Après Snooze Booze

A (deeply) Bruised Mary.  

    Alcohol in the AM has a spotty reputation.  Most consider the practice a cure for the common hangover.  Those who have experimented in this capacity know how foolish this deal with the devil really is, offering a short-lived reprieve while the hurt reconnoiters for a grander assault in an hour’s time.  The other misuse of the morning cocktail is its overindulgence: breakfast is not cocktail hour, and yet rarely a sunday brunch passes where I don’t witness a table of adults ordering mimosas by the dozen.  One might be nice, but three?
    Speaking of mimosas, here is an example of a classic that is better in theory than it is in practice.  I have only respect for its components: orange juice is essential to my mornings and Champagne is of course a long-time favorite.  Funny things happen when you mix them though.  The latter loses all its nuance while somehow making the former taste like synthetic fruit punch.  The result is cloying and too sweet and no matter how carefully poured unfailingly results in sticky stemware.  Guests to my brunches receive what I have renamed the deconstructed mimosa: one small glass of fresh orange juice and a very much separate flute of nonvintage Champagne.  

    If the desire persists to actually mix something, try a Salty Dog.  To begin, moisten the rims of several rocks glasses, dipping each into a mound of sea salt.  Set aside to dry.  When your thirsty guests arrive fill the salted glasses with ice, two ounces of gin and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice.  The result is thrilling—almost too much so for the morning.  Beware though, that many consider the use of gin incorrect, insisting a Salty Dog is just a salted Greyhound (grapefruit and vodka).  They may be correct, but gin, with its botanical pungency, is obviously superior in this instance.  Besides, vodka should be reserved for the grand-mammy of breakfast cocktails—the Bloody Mary—a recipe sadly open to an unflattering degree of interpretation 

    The main problem with most Bloody Mary mixes I’ve encountered is they ignore the essential tomato flavor that makes the cocktail so good.  Some are fiery to the point of unpleasantness, some so sweet they make the teeth ache; others have foreign and unwelcome ingredients, like banana pepper and curry.  These, in my opinion, all miss the point.  A good Bloody, tastes, first and foremost, of fresh tomato and premium vodka.  Seasonings should slightly enhance things, without obscuring either.  The moment I can no longer detect the two ingredients that make this union holy, I know something has gone awry.  

    My preferred method for creating a gentler Bloody Mary—what I like to think of as a Bruised-But-Not-Bloodied-Mary—begins with a can of Italian whole Roma tomatoes.  The juice in which these are packed has the brightest, freshest tomato flavor I can find, short, of course, of a similar preparation made from garden tomatoes plucked from their vine prior to cocktail time.  If you wish to make the latter at the crack of dawn, by all means, go ahead; the rest of us will sleep another hour.

Bruised Mary

Large can of Italian Roma Tomatoes

Bottle of premium Russian Vodka

Bottle of Russian Imperial Stout

Freshly cracked black pepper

Cayenne pepper

Celery batons

Salt

Empty the can of tomatoes into a blender or food processor with 1 tablespoon of sea salt.  Carefully pulse until loose.  Strain the tomato mass over a stainless steel bowl for half an hour at room temperature, stirring occasionally (reserve the pulp for later use).  Add several grinds of black pepper to bowl.  Using the tip of a paring knife, add scant amounts of cayenne tasting as necessary.  The goal is something with trace heat—not discernible fire.  When satisfied, cover and set aside at room temperature.  At time of service, fill highball glasses with ice and two ounces of vodka.  Stir tomato mixture and top each glass.  Float one tablespoon of stout in each glass, add clean celery batons and serve.

The Deconstructed Mimosa is a civilized start to the day.  

Finish with Cream

Replacements, this time in a lovely Holland & Sherry cream linen.

    My favorite off-the-rack trousers I have ever worn were a linen and cotton blend in a relatively trim Italian cut.  They aged wonderfully, acquiring tufted edges with the softness of silver-belly felt.  I wore them to pieces, had them stitched back together and patched over, and wore them to pieces once more.  Though loved, time persevered and it was with sadness at the start of this spring that I decided they would be removed from my rotation.  Mandatory and permanent retirement to my wife’s sewing scrap box, I’m afraid.  

    After a barely tasteful period of mourning, I set about thinking just what made those trousers beloved so as I may replace them as quickly as possible.  Was it the cut?  Not likely; they were noticeably slimmer through the leg and lower rise than what I prefer.  Was it the cloth?  I don’t think so; cotton/linen blends tend to be a compromise between coolness and wrinkle resistance, achieving neither any better than when apart.  The necessity of a belt left me cold, as I prefer side adjusters, and the zipper, for one reason or another, was prone to jams.  That left color—cream.

    It suddenly was clear: cream trousers are practical!  Of course this contradicts almost every sage piece of advice in the book, from avoiding things that are memorable to favoring colors that effectively mask the occasional mark.  But it’s difficult to argue with a color that compliments so much; I challenge skeptical readers to suggest a shirt or jacket shade cream doesn’t agree with.  Red perhaps?  Who has red shirts or jackets?  Navy, bottle green, brown, tan, gray, white—cream looks correct beneath any of these.  And though some may object, I think both brown and black shoes are complimented by a cream cuff.  

