The Broiling Point

Massive scallops and wild salmon await the broiler.

    Perhaps food television is to blame.  Not so long ago, meat and seafood could be broiled; now everything must be pan-seared or grilled in an exuberant, primetime display of spitting fat and jumping flame.  Like poaching, broiling is a passive, low-drama method, requiring almost no interference from the cook, and certainly no instant replays before cutting to commercial.  In short, broiling is poor television.  

    Of course searing can be useful, and as a quick way of putting color on meat before finishing in the oven, there is no substitute.  But it’s really a line-cook’s technique—an expediency best practiced by professionals beneath commercial extraction hoods.  Filling a first floor with grease smoke a few minutes before your guests arrive never sets the correct atmosphere, and unless you have terrific technique, is almost inevitable with searing.  But that doesn’t mean the crusted surface of something seared is reserved for dining out; correct broiling can achieve similar results, and even superior side effects.  

    Broiling is the introduction of food to a suspended high-heat source.  This differs from grilling, where the heat source is below the food.  Remarkably, this subtle orientation of flame not only produces noticeably different results, the terms themselves are loaded with opposing connotations.  If grilling is a macho, sexy activity that takes place on a sprawling deck, drink in hand, broiling is the fusty way a Captain’s Platter is prepared on an overcast, off-season day at a seaside resort that has long fallen from favor.

    Despite a poor reputation though, broiling has real advantages over grilling.  A superior approach to gravity, for instance.  Grilling leaves little choice but incineration as fat and moisture start to run.  During a broil, that same moisture resettles, basting and distributing flavor.  This works especially well for meat that is prone to dryness, or seafood, which often needs a semi-moist cooking environment.  In fact, I regularly make a sort of mixed seafood broil—a platter, if you will, better suited to a captain of his own 100-foot Benetti:

Turn broiler on.  Make a compound butter of fresh herbs, chopped shallots, lemon zest, salt, pepper and a splash of white wine.  Line a sheet pan with parchment.  Arrange largest sea scallops available, pieces of fresh fish and split langoustines or lobster tails in rows on parchment and top with compound butter.  Put sheet pan on middle rack and broil until fish is firm but not too browned, perhaps 11 minutes.  

    If the above preparation sounds too breezy to possibly yield anything special, you haven’t yet grasped the principle of broiling.  If other high-heat methods are about intense control and experienced technique, broiling works best when ignored; the magic happens when the cook disappears for a moment, perhaps for an aperitif with guests.  Problematic for producers, but a real blessing for hosts.

Four out of five langoustines agree: broiling is superior.

Penumbra

A low ceiling of threatening clouds is a welcome sight to the umbrella enthusiast.

    Raincoats can be a challenge.  I don’t mean the waxed cotton variety meant for rough wear over sweaters; I’ve had my Barbour for ten years and it looks better (by which I mean worse) each season.  Raincoats meant for wear with a suit or odd jacket are where problems arise.  It seems there are two choices: breathability or water resistance.  (Style is another matter entirely, of which the choices are the double breasted trench, the fly-fronted mac and the high-tech abomination). The grail is probably a reversible balmacaan featuring two shades of treated gaberdine.  My enthusiasm for the hunt, though, has always been dampened by the other option: umbrellas.  In other words, I’m not anti-raincoat; I’m pro-umbrella.

    And why not?  Who doesn’t harbor a secret, unspoken desire to carry a handsome stick?  But to do so without the honest need is to immediately consign oneself to clowndom.  A proper umbrella, however, is a romantic object, at once a relic and an acceptable appurtenance.  If the shaft is solid, an umbrella performs all the classic uses typically reserved for canes: aiding in walking, gesticulating, ushering small children, warding off strays.  But when the clouds ripen, and the first fat drops stain the pavement, a series of deft snaps and flicks deploys the cambered canopy that saves its user from costume.

    In fact, the rain reveals the umbrella’s final and best trick: the pitter-patter.  It is a familiar sound, a warming tone of temporary shelter that sings of human ingenuity.  Animals scatter in a downpour; people pop open their umbrellas and march out in merry pursuit of whatever endeavor is scheduled.  The canopy’s edge, like the penumbra’s rim of half-light, runs heavily with water that could have soaked, but, foiled, instead forms rivulets around its purposeful occupant.  The rain may pass, or return in double; it matters little to the person for whom an umbrella is standard kit.  

    The practical aspect is somewhat less colorful.  An umbrella can be deployed or retracted in a moment, without the fumbling and smoothing required of raincoats.  This is especially true during summer, when afternoon showers are frequent, but the temperature and humidity too high to comfortably wear an additional, often unbreathable layer.  

    But to achieve all this—from the fanciful to the practical—an umbrella’s design is crucial.    The flimsy, street-merchant versions are found handle-up in waste bins following a downpour for a reason.  And collapsables, while earnest in design, so often disappoint in execution.  I alluded earlier to the solid shaft, by which is meant a one-piece stick turned and routed to accommodate a collapsable frame.  Unsurprisingly, this is an expensive configuration, but if much is required of the umbrella, some investment in its design is necessary.  Thoughts on the  best options shall be covered in part 2.

Think of a good brollie as a mobile shelter, a walking stick and a signal to ruffians to keep their distance.

When the Heat is On

London Lounge's Tabac linen... or is that an actual Connecticut shade cigar?

    I’m weak on warm weather suits.  A love of sturdy cloth has left me with few choices on suit-wearing occasions June through September.  I can usually scrape by on linen or cotton trousers, a mid weight blazer and several cool drinks.  Compromise of this sort can be pleasing, but I have been unhappy and creased enough times to do something in the pursuit of suited coolness this year.  Having a somewhat irregular need of suits in general, I based my selections upon the most extreme but still realistic situations I might encounter.  A fairly good strategy, I think.  

    One of the weddings we are attending this year is taking place on a beach in Mexico.  In July.  In the afternoon.  I’m told some of the men will be wearing guayaberas, as is the custom; while handsome, I don’t think my first foray into this traditional shirt should be at a wedding surrounded by its habitual wearers.  Goodness knows what faux pas lurk.  Instead I will play the visiting northerner in his sole well-cut, albeit rumpled, linen suit.  The idea is that while anybody might wilt in the expected conditions, doing so in linen is perfectly acceptable.  

    Chris Despos and I poured over dozens of linen samples before deciding the ten ounce offerings from the London Lounge had the nicest balance of body, porosity and charming irregularity.  The shade is that of Connecticut shade wrapper cigars—a light, golden brown.  This choice was informed by versatility; with three patch pockets and minimal lining the jacket will wear particularly well as a casual separate.  But I admit a certain timidity in the selection as well.  I love cream linen, but a suit of it on the wrong person (me, for instance) can easily seem like a costume.  Maybe in another decade when what’s left of my hair silvers.  

    At the other extreme, I needed a suit that would handle an oppressive day in the city.  This project poses a greater challenge than the beach scenario.  Whereas linen might rely upon an expectation of some rumpling, a creased and bagged worsted suit is always sad.  Instead, the ideal stays crisp, works from day into evening, and never appears obviously casual nor too conservative.  Inspired from one of my own cloth galleries, I settled upon nine ounce Fresco—a high-twist worsted woven to permit good air-flow while remaining virtually wrinkle free.  The winner is a mottled mid-grey with a very subtle windowpane. 

