Sunday Ritual

    The very last thing the internet needs is another complex guide on how to polish shoes.  If you rotate a few pairs made of decent leather, using quality emollients and polishes to maintain them, our collective results will largely be similar.  So whether this guy applies buckets of mink oil, or that guy swears by vintage Krug for the final buff is of little consequence.  Instead, I propose three universal rules for the standard calfskin shoe.

    1:  Brush and tree your shoes after removing.  Absolutely no exceptions, not even of the amorous variety.  She must learn early.  

    2:  Use polish sparingly, attaining much of the desired luster from conditioner and vigorous brushing.  Spiffy, over-shined toe-caps are vulgar; so is spitting on your shoes.  

    3:  Institute a weekly appointment with your shoes.  If you wait until twenty minutes before curtain, you will spend the first act of Madama Butterfly in the lobby drinking lousy "champagne."  Paired with your insistence on rule #1, your evening will end unhappily.

    I’m not sure I can think of anything else that’s truly ironclad.  I suppose the general idea is to preserve your investment without giving the impression that you are weird.  Enjoy the fruits of my recent labor.