    As anyone who has asked for a room to painted “white” knows, shades at this end of the spectrum are infinite and challenging to pin down.  Some creams are yellower than others, some are near white.  Few look like fresh cream.  Names (bone, mayonnaise, pith, ivory, tallow) while charming, aren’t much help.  Then there is the matter of type of cloth; cream linen has different qualities to cream flannel or gaberdine.  The only advice I can offer is to look at many and set aside those to which you are continually drawn.  For me the right cream is luminous with a glowing, happy character that reflects a lively light.  Simple really.

    There is one hot question amongst all this zeal for cream though.  What about gray—that traditional all-purpose trouser color?  As excited as I am about my revelation, I would not part with any of my cherished gray trousers.  Which probably means cream trousers should be considered a finishing touch to your trouser wardrobe.  Here is the distinction as I see it: cream is the useful  off-the-clock counterpart to the far more serious gray trouser.  Or, if preferred, expressed in a snappy little pneumonic: 

Work needs gray;

Cream needs play.

Driven Mad

This center-lane pedestrian sign was sheered from its base after an encounter with a driver who doesn't recognize the crosswalk.  

    At first glance I suppose the limits of this particular forum might seem stretched by delving into road etiquette.  Stick to lobster and loafers, I can hear more devoted readers chiming.  But isn’t there some connection behind the appreciation of good clothes, nice food and etiquette generally?  That we should practice some elevated sense of the latter when captaining a one-ton machine seems logical.  And what is the point of any personal upkeep if there is no aspiration toward style?  Physical fitness, a pleasing diet, even the maintenance of a clean and well-fitting wardrobe is easy.  But the intangibles are always a truer measure of character.  In short, driving well is absolutely an expression of style.  

    Now before criticism arrises suggesting that I am in favor of draining the fun from driving, let me say this:  I almost cannot believe that there are still speed limits on the deserted and largely straight highways that hash this vast land, and little appeals like the combination of a short-throw manual, six cylinders and a winding road.  But there is a vast chasm between savoring the drive and driving like a high school senior in brief possession of his father’s sedan.  If the latter is to be avoided, low-hanging fruit is plentiful.  Here are a few easily corrected missteps.

 1)  Four hundred (plus) horsepower is only as useful as your ability to maintain a constant rate.  Most have witnessed the highway driver who hammers along for a few thousand yards only to drop back while fiddling with the onboard electronics.  Noticing he has fallen behind, he punches the accelerator again, his capable engine rocketing him ahead of the pack once more.  This continues until his destination is reached—about five minutes after drivers capable of keeping their feet on the gas have reached theirs.  

 2)  That short lever mounted on the right of the steering column is an indicator.  I’m almost certain its neglect is the result of its name, which connotes courtesy and predictability—two qualities that have fallen from favor, especially, it seems, in the minds of those traveling at speed on the highway.  I always have to shake my head and smile when I see a fast German import sliding, un-indicated, across three lanes of traffic.  Doesn’t the driver realize that his indicator is designed for high-speed autobahn driving?  If the time had been taken to understand his vehicle he would have learned that an extended finger can nudge the indicator without having to remove a hand from the wheel; the exterior lamps will flash three times before shutting off—ample warning to other experienced drivers.  Poor fellow: what other pleasures of his excellent car does he go without?

 3)  Speaking of the autobahn, another lesson from those venerable roads goes unheeded in this country: the lanes on a highway are not just three identical, forward-moving options to be selected at random.  The left-most is for passing at speed, the center for general travel and the right is for entering and exiting the highway.  This is such a simple concept and yet if the question was asked at random I’d wager no more than 10% would answer correctly.  I’m not an expert, but it seems most heavy traffic could be avoided if this rule was rigorously enforced—say a month-long suspension of your license for toodling along in the left lane or trying to pass on the right.  

 4)  That generous swathe of white paint spanning the road ahead of you is a pedestrian crossing.  If there are pedestrians present (these are people who have lost their cars) you are required to stop before the paint and permit passage.  I must admit that this is a particular peeve of mine.  As an inveterate walker I, along with other like-minded individuals, have lobbied for the installation of crosswalks in my immediate neighborhood following a series of frightening hits and near-misses.  Lo-and-behold, it worked: paint appeared, and along with flashing lights and little flexible signs between the lanes all looked solved.  Sadly, a few months on and only one of those center-lane signs remains—the rest have been mangled or launched into the foliage by drivers who had never before encountered this strange new “pedestrian crossing.”

Apart from regularly being used, the German rear indicator lamp differs little from other blinkers.  

Armoire So Far

    An expanding family, a move, a renovation—the storage arrangement of one’s clothes is at the mercy of these and other changes.  I have watched as my wearables have been shunted from a master closet to a spare bedroom closet (following marriage), to an office closet (following our firstborn) to a relative state of homelessness (following our second child).  Perhaps I set the wrong precedent by forfeiting any closet space from the start; I displayed generosity and a willingness to compromise where I should have been mean and stubborn with what limited space there was.  My clothes have suffered the strain of this forced exile, with the dusty shoulders and flattened lapels to show.  