The Fresco, basted, and still several steps removed from having its daring buttons affixed.  Note the patch pockets.  

    I think this cloth ticks most of the boxes, perhaps leaning a tad conservative.  I decided to alleviate any fear of appearing like a banker by employing two design elements: the hip pockets will be patch (the breast remains welt) and the buttons are perhaps two shades lighter than what might be expected on a gray worsted.  The buttons are purely a lark, but the patch pockets, at least in theory, should help keep the suit cool by eliminating some of the guts normally required to suspend a pocket.

    Patch pockets, minimal linings—these, I suppose, are the tricks that make summer suits fun.  But they all point to something I like to think of as the summer suit conundrum: In a proper swelter, anything more than a modal scarf around the waist is uncomfortably hot.  This might seem dispiriting at first—as if relief is just a mirage.  But I’ve learned to find comfort in the idea that the field is even—from guayaberas to linen to smart worsteds—and that coolness is in the eye of the bespeaker.

The Penance

This unknown German etching portrays a pious woman who has injured herself in an act of mortification.  Oats are a comparatively simple lifestyle adjustment.  

    At some stage, everyone is prescribed oatmeal.  The reasons vary, from being surrounded by idiots (high blood pressure) to shrinking trousers (weight gain), but the prescription remains largely the same.  Oatmeal isn’t exactly challenging food, although those who do take issue with the stuff are usually objecting to the meal part of the equation.  Happily, the health benefits of oats are also available outside of the gruel state.

    My favorite non-gruel preparation is a classic: granola.  It’s funny that the word granola has acquired the connotation it has considering how far up the luxury ladder a quality preparation can be.  Premium rolled oats are rather more expensive than one might expect, and once the honey, spices, nuts and dried fruits are added it seems more like sacrificial ambrosia than preferred snack of the sandaled set.  In fact, the high-cost is why I insist on making it at home.  

    If the trouble is going to be taken to make granola, the only sensible option is to produce in volume.  The work is the same, whether three cups or three pounds, and granola seems to keep indefinitely—it will also disappear much faster than one might think. To make large quantities a big stainless steel bowl is needed for mixing, and the baking will have to be done on multiple sheets that are rotated between oven racks a few times—minor issues, really.  The recipe below specifies one standard canister but can easily expand to two, three or ten canisters, multiplying the other ingredients accordingly.  

    Resist the temptation to add nuts and dried fruits prior to baking.  Many recipes suggest doing so but the results can be problematic.  The former will become bitter baking for that much time (and may become rancid in storage) and the latter will either burn or become brittle.  Also, controlling even distribution is futile, meaning someone at your brunch party is going to get little more than fruit-and-nut-less shake.  Accessories are best prepared and added at time of service.  Freshly roasted pecans are the richest addition; raisins are classic, but dried cranberries, chopped dates and figs are widely available now too.  Fresh fruit doesn’t really need an explanation, although if it isn’t sweet enough try macerating it first.  

    Obviously the preparation discussed above and the recipe outlined below hardly rank alongside the cilice.  But a small portion of granola served with yoghurt is undoubtedly a leaner start to the day than a full English breakfast.  Penance?  Perhaps not.  Maybe granola is like the eponymous hypocrite's hairshirt in Molier's Tartuffe—flaunted for appearance.  Let the truly dedicated suffer beneath oatmeal; I'm not ashamed to choose granola everytime.

Ingredients:

18-ounce canister of premium rolled oats

2 whipped egg whites

1/2 cup of canola oil

1/2 cup of honey

Pinch of salt

 Optional: Cinnamon, nutmeg, clove etc to taste.  Some may also prefer more honey for a sweeter result.  Remember though, sweetness can be adjusted at service.  

 Method:

In a large stainless bowl, fold all ingredients together with non-stick spatula.  Make certain to evenly distribute.  Turn mass out onto one or two parchment-lined sheet pans.  Bake in slowest/lowest possible convection heat for two hours.  With a spatula, break up and turn granola.  Turn oven off, crack oven door and leave overnight or until dry and brittle.  Break up large chunks and store in airtight glass container.

Oats, awaiting anointment.  

i-Fold

    My first pocket knife was a Victorinox, bought for me while visiting family in Switzerland.  I was definitely too young to have a pocket knife, but either my parents had faith in me or took comfort  in the minuscule blade, and so started a life-long relationship with folding knives.  I specify the folding variety here not because fixed blades don’t interest me—I have a modest collection of German kitchen steel that features prominently in my will—but because folders posses a particular allure suited to the connoisseur.  The pocket knife is the gentleman’s knife.  

    The variety in folding knives is staggering, but I suppose the broad categories are as follows:   the standard folder of unprecious materials; the slender penknife; the Swiss; the contemporary multitool; the custom and rare.  I am an amateur, favoring classic French folders, but for the collector, that last category is where things can get out of hand.  I borrowed several knives from friends for the photographs below, the last of which is a custom job of Damascus steel, black diamonds and wooly mammoth tusk. 

    Some might question the reason for possessing, let alone carrying a pocket knife.  Some may even find it alarming.  These are usually the same people who are genuinely surprised to learn that the soles of your shoes are made from leather, or that the buttons on your cuffs work.  Is there a boyish romance associated with having a small knife in an interior pocket?  Certainly; not unlike offering a light with a proper lighter, producing a small knife when something needs cutting—a clothes tag, an orange rind—is one of those small gestures that seems to charmingly linger for those who witness it.

    Finally, a word on the law; it exists, and should be locally researched before toting anything.  Of course my favorites are about as dangerous as manicuring tools (indeed a few serve that very purpose), but rules are rules.  Oh, and unless you don’t mind having your pocketknife unceremoniously binned before your eyes, air travel is right out.  Which is a pity, because I can almost guarantee that you will stumble upon a perfect pocketknife in some foreign market and have to spend a small fortune shipping it home. 

Diction Matters

"Coriander?  Don't be silly.  The nose on this Syrah is straight norisoprenoid-carotenoid...  amateur."

    The other evening while waiting for the butcher to tenderize some lamb, I noticed the shop’s curious short-hand for describing its stock of wine.  Little placards had been affixed beneath each selection with the following choices: Fruity, Spicy, Earthy, Silky, Flowery, Racy.  Red, white or pink, for each bottle one or several of these terms had been circled.  Other customers happily went about filling their baskets, but I stood contemplatively, suddenly aware of how abstract the task of choosing is.  Of course none of the wines were actually spicy or silken, and what could racy possibly mean—that the wine is partial to skimpy undergarments?

    Of course language only provides two options: the literal and the figurative, and the literal would make for a rather scientific description of esters and volatile compounds.  So we rely upon the figurative to convey the complex experience of wine, which would be fine if we could all agree what earth tastes like.  Wine professionals largely can, and they routinely use familiar figurative terms to accurately conduct their evaluations.  The hobbyist is left to establish his or her own lexicon, and I have never been in a room with two who can agree entirely upon a wine’s profile.  In describing sensory experience, the gray area is vast and even the broadest terms can become unmoored.

    Describing the often ineffable qualities of cloth during the bespoke process presents a similar problem.  In fact, many of the same figurative terms used for wine are tossed about when confronted by cloth bunches: dry, body, crisp, refined.  To some these terms are ironclad and when crossed about what is specifically meant, exchanges can become prickly.  I’ve even perceived discrepancies in meaning of commonly used words amongst professionals.  But this only happens when forced to describe their products for promotional material and such; behind the scenes is the science of cloth-finishing, replete with its own semi-scientific vocabulary, unencumbered by the novice’s notions of drape and durability.  

"Sweet cloth.  No,  I mean dry cloth."  

    The problem in selecting cloth with desirable properties is particularly dependent upon experience: those with it struggle to convey accurate or consistent descriptions to those without, and those without rely too heavily upon the received wisdom of those with.  A vicious cycle if I’ve even seen one—and no doubt responsible for many garments that do not see the light of day.  Some of us novices are fortunate; under the vast experience  of my tailor, Chris Despos, choosing a dog seems very unlikely.

    At the moment, my daughter’s favorite bedtime book is an edited collection of drawings featuring a baby encountering edible and inedible things.  The idea is that the audience should decide whether the thing in question is yummy (corn, for instance) or yucky (earthworms).  Perhaps after the two-hundredth reading the real message occurred to me: acquiring experience is a similarly binary process.  A wine, a cloth, or whatever else is either yummy, or yucky.  Crucially, both is impossible.  The results of your choices—whether strapping Cabernets or mellow Dolcettos, whether gossamer super cloths or dense hopsacks—are what is called preference.  And there it was, hiding in plain site all this time.  

Two-by-Two

The "G" in gabardine stands for goes with everything.

    Something rather interesting occurred to me while discussing odd trousers the other day.  Many men approach wardrobe building with the same goals of efficiency and convenience in mind, but do so in dramatically different ways.  

    The first should be termed the indubitable method.  A practitioner might see a swatch of jacketing or a ready-to-wear jacket he likes, but not be totally convinced until several trouser options are shown alongside.  He then selects the one shade deemed most complementary and buys or has it made.  I understand some men hang the finished trousers with the odd jacket, or even go so far as to have sewn into the waistband a reminder of which jacket they complement lest they be separated.  

    The results are never wrong—a practitioner won’t whiff on an odd-ensemble.  But is he ever really dressed in casual odd elements?  Doesn’t he just posses two-piece suits made of different cloths?  In other words, if the trousers were bought or made exclusively to accompany a single jacket, are they any longer odd?  Personally, I’m afraid to play so fast and loose with the existential underpinnings of menswear.  I’ll leave that sort of reengineering to women who have successfully created the high-heel athletic shoe.

    The other method—the one I prefer—is decidedly less rigid, though perhaps more demanding of its practitioners.  To me, cloth is far more important than precise color coordination, especially when one has grown comfortable with the notion that most odd trousers should be some shade of gray or tan anyway.  This frees things considerably; choosing trousers for summer or winter is as easy as finding a weave and weight that pleases and picking two.    

If your  odd jacket doesn't look right with one of these flannels, congratulations, you've discovered the only one that doesn't.  

    I say this second method is more demanding, but really what’s required is a bit of discipline in selecting those two colors.  Specifically, this means acquiring pairs of lighter and darker shades within the same cloth bunch so at least one of the pairs will contrast well with the intended jacket.  That the lighter and darker options may be made of flannel, gaberdine, whipcord, high-twist, tropical worsted or linen ensures a season-less sort of harmony, while simultaneously alleviating any concern that the final choice is part of a carefully coordinated outfit.  

    This ineffable casualness of trousers which were acquired with versatility in mind can’t, in my opinion, be replicated by wedding single pairs with certain jackets.  But there is another advantage to pairs of light and dark odd trousers in the same cloth: the number needed is far fewer when each pair can work with several jackets instead of only one.  As an admitted advocate of the limited wardrobe and critic of the palatial closet, this appeals. 

Austerity Pleasures

Mustard is for those with discipline enough to know when to stop.  

    A ham sandwich is an impossible ask.  Maple-smoked ham with havarti, chipotle mayonnaise, avocado, oven dried tomatoes, pickled jalapeños on an onion-parmesan bun?  No problem.  But ham on a roll?  Hen’s teeth.  And yet that simple union of good bread and gently cured meat is precisely the sort of inoffensive sustenance that twenty minutes between midday engagements requires.  More importantly, it won’t leave you in desperate search of antacids and breath mints.  

    Actually any single element on bread is a noble meal.  Cured meat of any kind works.  A sharp old cheddar jammed into a roll is another personal favorite.  The prospect of putting a leftover slice of pork or beef between bread is almost reason alone to invite people over for a roast.  And after much experimentation, there is no better use for cold lamb.  

    In my opinion, and I’m certain to cause offense here, meat and cheese is a step in the wrong direction.  I don’t have moral objections to joining the two—doing so just seems conspicuous and unnecessary.  Butter is a far better addition anyway.  It will provide a modest but flavorful counterpoint without the heaviness of mayonnaise.

    The bread is important.  The ideal vehicle is perhaps a small French roll that has been permitted to sit in a waxed bag overnight.  It will be fresh, but not so crusty as to abrade the roof of your mouth.  Crucially, it will provide the correct ratio of bread to filling.  That ratio is more of a challenge when deciding how large a section of baguette or ciabatta to select.  The trick is to use less than you think.  An English muffin is good too, if a little too civilized for the spirit of this sandwich.  Pullman slices are fine in a pinch, but useless unless toasted.  

    Finally, mustard is a gateway condiment.  A dab can be fun on occasion, but for those of a weaker constitution its use can be habit forming and enough to encourage experimentation with harder substances.  Remember: no one starts out using Sriracha.  The safer route is to stay dry altogether.  Actually it’s that very fear of dryness that compels most to start using; the better choice is to learn to embrace the austerity.  

    Incidentally, I don’t eschew the leisurely lunch—in fact, a long, multi-course midday meal unencumbered by a serious reason for having one, or threatened by time constraints, is for me a greater pleasure than a similar dinner.  But we can’t lunch like Apicius everyday, and I wonder why, on those ordinary occasions, the unadorned sandwich is so rare.  Is it because, like those famously indulgent Romans, exotic ingredients and elaborate preparations were a sign of wealth?  Are multiple meats and spiced condiments a contemporary display of stature?  Or have we just forgotten how good an honest sandwich can be?

The pinnacle of lunchtime restraint.  

The Handsomest Glow

Two of a kind?  No; delightfully different

    Unless you count the occasional Connecticut shade cigar (my physician doesn’t), I do not smoke.  I am drawn to the paraphernalia though.  After your first, it’s difficult not to covet other vintage hotel ashtrays, though how many quirky soap dishes are necessary?  An interesting table-top match-strike at least can be used to light candles.  Cigarette cases can be exquisite, but they seem affected when used to carry business cards.  Repurposing often has that effect.