    Never overly fond of closets to start, some time back I decided on another, better solution: an armoire.  A five minute spin around the internet revealed two problems.  One: though modest, no armoire exists that would effectively contain my collection of suits, odd jackets, trousers and shirts while still allowing for future growth.  And two, that the largest specimens would not negotiate the dropped ceiling and sharp turns of the hallway leading to the master bedroom.  A built-in seemed the only option until, while discussing designs with a carpenter, I hit upon the idea of an "armoire" constructed in two modular sections that could be stacked to appear as one.  It was a eureka moment, affording ample space (100 linear inches) for hanging clothes while maintaining relative mobility in the event of a future move.  Considering the rough treatment of my belongings since bachelorhood, it was important to me that these two trunk-like sections could be stacked, placed adjacent, back-to-back, or across the room from one another without losing their charm.  Should I be banished to some shed one day, my trunks will happily follow.

    And all went well, from drawing up rough plans to selecting the very beautiful sapele wood from which the armoire would be constructed.  I launched my carpenter into the project with a breezy attitude: just a couple of stackable boxes, no?  I don’t have to explain to more knowledgeable readers just how naive I must have sounded.  No sooner did the carpenter arrive to begin work did the questions start appearing out of clouds of sawdust: did I want the grain to run vertically or horizontally?  Should the doors hang inside or outside the case?  Do I want standard, concealed or action hinges?  What to do about a base?

    Several weeks later (interrupted by a poorly timed holiday) we are nearing completion and I am happy that my displaced clothes seem to have a lovely home within grasp.  Below are some photos of the progress.  Once installed I will post some more thoughts on stylistic choices, the advantages of custom furniture, the problems with storage generally, and other organizational desiderata, along with another gallery of well-lit vanity shots.

Rad(ish)

Pass the butter.  

    While grazing a crudite platter, have you ever wondered what those red and white orbs are that nobody touches?  Perhaps you have seen them carved into twee little rosettes and assumed they are some vegetable matter grown for that purpose—an innocuous buffer between the carrot and celery sticks, like a sprig of rosemary.  You might be excused for thinking them inedible, or, as has persistently been the rumor of other misunderstood vegetables throughout history, toxic.  Well they are none of these things: they are radishes, and when not in the company of ranch dressing and plastic forks, can be delicious.  

    I have always been vaguely aware of the radish, but it wasn’t until four or five years ago when a farmer at my local market started selling an array of unfamiliar seasonal varieties that I paid closer attention.  This fellow—who with his thick beard and deeply weathered skin is rather persuasive in matters of roots and the like—began pushing radish after radish on me and it wash’t long before I was hopelessly hooked, showing up early to secure the ripest bunches and requesting others by name.  

    The gateway radish was no doubt the delicate and elongated French Breakfast, so named, it is assumed, because some wise innovator long lost to history, decided these were acceptable morning vegetables.  What a terrific idea; sliced thinly and anointed with softened salted butter, a more refined start to the day is hard to imagine.  Next came Plum Purples, larger than standard with deep fuchsia skin that bleeds dramatically into its paler flesh when bitten.  As the weather turned crisp and winter approached, I one day came away with Black Spanish Rounds.  With thick, scaled skin and sinus-clearing hotness one could be excused for wondering if radishes are, after all, toxic.  

    That pungency is common to all radishes, exaggerated in some varieties, toned down or replaced by sweetness in others.  Along with a thirst-quenching water content and a vague acidity, this peppery character is really what makes eating raw radishes out-of-hand so thrilling.  Of course they can be cooked as well.  I have braised them in butter and chicken stock with some success.  After an hour they where soft enough to crush onto grilled bread and finish with shaved sheep’s milk cheese.

    My favorite preparation, though, dresses up the radish while preserving that desirable raw zip—radish gremolata.  If you are unfamiliar with gremolata, it is really any sort of acidic, raw chopped relish or salad meant to contrast with a richer component, say, braised pork.  The classic Italian preparation calls for chopped parsley, lemon zest and vinegar.  I think the inclusion of radishes and a good vinaigrette works just as well with the added benefit of making a lovely side salad on its own.  I haven’t asked, but I imagine my radish dealer would agree.

Scrub the grit from half-a-dozen or so radishes of any size or color.  Remove the tops and tails and slice thinly.  Add a handful of chopped fresh parsley and a grated lemon or orange.  Add vinaigrette and fold until well coated.  Serve. 

Radish gremolata, awaiting a braised lamb shank.  Or just a fork.  

Ascension Day

    Behind one of the dormitories on my boarding school campus, a steep earth mound rose, perhaps three stories high.  It appeared like an angry boil from the surrounding woods, its red clay almost free of scrub.  A furrowed, foot-worn path split the mound, and from the crest the head master’s house could be seen.  I never found out why it was there—I’m not sure anyone knew.  I remember it in detail though because we trained hard on that modest hill.

    Propelling yourself against gravity saps energy like few other activities.  The steeper the incline generally, the more challenging, although too steep and not enough purchase will be available to gain any real momentum.  That mound had the perfect grade—somewhere around 30 to 35 degrees if I had to say.  As it happens, a similar grade is fairly standard for stairs.  As I no longer have an earth mound, yet am surrounded by endless flights of stairs, the transition from the former to the latter has been easy.  The same won’t be said of the workout: running stairs is grueling.  