    In contrast, a finely made lighter is a beautiful object to admire and use.  I own two excellent examples that I carry regularly.  They are the same model—the iconic Rollagas by Dunhill—separated by forty years.  I like to put them side by side and study each carefully, quietly noting the small aesthetic differences.  I have recently decided there is more to learn here than immediately meets the eye.  Studying in reverse order of date of manufacture—the late 2000s and the late 1960s—is particularly revealing.

    The more recent of these two lighters is finished in a brilliant palladium.  Unlike white gold or silver, which retains some warmth, palladium has a pure white cast.  Some may suggest the effect is cold; to me it is in keeping with the aesthetic of more formal occasions when, at least for men, color should be limited, if not avoided altogether.  This is the lighter I carry when in formalwear, or short of that, when an occasion is equal parts formal and celebratory and my suit is too.  

    The surface pattern—what Dunhill rather charmingly describes as barleycorn—covers the entirety.  In what must be the engineering equivalent of bespoke pattern matching, the flip-top and body are aligned so precisely that the texture appears uninterrupted.  The corners of the lighter are mitered and the sum effect is brick-like, as if the finished object was hewn from a solid ingot of palladium.  The lighter is heavy for its size; I wonder sometimes if this was a contemporary design choice—a physical reminder that something luxurious inhabits your pocket.  

    The other (and first) Rollagas was a gift to my mother.  For years it languished in some forgotten drawer until, to my astonishment, I discovered it one Christmas Eve.  It was caked with candle wax and lint, and the striking mechanism was jammed.  I had it carefully reconditioned; it returned gleaming and gorgeously patinated.  The gold-plating is worn but not shabby; the mechanics are still responsive but comfortably broken-in; the same barleycorn surface, smoothed with age, feels frictionless, like the polished underbelly of a reptile.

    Obvious design differences abound.  The flip-top cap is untextured, with blunted corners that glide effortlessly in and out of the pocket.  In place of sharply mitered edges, a worn frame subtly delineates the textured planes.  Along with exposed hinges and a rear-mounted flame wheel, this design broadcasts the mechanics more honestly.  The result isn’t clumsy though; perhaps some combination of patina and color is responsible, but this one seems smaller and lighter in the hand.  It is certainly a subtler expression, better suited to ordinary occasions.

    Of course operating either requires the same series of elegant little gestures.   Once fished from a pocket (a lower waistcoat one is ideal) a flick of the thumb pops the cap with piston-activated efficiency.  The thumb then instinctively finds the roller, the deep grooves encouraging that familiar lateral flick.  The flame ignites its mark, and then, as if fed-up by all the grandeur, the index finger takes over, coldly snapping closed the cap with a satisfying, metallic clap.  The point is made especially well when asked for a light; the performance is over in seconds, but the memory burns far longer.

I spy half-a-dozen subtle design differences.  You?

The Paris Principle

A roasted pig's head has quite a bit of mild, tender meat.

    Several days into the Paris leg of our honeymoon, my wife and I were treated to dinner by another young couple—vague family acquaintances—at a small but respected neighborhood bistro.  Knowing we were rather adventurous, the husband ordered.  The dishes that arrived were challenging little preparations of offal, salted fish and mysterious vegetables.  My wife and I gamely ate, helped along by terrific wines, and by mid-meal were sure we had cemented an agreeable impression.  And then an innocent little gratin arrived.  Even before our host cracked the still-sizzling crust I detected the deep, barnyard aroma; when he did, out wafted the pungent rennet-like stench of sheep’s tripe.  My wife (and I seem to recall his) shot back from the table; this was obviously a challenge leveled at me, perhaps as retaliation for pushing back against his rather hostile politics.  He smiled as he spooned some onto my plate.  So I ate, and in eating learned an advanced point of etiquette.

    You must eat the offal; the insect; the desiccated meat; the very old egg.  You may think you have a choice—you may believe your host who suggests it is fine to welch on the whelks.  That offer is only a reaffirmation that some testing, whether intentional or not, is at hand.  The correct answer is to eat.  You need not scarf; just eat.  One bite won’t do; two bites might; three encounters with the thing in question should satisfy even the most observant host.  You must taste with enthusiasm, but not so much as to invite second helpings.  But more than good acting, familiarity with the most common offenders is important.

    Unless you grew up eating them, cured or fermented fish preparations are a difficult proposition.  Fish sauce, botarga, canned bait fish—these things look innocent, but pack a ripe, dock-side pungency which is difficult to ignore.  The trick, if it can be called that, is to remember that they are seasonings.  An anchovy on its own will unpleasantly fill your nostrils, but blended into a caesar dressing registers as indistinctly savory.  The same is true of botarga, which is grated as one would hard cheese, or fish sauce, which should be sparingly sprinkled.  

    Conversely, insects seem scary, but are innocuous.  Crickets are somewhat mushroomy; ants often lemony.  Larvae are bland but the texture—that of creme-filled fresh peas—can be challenging.  It’s no coincidence that bugs are often deep-fried, supplanting their own texture with a more familiar sort of crisp.  Seasoned while still hot from the fat, most bugs could pass as movie-theatre snacks.  One caveat: I  haven’t tried living insects, but I understand they tend to scamper to the back of the throat if not immediately crushed between molars.  Unless there is some gustatory advantage to eating the living, I will preserve that experience for my next survival scenario.  

    The current vogue for offal has no doubt ruined many a date as one party pushes pig trotters on the other in some macho attempt to seem cosmopolitan.   Variety meats and organs are historically budget cuts; that they are now a mark of sophistication at downtown restaurants is only the first layer of irony of contemporary dining.  Consider this: with few exceptions, well-prepared offal is approachable, rich and delicious and no more challenging than sushi.  When cooked for hours, feet, faces and tails yield the tenderest meats.  Bone marrow is no more potent than the drippings from a roast.  With the exception of those from a goat, I’ve found brains to be mild.  Strangely, commonly eaten organs, like kidneys and livers, tend to be strongly flavored, and a poor experience with one of those is perhaps the source of most squeamishness.  If newbies were instead broken on sweetbreads or beef tendons, I imagine chefs would have to look elsewhere to appear edgy.

    Finally: hosting.  I don’t think pushing challenging food on people is polite, and even less so when there is an audience.  You may indeed make terrific blood sausage; forcing house guests to eat it first thing in the morning is poor form.  My table often features unusual food, but for every advanced dish is something familiar.  Interestingly, pickier eaters are often coaxed from their shells when just left alone.  Leave pushiness to Gitanes-smoking Parisians bent on embarrassing newlyweds.

Crickets are mild and crisp.  Coming soon to a theatre near you?

The Desert Island Bunch

    Though the thought gives me mild palpitations, had I to forsake all others in favor of a single cloth bunch, I’m not sure I could do better than the H. Lesser 311 book.  This isn’t one of those far-ranging bunches, like Golden Bale, containing everything from gossamer tropicals through to beefy flannels.  Rather these cloths all fall in around 11 or 12 ounces—a weight the cover deems “lightweight worsteds”—which is on the upper edge of middle-weight cloth by today’s standards.  They don’t feel it though; some combination of weaving and finishing gives these a lighter-than-listed appeal.  

    Fans of British worsteds will almost immediately notice that this bunch lacks the very dry hand characteristic of the genre.  In its place is an elusive softness, a certain broken-in character that, while lacking in crispness, has still retained its guts.  Perhaps this is what much stouter worsteds look like after several years of loving wear?  

    The patterns are classic though: bold pinstripes, subtler rope stripes, faint windowpanes, sharkskins, herringbones and a dizzying array of solids.  The plain and over-checked birdseyes are perhaps the highlight, the weave allowing some extra softness, and the glen checks are sprinkled throughout in perhaps a dozen shades and configurations.  The back of the book contains what I think of as the hobbyist’s corner—a dozen bold and unusual cloths reserved for those whose wardrobes have all the basics deeply covered.  

    The sum?  A comprehensive bunch that is neither too heavy nor too light; neither too crisp nor too soft; neither too conservative nor too wild.  Is this the elusive all-season cloth most enthusiasts agree doesn’t exist?  Has the grail been hiding in plain sight?  Or is this just the right bunch with which to be marooned on a desert island?  Only a dozen suits can decide.

Iron Will

Two hands are better than one, especially when finessing the collar.   

    It’s no coincidence that some thoughts on pressing shirts should be published on a Sunday.  Like shining shoes, or tending to one’s vegetable garden, these labors of love are best tackled by regular appointment.  Speed-pressing a favorite white broadcloth as the grace period for a reservation dwindles will only result in lackluster results and spoiled appetites.  Besides, grace periods are for second aperitifs.

    At the risk of sounding like a middle school phys-ed teacher, properly pressing a shirt requires the correct mental attitude.  Is pressing a chore?  Probably.  But reluctance in the approach will no doubt manifest in a creased placket or neglected collar.  As in cleaning shirts, I again urge creating the correct atmosphere: entertainment, beverages and a surmountable quota.  Moreover, think of pressing as a step toward personal style; flawless collars, tubular cuffs and a yoke with some volume just look better than the flat-pressed pancakes most men unwittingly endure.

    The final and perhaps most important aspect to pressing is equipment.  Three items are mandatory: a sturdy, wide-bodied ironing board with a clean cover; a quality misting bottle; an iron.  The first two are readily available at your usual home-goods stores, although look online if the boards offered are rickety.  Irons deserve an essay of their own, but I will skip straight to the conclusion: buy The Classic Iron from B&D. I’m loathe to recommend anything by name, but this is an exception I can stomach.  I have experimented with them all, from expensive German models to Japanese prototypes; nothing even comes close in a performance/value ratio.

   I considered creating a detailed instruction manual, but abandoned the idea in favor of a more helpful list of vital aspects of technique.  This assumes, of course, a rough understanding of the physics of ironing.  If you really are a novice, though, you hold the thing by the end which isn't hot.  

Work from the largest surface areas to the smallest.  The order in which a shirt is pressed might look like this: back panel, left side seam, left front panel, right side seam, right from panel, yoke, collar, left sleeve, left cuff, right sleeve, right cuff.  Avoid arranging and rearranging the shirt; pressing is about momentum.

Use the misting bottle regularly, but not to the point of saturation.  Shirts are easily ironed when damp, but if wet the iron tends to bite and crease the cloth.  Pay particular attention to dampening the seams.

Pressing is a two handed activity.  One hand holds the iron, the other should be used to put tension on the shirt.  This is especially important as you try and stretch shrunken seams back to size or crease your sleeves.  

Pressing should give dimension to flat cloth.  Use the end of the board to press shape into the shoulders.  Use your free hand to stabilize the shirt as you press volume into the shirt’s yoke.  Running the tip of the iron back and forth inside a cuff creates curve that hugs the wrist.  Cuffs should never be pressed flat.  

Unfused collars need special attention as it is easy to crease the excess cloth.  The best method is to tamp the collar down with the full surface area of the iron rather than running the iron along its length.  This will distribute the  cloth allowance without creasing.  

Give the front panels a touchup after the shirt is on its hangar—it will have rumpled a bit during the process.  This will ensure a clean front when the shirt is needed in a hurry.   

    Few sights inspire pride like a row of freshly laundered and pressed shirts.  No, that’s not quite right.  Considering the alternative, few sights inspire relief.

Pressed and ready for service.

The Bowl of Plenty

A bowl of the good stuff.

    Buying baguettes, boules, ciabattas or anything else not pre-sliced and packaged will, at some point, raise the question of what to do with that which goes stale.  Pitching it, of course, is not an option—so how to handle the steady accumulation?  I keep a big metal bowl of the stuff,  half full at any given moment and often brimming.  Stale bread, alongside oil and salt, is one of my more relied-upon pantry items.  

    Croutons are the most obvious application, and should be reserved for the freshest of the stale bread.  This has less to do with flavor than it does with safety; cutting very hard, stale bread is risky, even for those with developed skills.  A heavy chef’s knife works best here.  Use the heel of your free hand to knock the back of the blade until it bites, then push through.  Don’t focus on uniformity; a little variety in your croutons will signal they are homemade.  Fry them in plenty of butter or good olive oil, seasoning with salt, pepper and, if you wish, dried herbs.  These are particularly delicious if served while still hot.  For salad, add half the croutons prior to tossing and the rest after plating.  This way some will remain perfectly crisp while others will soak up the vinaigrette.  

    Bread crumbs are far more fun.  To make them you will need a clean apron, a stout rolling pin and a hard surface.  Wrap whatever stale scraps you have in the apron and let them have it.  Frying pans, cricket bats and empty Champagne bottles are just as effective.  Toddlers are good to have on hand as well; they will appreciate the excitement far more than your neighbors.  The most obvious advantage to the homemade route is the control you have over the crumb—just cease bashing when you’ve reached the desired level of pulverization.  

    Uses are innumerable.  Deep-frying requires bread crumbs to form the crunchy exterior, but in the case of  fritters and such, can be used in binding the wet ingredients.  If you don’t mind being associated with the late 90’s, bread crumbs are also crucial in crusting things.  My favorite of these dated preparations goes like this: scale and de-bone a whole salmon laying it flat on a  greased sheet pan.  Prepare a paste of bread crumbs, chopped shallots, minced parsley, dijon mustard, softened butter, white wine, salt and white pepper.  Pack this mixture on the flesh side of the salmon and cook for twenty minutes in a hot oven.  

    Milk or stock-soaked bread has a fancy name—panade—and is classically used in everything from forcemeat to soup, efficiently thickening or providing moisture.  Irregular pieces of stale bread can be soaked in milk, stock or wine and incorporated into meatball and meatloaf preparations.  This technique all but guaranties a moist result as the bread mush bastes from the inside while cooking.  And really is the concept so unfamiliar?  Most Americans eat stuffing at least once each year, and what is stuffing but stock-enriched stale bread and vegetables?  

The 90s called, they want their crusted salmon back.  