    My stair regimen looks something like this.  I walk down a dozen flights, limbering as I go.  From there I sprint up six flights at full tilt.  At the half-way mark, I drop to the landing and do pushups, using the stairs for incline or decline as I see fit.  The remaining half dozen flights I take with a good clip, though not at full speed.  The heart rate should come back down as you descend for the next set.  Three or four sets should do it.  

    This is an easy scenario for those living in the city.  High rises are always equipped with emergency stairwells and even smaller buildings are required a set of stairs somewhere.  Suburbanites might need to get creative.  The office is one solution, and as it’s quite acceptable to exercise during lunch breaks these days, why not take advantage of the stairs?  The other option is to run up and down your own staircase.  I had a friend whose house had a main staircase with a second staircase at the end of the hallway.  He would open doors and clear a path, running one continuous circuit—up one flight, down the next and so on.  I’m sure his wife thought him odd, but he was awfully fit.  

    Speaking of looking odd, you might be concerned of discovery, all panting and wobbly, in your building’s stairwell by a nosy neighbor.  Fear not; as long as the elevators are working, the only people I have ever encountered are fellow stair-runners.  In smaller or older buildings the stairs might be exterior.  As long as they don’t hang outside a neighbor’s bathroom, you should go unnoticed running up and down them on occasion.  As for the stairs in your own house—well isn’t suburbia all about observing the odd habits of your neighbors?  

    Unless you are truly in training for something rigorous, this is not an everyday workout.  That’s what skipping rope is for.  Running stairs is for those days where energy is high but time short.  Those Wednesday evenings after kids are in bed but dinner for two is on the stove, or Friday mornings before anyone else is even up.  Fifteen minutes is all the time that is needed; you’ll need to dig deeper than that to get through it though.

Learn Your Stripes

From left to right, pin, dress and hair stripes.

    The other day during a final fitting for two warm weather but very different suits, I commented how well an evenly striped shirt seems to navigate a broad spectrum of colors, cloths and patterns.  Chris Despos, breaking from his careful evaluation of sleeve length, agreed that a shirt wardrobe packed with that type of stripe is very versatile.  But what is that type?  What width?  What colors?  What weave?  Stripes seem a familiar enough concept, but the moment a preference needs to be established an unwelcome portal is opened to the infinite and confounding reality of striped shirting. 

    Language, particularly when figurative, is part of the problem.  To help parse the vastness of the genre memorable names have been assigned to some of the more familiar stripes.  Some of these terms have documented histories; a butcher's stripe mimics the bold stripes found on the traditional aprons of London’s butchers, which, in turn, is said to have been inspired by the butcher’s guild coat of arms.  But many are rather fuzzy: a university stripe seems to be nothing more than a candy stripe, and what precisely constitutes a bengal stripe?  I now and again run across a useful guide, but the problem, of course, is that no real standardization exists.  And why should it?  Let a thousand flowers bloom etc., no?

Dress stripes with a small-patterned foulard: fool-proof.

    I do have a very strong preference for one particular stripe.  The one I was wearing during the fitting the other day is often known as a “dress stripe,” which, if it must be put into words, is a narrow (1/16’’), evenly alternating white and colored (shades of blue, typically) stripe in a plain weave.  Read that again.  It’s no surprise the term dress stripe is preferred, even if some vagueness is invited with its use.  

    If varying scale is really the golden rule behind combining patterns, the above dress stripe, or some slight variation, derives its greater versatility from its unique scale.  It is small enough to read as a solid (or semi-solid) from even a few feet away, but any closer and it is a bonafide pattern.  Crucially though, the same scale is rarely found in jackets, suits or ties and so remains small enough not to conflict with a larger scale pattern.  In other words, jackets and ties tend to feature patterns either larger or much smaller in scale, framing the dress stripe without conflict.  With six dress stripe shirts and as many foulard ties, one could dress confidently in the dark for days on end.  Perhaps that’s the origin of the name?

    Finally, be prepared that insisting on a particular width, repetition, weave, shade and number of colors will make you seem unreasonably particular.  So be it; getting what is most versatile, is, for me, the only way to justify the higher cost of having shirts made.  And while understanding why certain patterns are more versatile is helpful, I have learned the following general principles that should help to quickly determine preferences within the infinite variety of striped shirting.  

Dress stripes demonstrating versatility, working equally as well with a repp double stripe tie.  

 Don’t trust colorful names: one man’s bengal is another man’s butcher’s (and that's without considering awning and barber’s stripes).

 The more white or the paler the stripe color, the subtler the shirt.

 Conversely, the bigger and/or bolder the stripe the more casual the effect. 

 Evenly spaced stripes are less jarring than unevenly spaced stripes. 

 Stripes in colors other than blue produce very memorable shirts.  This is not always desirable.

 Multi-stripe shirts with stripes in different widths and colors are for experts; proceed with caution.

 The most useful shirting is probably a mid-blue and white dress stripe.

Roundly Neutral

Digestive dough ready for the oven.  

    Explaining digestives to those who didn’t grow up eating them quickly becomes tedious.  I have long abandoned my standard impassioned defense; if someone questions this noble biscuit’s plainness, it’s austere looks, its quasi medicinal benefits, I nod politely and continue eating.  I suppose my only question for those who do not understand digestives is: what unadorned, neutral thing do you eat on a dreary Tuesday afternoon?