   Sadly, some bread is beyond use.  While an open metal bowl and airy storage prevents mold, some higher-gluten bread seems to petrify instead of going stale.  Rather than risk a filling, I like to return that which cannot be used to the wild in the form of bird feed.  The massive city crows that swoop in for these scraps have formidable beaks and I've often watched as they reduce even the largest, toughest pieces to crumbs.   They seem to enjoy it, and it certainly fattens them up...   Maybe those stalest scraps serve a purpose after all.

A Pattern Emerges

A herringbone at its subtlest. 

    In addition to having exciting names, variegated cloths, in my experience, make desirable garments.  The distinguishing feature to birdseyes, nailheads, sharkskins and herringbones is that the patterns are a function of weave more than anything else.  This differs from something like a pinstripe or windowpane, in which yarns of a different color contrast with the dominant ground color thereby creating pattern.  Of course a weave-generated pattern can also employ two or more shades, but the effect still tends to be subtle because the scale is small and the density of the contrast high enough that the cloth blends from even a few feet away.

Careful, sharkskins are always sharp.

     This really is what is meant by semi-solid, a confounding expression if I’ve ever heard one.  The term I prefer, variegated, comes with connotations of irregularity, and I think that is correct.  Just as a brick facade might give the impression of a dusty red, random variance in the individual bricks make looking at it interesting.  The eye seems to like recognizing tonal arrangements, particularly when, rather than a flat presentation, some dimension is involved.  Cloth, like bricks, has dimension, and so reflects light in a dynamic way, enticing the eye to steal second and third glances as the effect changes.  Suits in these cloths (particularly at the lighter end of the spectrum) are versatile, tending to look very different from day into evening, seemingly absorbing cues from the surroundings.  In fact, a single-breasted  blue birdseye might be one of the great staple suits.  

    Sadly, the versatility isn't equally distributed.  Herringbones are perhaps alone in so easily crossing between formal and casual applications.  Depending on scale, finish and color, the weave can be found in heavy overcoats, conservative suits, tweed odd jackets—even formal wear.  Birdseyes and Nailheads really only seem to work as worsted suiting, but once made up glide easily from conservative settings to more casual ones depending on shirt, tie and accessories.  They are excellent travel suits for this reason.  Conversely, I can’t imagine sharkskin in anything other than a conservative setting; I’ve seen casual, high-contrast versions, but the effect seems to quarrel with the sober essence of the weave.

A birdseye view.

 Often confused with nailhead, this pindot is a true chameleon, changing from mid-grey in sun to almost charcoal by night.  

    These matters are hard to describe though, and even accurate images won’t honestly convey character.  This is likely why all those apps intended to help coordinate suit, tie and shirt are always a failure; a screen just can’t replicate the liveliness and dimension of real cloth.  Old Apparel Arts issues understood this, often coming with swatch clippings pasted directly to the illustrations.  This is a charming, low-tech solution, but in my experience there is no substitute for spending an hour with a comprehensive cloth book. Just try and keep all those colorful names straight.

Shirts: The Ecstasy

An ambitious half dozen for the advanced shirt launderer.

    If part one argued that ignorance and received wisdom were to blame for the routine abuse of shirts, this installation must begin with the following disclaimer: If you can find in your area a cleaner that will carefully launder and hand-press your shirts for a reasonable price, congratulations, you need not read further.  

    For everyone else, shirts are a personal burden.  The good news is tending to them is far less a nuisance than you might expect.  Particularly when a few steps are followed to ensure the atmosphere is correct.  To begin, limit your allotment to four shirts (more and you’ll feel like Oliver Twist).  Whether a football game or a live recording of Art Blakey, entertainment is required.  Lastly, beer is the best beverage for tending to your shirts as it quenches thirst without the threat of permanent stains.  

    One more note before the nuts and bolts.  We seem to have collectively forgotten that shirts are underwear—a garment worn next to the skin in protection of far costlier outer wear.   A suit is expensive, and so a comparatively inexpensive, launder-able barrier is worn.  That these intermediaries can be fashioned from long-staple cotton or burlap-like oxford isn’t terribly important.  What counts is the shirt’s placement on the totem pole—which is to say, a few notches up from your briefs, but several below your favorite suit.  I can’t say why precisely, but once you start thinking of shirts as underwear, dealing with them becomes an agreeable affair.  

 1)  Sort shirts according to color.  The most important separation is whites from any other shirt with even a trace of color.  Group blues together and the any other colors.  

 2)  Remove accessories.  You do not want to spend your time peering into the drum of a washing machine in search of a missing shirt stud.  This includes collar stays (another thing commercial operations neglect to do).  

 3)  Stack shirts unbuttoned and face up.  Align them by their collars and give a few good shakes, permitting arms to dangle freely.  Lay flat next to the sink.

 4)  Run hot water in open sink.  Using a natural bristle spotting brush and a bar of natural soap, gently work a barber’s lather into the collar band, armpits and cuffs of each shirt.  Do not scrub. Wrap each soaped shirt onto itself and put to the side.  

 5) Fill the sink with warm water.  Soak the soaped shirts for an hour, agitating as necessary.  Drain.  

 6)  Launder shirts on the gentlest, coldest setting (usually marked hand wash, cold) using a very gentle, detergent-free laundry soap like Forever New.

 7)  Hang on quality hangers until dry.  Doing so outside will leave your shirts particularly fresh.  

You now have gently cleaned, wrinkled shirts.  Pressing, about which could be written a book, will be covered in the coming days.

Pig bristles and natural white soap are best for gently working the ring out of your collar.  

Shirts: The Agony

A ghastly scene at the heart of a commercial laundry.  The levers to the lower left operate an inflatable air press.  

    People do strange things to their shirts.  I know an infrequent wearer who, when the need arrises, quickly washes one by hand then presses it while damp.  If nothing else, the effect is consistent: limp.  Another friend has his shirts heavily starched.  He resembles a sandwich-board-man with a chaffed neck.  A third dry-cleans his shirts in the false belief that doing so will help preserve his expensive collection.   At six times the cost of laundering, his collection becomes more expensive weekly.  

    Does the standard dress shirt suffer these abuses at a greater rate than other garments?  I think so.  Why, I’m not entirely certain, although I suspect some dangerous mixture of ignorance and received wisdom about garment care is to blame. 

    In order to make a worthwhile profit laundering shirts, a cleaner must process individual units very cheaply.  This means the minimum handling necessary to achieve passable results.  A typical passage looks something like this: shirts are tagged, roughly sorted according to color, and laundered in a very hot, very caustic solution with dozens of others.  They are then dried to damp and pressed using a number of devices that put efficiency before care.  The shirts are regrouped (assuming they have retained their tags) put on wire hangars, lashed together with a twist-tie, bagged in polyurethane and squeezed onto a rack.  The goal is to process as many shirts an hour as possible; fifty is competitive volume.  