    While the celebration of plainness rarely goes well, more mileage can be had from an interesting history.  First mentions of similar biscuits can be found in cookbooks dating to the first half of the 19th Century, but the digestive did not gain wide acceptance until the late Victorian era.  In addition to a voracious appetite for culture and urbanity, Victorians had a curious obsession with digestion, or, more accurately, indigestion.  The digestive biscuit, with its wholemeal content and hefty dose of sodium bicarbonate (baking powder) was claimed as an aid for everything from bloating to heartburn.  Of course these claims were as spurious then as they seem today—the culmination of which is the persistent rumor that it is illegal to sell digestives in the US under the suggestion of having medicinal properties.

    If you are new to digestives, start with that other contribution of Empire: strong black tea, enriched with whole milk and sweetened to taste.  I can identify a handful of other well-matched unions, but perhaps none with so mutual a goal.  Whether it is a stomach that has grown hungry between meals, or a mood which has sharply turned, a heart that has been wounded or some other scenario that balances its participants precariously before tragedy: tea with a biscuit is the universal mend.  These are rounded and gentle flavors that calibrate the senses rather than jar them—more salve than smelling salts.

    I like digestives in their other role too.  I serve them along with aged cheese following a meal.  This can be even more confounding to the uninitiated; cookies with blue cheese?  But the neutrality of a good digestive makes a perfect foil to the strong, lactic punch of an old cheddar or the pungency of Stilton.  This neutrality is a result of carefully balanced ingredients: both white and wheat flour, both sugar and salt, both fat and its dearth.  One might say the perfect digestive is a friendly debate between richness and austerity.

    I do not have a preferred brand, although I often find the more commonly available names possess some character that digestives from fancier brands lack.  And attempts at making the biscuits fancy themselves, with the addition of filbert flour, or, forgive me, chocolate, are disingenuous and upsetting to the harmony of the unadulterated real article.  If you have your own Victorian obsession with digestion, you might give the following recipe a try at home, making slight adjustments as you deem necessary.  Remember though: the neutrality is what  counts.

Recipe

1 1/2 cups of whole wheat flour

1/2 cup of white flour

1/2 cup of castor sugar

1/2 cup of unsalted butter

1/4 cup of whole milk

1teaspoon of baking powder

1 teaspoon of salt

Add the dry ingredients to a stainless steel bowl and whisk to blend.  Using your fingers, incorporate the butter until the mixture resembles course bread crumbs.  Add the milk and fold until mixture can pack.  Turn out onto floured surface and knead until smooth, taking care not to overwork.  Roll to 1/4 of an inch, punch out rounds, prick with fork and bake on greased sheet pan for 15 minutes in 350 oven.  Let cool on a wire rack.  Make a pot of tea.

Biscuits awaiting tea.  

Look Book

This handsome binder contains all manner of notes, from the sensible (versatile topcoats) to the humiliating (shorts).

    For at least a week, my daughter will not tolerate socks following a summer of sandals and canvas slip-ons, nor will she suffer short-sleeved pajamas when visiting the tropics in the midst of winter.  I can commiserate: there is something particularly unpleasant about putting one’s layered traveling clothes on following a holiday in the sun, and I always feel half naked the first day I step outside in shirtsleeves alone. 

    And yet one of the great pleasures in cultivating a wardrobe is dressing correctly for the weather, and by extension, seasonality.  Nothing quite gets me studying extended forecasts like the prospect of that first brisk day when tweed can be worn.  The same goes for summer, when a breezy 70 is good enough for most linen enthusiasts.  But this principle works in reverse too.  I can barely stand the sight of even my favorite knits come March.  In fact I protest those straggling, unseasonably cold days by reducing my outer-wear rotation to a single uninsulated Barbour from the Ides on, weather be damned.  And come September, suddenly self-conscious of exposed ankles, I have more than once run home to put on socks.

    For the clothing enthusiast, timing is crucial.   A cynic might suggest vanity as the reason, but I suspect a fear of appearing uninformed is also at play.  Of course only someone with similar interests would ever possibly notice that a tweed is worn too early or a linen too late.  Nevertheless, one of the more satisfying moments for an enthusiast is when a purpose-built garment is poised for a seasonal event and its deployment confirms the genius behind its creation.  The challenge is that great ideas for future garments are always forged during the season, and if not commissioned right away for the following year, must wait, a twinkle in the eye, until the opposite season.  In plainer terms: it’s easy to forget what is needed when the weather isn’t cooperating.

    I recommend keeping a journal.  So clear can an idea be during a warm alfresco dinner, or a chilly autumn walk, that I can crisply picture the finished article right down to the buttons.  But if I haven’t made any notes, the proposal seems grown over with vegetation and indistinct by the time seasonal orders should be placed.  Consulting notes has another benefit: they serve as a litmus.  Has your practical tweed cape idea lost some of its brilliance since last winter?  Do unlined ivory suede oxfords seem less important these days?  

    In the wrong hands, this sort of record might prove embarrassing, particularly if, like me, you are given to detail.  But detail is what is needed, so you must either gird yourself for the humiliation or find a good hiding place.  Those near to me already know of (but perhaps don’t understand) my curious interests, so I scribble without fear of exposure.  At the moment I have several good ideas aging in my notes, and this being an open and forgiving forum, I have bravely transcribed them below.  I would be flattered to hear from my readers.

 1)  Double breasted (light) tweed odd jacket in navy with grey windowpane (or reverse).  Possibly with patch pockets and in four-button-two configuration.  Possibly weird buttons.  

 2)  Mahogany (or other reddish brown) pebble-grain derbies in two- or three- eyelet configuration.  Plain toe—possibly squarish.  Double soles?  Natural edge?

 3)  Overcoat of heavy grey herringbone, the wider/bolder the better.  Single or double breasted?  Generous cuffs, and large, convertible collar.

The collection of swatches is inevitable.  Candidates for the herringbone overcoat and double-breasted tweed projects can be seen to the left and right.  

A Mixed Matter

A humble mixed grill of chicken, chorizo and andouille.  

    At first glance, a mixed grill might seem a lavish meal—a performance feast intended to impress guests with the bounty (and the bill) from your butcher.  But most regional and cultural examples I can think of are really exercises in economy.  To feed six adults with lamb chops, for example, would require a minimum of 36 of the expensive little morsels.  But if a dozen chops are grilled alongside some pork sausages, skirt steak and chicken, the impression of a medieval banquet can be had for the cost of a backyard barbecue.  This is of course the formula behind those Brazilian steakhouses that have popped up on every corner, where the gaucho wielding the roasted fillet is awfully scarce compared to the guy with the chicken thighs.  

    The chosen cuts may vary enormously, but the components of a mixed grill should follow the same logical distribution.  At the top of the heap is the pricey cut.  Strip steak, filet, duck breast, lamb chops—these are the tender articles that need brief and expert handling over flame.  Next is some less expensive, less tender but still flavorful meat.  Skirt steak is good here, or any number of pork cuts.  This category is more forgiving of over- or under-grilling as long as the seasoning is correct.  Sausages should make an appearance next; I like when the sausage is made from the same meat as one of the other components.  Offal—lamb kidneys, calf’s liver, beef heart, gizzards, sweetbreads—contributes the final, and deepest note to a mixed grill.  Some advance preparation is almost always necessary; grilling offal is really about introducing the final layer of flavor and marking the outside with color.  Morcilla, or some other type of blood sausage, is a favorite although this really covers two categories.

    Accompaniments matter.  Something fresh is required: chopped parsley, fresh arugula, shredded cabbage—just make sure whatever you choose isn’t drenched with dressing.  Many South and Central American versions of the mixed grill are served with fried potatoes or fried bread; there’s nothing wrong with this tradition, but between all the rich-fattiness of the meat I prefer plain toasted or grilled bread.  Roasted potatoes are a near-second.  Something acidic should also make an appearance.  This might be combined with the fresh category in the form of an acidic dressing, but might just as well be nothing more than lemon wedges or malt vinegar.

    Finally, this is wine food at its best.  The breadth of grilled flavors is much more than what might be available from even a very good steakhouse, and the complexity of meat and non-meat components cries out for a versatile and equally broad wine.  The problem, of course, is no single wine is going to navigate so disparate a plate without conflict.  My solution is the most obvious one: serve several red, white and pink wines.  Beer too.

    Of course there is one snag to this brilliant scheme of perceived value: the knowledgeable glutton (KG).  This is the character who stalks the premium gaucho at the local  churrascuria and, once cornered, makes certain to reclaim every penny of  his/her $49.99.  The KG will, at a glance, know precisely which cut on your platter is the big money component.  My only advice is to avoid inviting this person.  If he/she must be in attendance, serve plenty of salted nuts and olives prior to your mixed grill, and make certain to do the serving (rationing) yourself.

Drawing Straws

A Montecristi blocked into a derby shape.  For the dedicated collector.  Photographed at Optimo, Chicago.

    A head, unlike a waist, doesn’t fluctuate seasonally, and unless a person loses or gains a significant volume of hair, once a good measurement is on file with a hat-maker, the task of ordering really becomes a styling exercise.  With creases, dents, crowns, welts, brims, bindings, bands, and bows to consider, this is no trivial task, but compared to the multiple appointments necessary for a suit, a visit with a hatter is comparatively brief.  When your hatter is Optimo of Chicago, brevity is a shame; between all the dense felt, the spools of grosgrain and billowing steam, it is a particularly evocative place.  I have often been in the shop and witnessed other customers finding reasons to linger well-past orders have been placed.  Others might have noticed the same of me.  

    The hat wearer is considering straw at the moment.  At the top of that broad, warm-weather category is the Montecristi, the finely woven toquilla straw hats from the namesake Ecuadorian city.  Ultrafino qualities can run into the thousands and are highly collectible; the best I’ve handled was basically indistinguishable from linen.  Regular Montecristis are also beautiful, and less likely to cause a man-overboard scenario if blown from your head while boating.  Whether the finest or the entry level, Montecristis project a crisp, formal character; they can be worn casually, but seem to reward those unafraid to dress for an occasion.

    Further down the price spectrum is my personal favorite—the Milan (MY-lan).  This courser, golden weave has a variegated texture and a rich seagrass aroma.  Mine started life quite stiff but has softened and fuzzed over time, exchanging some of its blocked shape for a slouchy, well-worn character.  It is head, rather than hat-shaped and accompanies nothing more formal than a shirt worn open at the neck and loafers.  