    Now I don’t begrudge cleaners the right to make money laundering shirts.  The problem clearly starts with the consumer who is unwilling to pay a reasonable sum for the service.  The industry has therefore organized around value and speed rather than quality and care.  Of course, this same consumer will be upset when shirts are returned with smashed buttons or blown-out elbows.  Blame will fall on the cleaner who will be made to reimburse or suffer the wrath of some breathless online review.  Consider this though: all garments eventually fail.  If cotton shirts are commercially laundered with some frequency this will occur at an alarming rate.  The real question is who is responsible for this unhappy cycle—the consumer who requires same-day laundered and pressed shirts for peanuts, or the industry who efficiently meets that demand, damaging a fraction of a percent of the total that pass through?  

    But what other options exist?  Perhaps, out of frustration with commercial laundering, you have entrusted your shirts to a wife, or girlfriend or, heaven forbid, a family member.  This is almost as unwise as handing them over to a stranger for communal boiling.  While this arrangement might begin well, at some stage it will end poorly, either when bleach ruins a favorite tattersall, or when you say the wrong thing about how your marcella evening shirts are being pressed.  And then what?  Divorce?  An amendment to the will?  

A so-called spotting table, for the removal of stubborn stains.  Many shirts suffered a terrible fate here.  

     Other fishy practices.  Dry cleaning, which is to say using petrochemicals to clean, will leave cotton gray, lifeless and curiously damp—not the desired result for so expensive a procedure.  As for starch, it rarely dissolves properly when re-laundered, building up and stressing the cotton fiber.  Worse, it prevents shirts from breathing, which defeats the premise of keeping things crisp.  And then there are magical bottled potions which may or may not remove stains; they will certainly be heavily perfumed and expensive.

     I’m afraid this leaves one clear solution (short of hiring a valet): the shirt-wearer must learn to tend to his/her own shirts.  The second installment in this series proposes a universal procedure for doing just that. 

Blue Wrapsody

The party DB at the basted stage.

    The first few months of any new year is when wedding invitations (or at least save-the-dates) start appearing, and so far a number of hefty ones have been plonked down in our mailbox.  We are honored, of course, but there are those of a certain disposition whose minds almost immediately turn to dress and whether or not the old wardrobe can accommodate.  When one considers the variables involved—location, time of year, time of day, venue—the wedding can quickly become a challenging event for the clothes-conscious guest.

    But the real moment of pause occurs when scanning the remainder of the invitation one encounters an opaque phrase like Formal.  In the classic sense, formal means nothing short of white tie and tails.  Common sense (or unfortunate experience) suggests this isn’t what’s meant, so one may consider the tuxedo.  This is usually also incorrect; in the US the F word refers to a suit.  When Black tie is Suggested, Encouraged, Optional or indeed anything short of Required, most men wear suits.  In any case, phone calls are inevitably made between guests and eventually the bride herself, or her mother, will intervene.  This is too bad; there was a time when people just knew.

    I like a black tie wedding, but the truth is they are going the way of morning dress weddings in the US.  There is practicality to consider—most ceremonies take place in the early afternoon when tuxedoes aren’t correct—but the real reasons have more to do with an increasingly casual culture, and, to a lesser extent, fear of appearing elitist.

    For those with a greater sense of occasion, however, all is not lost.  One may choose to wear a suit styled with more formal details.  At the top of this category is probably a dark three piece with peaked lapels.  If the waistcoat is double breasted, the effect would be particularly grand.  This suit is perhaps one notch below the tuxedo, and for some, that may just be the problem as its relative formality reduces its utility.  For me, a double breasted in a plain or subtle self-weave seems a smarter choice, ideally in navy for its ability to appear rich, subdued and celebratory in equal parts.  And double breasted, for that configuration’s ability to appear formal and somewhat undone at the same time, something that must stem from the classical tension between the wrapped asymmetry and symmetrical buttons.  

    Now this is not a novel idea, but what separates a standard navy suit from the consummate party suit is the cloth. The right shade of navy is crucial.  Dark, true navies always look smart but can seem too severe in the afternoon.  A navy that has been permitted to retain more blue is better, as long as one doesn’t cross the invisible line that divides navies from blues.  How to know?  One must spend hours comparing similar swatches in every conceivable way until one is certain of the differences.  No, really.

    Chris Despos (my tailor) and I spent three full hours with what the casual observer would have noted were dozens of near identical swatches of navy suiting.  We ran between, dim, artificial and natural lighting.  We set several up about the room to determine how each rendered at varying distances.  I held many against my skin while gazing silently into a mirror like some vain pantomime.  It was a trying experience, but just when I thought I was losing grasp of the objective, my awareness of the subtleties suddenly peaked, and before me no longer lay countless scraps of navy cloth but a handful of real contenders whose differences where as dramatic as a book of tartan plaids.

    The winning cloth is a rich navy in a fine twill from H. Lesser’s Lumbs Golden Bale.  The cloth is a solid navy, although the subtle diagonal rib lends a certain surface interest, and the depth of color is extraordinary.  Some may take issue with the weight (10/11 ounces) considering this suit will often be worn in the summer, but I feel that is a small tariff considering the benefits of drape and longevity.  I fully expect to be wearing this suit in fifteen years.  Of course what conventional wedding dress will look like then is anyone’s guess.

The party DB relaxing before an evening out.

Ivy the Terrible

This innocent tendril will one day strangle my neighbor's ficus.

    I’m really more of a boxwood person, but I must admit a certain nostalgic delight when I see old-growth ivy.  And by ivy I am speaking of English Ivy, of the Hedera family.  This is important; most of what we see in this country, though commonly referred to as Boston Ivy, is in reality closely related to the grape vine—a different type of creeper altogether.  In fact, and I’m sure to put some backs up when I say this, Wrigley Field’s luxuriously green outfield wall isn’t, if we want to be precise, “ivy-covered.”  It’s covered in a pleasant mixture of Boston and Japanese Bittersweet.  And I can’t speak for each institution comprising the Ivy League, but I imagine much of the building foliage is of the Boston rather than the English variety.  One might just assume the “creeping-grape-vine league” didn’t quite have the same cache.  

    Nostalgia aside, Boston Ivy (of University and outfield fame) is the far handsomer species, with its broad, waxy leaves that ripen to majestic hues as the season turns.  Boston Ivy uses gentle suckers to quickly establish itself, and can be trained and cut back with ease.  It is decorative and almost geometric when allowed to flourish, and can be a pleasure to propagate.

Evergreen: Hedera can weather even harsh winters.  

    By contrast, the English stuff (Hedera) is far woodier, with smaller, tougher leaves, usually outlined in cream, and punctuated by the occasional cluster of mildly toxic berries.  It chooses to climb in the cruelest way a creeper can; Hedera forces its tendrils into the crevices of structures, or trees, or fences, or whatever meekly shares its space, swelling each to gain its purchase.  Once established, it coils itself tightly with little regard for its host.  Mighty, 200-year old oaks succumb to Hedera by way of a five-year strangulation.  Given time, Hedera will peel the roof from a house.  It is the ivy that will cover the planet after we are gone.

    Hedera is also the ivy of my childhood, when I spent summers tramping through Wepre Wood, in Flintshire, Wales.  This is a medieval wood, with cold, running brooks, and deep, unfound creases.   There is a 13th century castle, and a modest waterfall said to be haunted by a murdered nun.  And everywhere ivy: roots with the girth of tree trunks, impenetrable thickets obscuring the geography, and groping new growth, blindly searching every rock face.  In one favorite spot the ivy ran in a tangled mass up a sheer dirt bank, enticing my cousins and me to use its sinuous offshoots to pull ourselves to the top.  There it would thin out, desultory, blanketing a clearing, and for a moment, appear harmless.  But I knew better; it was both lord and tenant of those old woods, and had been for a thousand years.  When those summers would end, and it would suddenly be time to return to the States, I would desperately consider hiding a cutting in my backpack.  I imagined it would sprout, and soon spread, lending its wildness to the tame and immature woods behind our house.  

    And this is the point really about English ivy.  It possesses an implied longevity that we all recognize, and some of us admire.  The oldest, gnarliest specimens suggest time has passed not in years, but over generations.  When it has overrun a structure, thickly matting the architecture, it can be thoroughly transformative.  No longer do we see a building that has been erected and then covered.  Instead we encounter something that has risen from the earth, pulling the ground cover with it, and through unknown mantle forces, has established itself in a field.  

    Growing it though is another matter entirely.  If it takes hold it will most certainly kill something, and if denied that pleasure, it will find a fence to dismember or a perfectly good shed to warp.  Of course, if these things don’t bother you, then there is really no substitute for suggesting permanence.  I bought a few pots of it several summers back with just this idea in mind—an ugly, barren wall needed cover.  It died within nine months.  And with that passing I had learned two more lessons of this ancient species.  One, hedera needs something to crush or strangle.  Give it a trellis at the very least.  Secondly, do not buy hedera.  Instead, find the oldest hedera-covered building in your area, and when no one is looking, relieve it of a cutting.  Hedera is an unruly thing, and somehow it seems to appreciate when its benefactor is also willing to run a little wild.

Quick, while no one is looking...

In the Pink

    Pink wine, like a pink shirt, is for an unserious occasion.  Both are personal favorites, which makes the coming weeks exciting.  Spring is the best time for pink.  As it happens, a recent birthday brought a length of pink chambray shirting as a gift, and, as if these things are cosmically prearranged, several bottles of rosé, rosato and rosado.

    Whether French, Italian or Spanish, and despite the wide range of styles, I find most pink wines function similarly: they stand in as softer, fleshier substitutes for white wines that might have too much acidic backbone for whatever food they accompany.  This is because pink wine is made from red grapes, the tint of color being determined by how long the pressed juice is left in contact with the grape skins.  In this sense one might think of pink wine as red wine light—an approachable chilled version with traces of the red varietal’s character.  That’s not to say they are typically complex wines; the appeal of pink wine is that it asks very little of the person drinking it.

    They should be served chilled, but need not be kept cold for the duration.  They are good picnic choices for this reason.  In fact, pink wine has always struck me as daytime wine.  As long as you don’t encounter anything more serious than quiche, or perhaps a ham sandwich, pink wine navigates lunchtime menus confidently.  And while they don’t exactly flounder in the evening, perhaps some of their pretty charm fades with the light.  

    Pink shirts pose more of a challenge.  I find they are strictly daytime shirts, and casual ones at that.  This insistence dictates everything from the type of cloth (ones with texture and noticeable weaves are preferred) to styling details (namely, barrel cuffs and casual collars).  One of my more cherished shirts is a nubby royal oxford with semi-spread collar and barrel cuffs.  I have to limit myself wearing it so it does not prematurely wear out—which is difficult as it works casually with everything: light gray suits, navy blazers, cream linen trousers, beneath a charcoal cashmere sweater.  

    And here is where I am running into a style dilemma.  The cloth sent me as a gift is a lovely chambray from Simonot Goddard (via A Suitable Wardrobe).  The chambray I've encountered has a casual, even workwear aspect to it, but this version is utterly refined.  So refined, in fact, that I am seriously tempted to have it made into a pair of French cuffed shirts.  But I usually reserve this more formal style of shirt for evening, so when and how these would be worn I’m not sure.  Sometimes a cloth rides roughshod over whatever notions have typically defined it. 

I’m open to suggestions.  Below, for inspiration, is a small gallery of pink wine, shirts and cloth.

The Ethics of Old

A ghost of its former self.  A facsimile of the original oxford, which is now just a white shirt.  Or is it?

    After a decade of frequent wear, my favorite house shoes have yielded.  They were mock Alberts; velvet uppers and a quilted satin interior qualified them as house shoes, but rather than the stiff sole and built up heel typical of the genre, these were softly constructed with suede bottoms.  The Italian luxury bedding name Frette made them; (the Italians really are universally good at making stylish versions of fusty classics).  Nevertheless, and with little ceremony, they were photographed, then binned.  The event made me think though: When is something beyond repair?  

    I usually preach a mend-and-make-do gospel, from multiple resolings to fearless patching.  Frugality, I have learned, can be appealing beyond the long term savings, creating a certain stylishness of its own, particularly when the repaired item is obviously of good quality.  I have been inspired by photographs of well-attired royals wearing obviously mended clothing and shoes.  I even became a vocal advocate of mending things during time spent in the garment care business (admittedly, this made more idealogical sense than business sense as the margins on repairs of this sort are razor thin).  But a limit must exist—a moment in which something silently moves from fixable to forsaken.

    For me, this limit is defined by sentimentality.  An item to be mended must be able to reenter my active rotation.  If I catch myself contemplating a repair to something that will result in a long retirement to some forgotten closet space, I either donate it, or if not suitable for donation, try and recycle it some other way.  My wife’s sewing kit is full of scraps of good cloth, salvaged buttons and strips of leather, which might seem a grisly end, but is so useful an asset as to alleviate any shame.  

    I wonder if there aren’t universal guidelines though—some map for navigating the forked path between mending for reasons of economy and style and the lonely offshoots of sentimentality and shabbiness?  I don’t claim the following to be universal or complete, but here are my criteria:

-Under oath, are you being sentimental, or practical?

-Is the item irreversibly soiled?  Paint-stained clothing is unusable.  If you must paint: coveralls.  

-Is the item too small or tight--even past the point of alteration?  Promises to fit into things are depressing.  Bin.

-Will the cost of repair exceed the cost of replacement?  Persian rugs can be antique; a suit just becomes old and, one day, unusable.  

-Will the repairs significantly alter the appealing character of the original?  This is the test my beloved Italian house shoes failed; glueing all that velvet down would have made them stiff.  

    Of course one can get lost in ideology of this sort too.  My favorite shirt is actually only a metaphysical figment.  It began life as a blue-and white bengal striped oxford, and when the cuffs and collar frayed beyond respectability, I replaced them with new white oxford.  Then the shirt body became thread bare, so I replaced that with the same white oxford.  It is now a white oxford shirt; it is also my favorite old bengal striped oxford.  What I’ll do when this iteration frays I do not know.  Maybe I’ll have it bronzed.

Farewell, my friends!  I shall remember you like this (or if preferred, like new).