    Milan seams to do best in a standard teardrop crown with a soft pinch and brown-toned hat band.  More exciting bands with tonal or contrasting stripes can be very handsome, but limit somewhat the hat’s compatibility with other clothes.  Montecristis classically have a black band; the contrast is perfect next to the pale cream straw, like a calligrapher’s bold underscore on a luxurious calling card.

 But don’t linger over these choices for too long; Memorial Day, the traditional start of straw season, approaches.

A well-loved, well-worn Milan.  

The F Word

The 8 centimeter tie, guaranteed not to offend.  Also guaranteed to be ridiculed by your children.  

    The favorite refrain of those classicists interested in parsing definitions is: “I’m interested in style, not fashion.”  The former, it is argued, is permanent, the latter fleeting.  Of course, any deeper analysis reveals that a particular fashion, if moderate and sensible, can gain wide enough acceptance to be recategorized as correct or even classic style—and therefore acquire the veneer of permanence.  My favorite example is the shoe, which started life as a fashionable alternative to the button (or laced) boot, which was standard footwear not so long ago.  

    So various fashions become accepted or considered classic, which, in turn, occasionally lose buoyancy and fall from favor having gained the title of old-fashioned, a subspecies of fashion.  This routine is often described as cyclical—the image being that of a distinctive planet with an orbit that occasionally passes through our narrow view.  I’d like to propose an alternative, yet equally groovy, image: that of wax within a lava lamp, which surfaces and descends, morphs and separates.  It is a predictable performance in that the observer can say with certainty that the mass will change; how and when is less obvious, although the results are rarely anomalous.

    For men, perhaps the most accurate fashion barometer is the lapel.  Some might suggest the tie is better, but with the fattest section of the blade usually obscured by jackets, vests and waistcoats, the more important aspects of a tie become light reflection or absorption and the way in which the wearer has chosen to knot it.  Lapels, by contrast, are on full display and afford two opportunities to scrutinize their collective place on the male fashion spectrum.  I’ve also noticed that lapels are the most divisive element of male dress; I can’t imagine pencil-thin lapels sharing a wardrobe with fat ones.  

    Interestingly, now more than ever, various lapel widths are worn.  The loftiest fashion houses have experimented with widths over the past decade enough that some loss of bearings has occurred.  Tom Ford’s eponymous line debuted with substantial lapels, which had some men excited; if this fashion leader was blazing a return to width, then surely others would soon follow—if not to such extremes, then at least out of the dental floss zone.  But as Ford’s suits on Daniel Craig (as James Bond) clearly demonstrate, lapels have again slimmed.   A man might once have turned to a stalwart like Brooks Brothers for the standard—and viewed all lapels narrower or wider as fishy.  But Brooks too has experimented (or waffled) with the introduction of Black Fleece and the Milano fit.  One wonders: perhaps the only old-fashioned lapel width is the decidedly stationary.

A lapel is born, its size, shape and character the product of its maker, its client and hundreds of years worth of evolving fashion.  

    A quick page through The Rake, which covers the bespoke market, reveals equal attention paid to diminutive lapels and those capable of flight.  Is this restlessness or a way of recapturing market share from ready-to-wear fashion?  One might argue that bespoke garments aren’t subject to the same rules as those that govern fashion, but this, too seems a naive angle.  Bespoke tailors are only human (or slightly super-human) and shouldn’t be expected to resist the gravitational pull of fashion—a suggestion the archives of fusty old Savile Row houses would support.  And then there is the customer—a sort of unknown x-value that might turn up equipped with bizarre and fantastic ideas about shape and form.  

    Whether lapels, or ties, or jacket length or trouser height, fashion is a factor.  This can be frightening, or, if understood as the leading edge of a far more complex type of momentum, very reassuring.  The wax within the lamp—never static but usually familiar.  Of course when a bearing is needed, there is another principle that is ceaselessly present: proportion.  The most successful garments don’t just fit, but consider the shape and size of the head, the hang of the arms, and if studied close enough, the ineffable qualities of demeanor and presence.  In this respect, proportion is the leveler of fashion and the great equalizer of style.

Bathing Costumes

Navy trunks: why other colors exist is another of man's great mysteries.

    Many men rely upon a gigantic watch with depth dials and tidal indicators (that go unused) as the default attempt at style when beach-bound.  At the other extreme: sarongs.  It wasn’t always this way; resort styles for men were big business not so long ago, and while we might not bemoan the disappearance of the male romper, there is little consolation in exuberantly printed board shorts and undershirts.  I find the previous evening’s shirt worn with the sleeves rolled and several buttons undone is a good compromise, but as a genre, things could stand to improve.

    For years the standard advice for trunks was to avoid elasticized waistbands in favor of fixed buttons or snaps.  But like so many of the familiar nuggets of wisdom shamelessly passed between men’s style outlets, this one sounds better in print than it functions in reality.  The theory is that elasticized waistbands cut into the wearer, exaggerating any unsightly excess flesh.  Of course if real love handles are in play, then the composition of the waistband matters little in their display.  Flat-stomached men can get away with either fixed or elasticized, but I've witnessed enough fixed waistbands straining at the seams to wonder if elasticized is the better option after all.  Plus, if swimming, surfing, diving or anything more rigorous than lounging is on the agenda, an elasticized band with a good drawstring is always preferable.  In a solid color or semi-solid pattern, and with a leg that finishes above the knee, trunks can be quite flattering.  

    Turkish toweling, or terry, if you prefer, is limited to oversized bath robes these days rather than the shorter length and occasionally patterned beach robes seen in vintage adds.  This is a pity; what could be more useful at a resort or seaside club than an easily shed jacket-shaped towel with patch-pockets and a belt?  Cover-ups are almost always required between pool, beach and bar, and certainly within hotel lobbies.  All the putting-on and taking-off of your polo means it quickly pulls out of shape, and if your trunks haven’t any pockets—well what then?  The best I’ve ever seen is my Father’s: deep navy terry, with wide, corduroy wales, three patch pockets and a notch lapel.  Perfection.  Why no one makes these any longer is one of man’s great mysteries.  Suggestions for where to have such a robe made are welcome.

    The last time I was in Spain, perhaps following too much rosado, I was coerced into buying a pair of espadrilles.  I had visions of wearing them to cocktail hour at resorts and back home to casual daytime gatherings.  Sadly, I found they chaffed, slipped about polished floors like ice-skates, and most disappointingly of all, were stifling.  If a pair can avoid those pitfalls, espadrilles might be the ideal beach-side solution—far better than the ubiquitous flip-flop in its ability to go from beach to lobby to cafe.  I have instead resorted for several years to a sand-and-surf-battered pair of plimsolls.  They started life white, but, like flamingos that spend much of their time eating shellfish in the shallows, have turned that tell-tale shade of pink—a surprisingly versatile color for casual footwear. 

Just don't stand on one leg.

Economy Cuts

Barney--so named for his collection of barnacles--went from dinner for two new parents on New Year's Eve to dinner for eight on New Year's Day.

    A live lobster, boiled to order at a restaurant, is always an expensive proposition.  Sometimes, on a coast somewhere, one encounters an informal restaurant where the price per pound is less  shocking; these tend to be small lobsters on a roll or as a part of a clam bake, and while delicious, are a  fortunate result of time and place.  What about those other moments when the desire (or request) for lobster strikes, and there is no such shack in site?  Or when the wallet is unwilling to accommodate so rich a caprice?  

    There is a well-guarded secret of the garde-manger: a lobster, in the singular, can stretch.  Familiar examples of this practice abound: lobster bisque, lobster ravioli, lobster mousse, lobster sauces of every description, and, of course, my favorite, lobster spaghetti.  The uniting principle here is the same—carefully rationed and well handled, lobster can be an economical ingredient.  The key is in learning to isolate and extract flavor from the various components.   

    The ideal starting point is a live lobster of, say, 3 pounds.  This is a large lobster by any standard and will cost real money.  To aid in transportation, my monger provides a styrofoam coffin full of ice; morbid, but effective.  The idea is to keep the condemned cold, either on ice or in the fridge, and preferably both.  A cold lobster is a docile lobster.  Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil; I add salt, a squeezed lemon or two, several bay leaves and peppercorns.  Some people dispatch the lobster with a paring knife through the back of the head moments before the plunge; classicists just plunge. I don’t really have an opinion here, but if I have come this far, the lobster is going in the pot.  Twenty minutes should do it.  The cooked lobster can now be chilled for later use, or processed right away.  

A few tails will suffice in place of a large live Lobster, although you'll have to make do without the tomalley.  

    To transform a lobster from an expensive meal for one to an economy ingredient for many, three crucial components must be separated: the meat, the shells and the tomalley (liver).  I’m not a gadget person, so I liberate the meat with a heavy chef’s knife and a rolling pin, but I won’t begrudge those who insist on crackers and picks and whatever other devices exist.  Make certain you are retaining only the green tomalley and not the stomach or gills which aren’t edible.  Refrigerate the meat and tomalley until needed.  Rinse the shells and cover with cold water in a small saucepan.  Add a standard mirepoix, bay leaves, peppercorns and a cup of white wine.  Bring up to boil, reduce to a simmer and let steep for half an hour.  Presto: lobster stock.  These three—the meat, tomalley, and stock—can now be stretched into bisques, chowders, fillings, salads and terrines.  

    Several years ago, I spent a New Year’s Eve at home with my wife.  It was our first time doing so; we were accustomed to travel or parties around the holiday, but a newborn had us housebound.  To mark the occasion, I bought a hefty lobster to share.  I made drawn butter, cut lemon wedges, minced parsley.  I chilled Champagne.  We wore bibs.  But no sooner did we sit, we both learned a valuable lesson: a new baby and a lobster dinner do not work.   In the morning, after a largely sleepless night, our lobster sat in the fridge wrapped in foil, untouched.  Friends and family descended on New Year’s Day; the following was the fortuitous result.   

Lobster Spaghetti

Boil water for the spaghetti.  Fry two cups of tomato concasse with a sliced garlic clove in an ounce of butter.  Add two cups of reduced lobster stock and further reduce to desired thickness.  Stir through tomalley.  Marry sauce and al dente spaghetti along with two ounces of butter and a handful of chopped parsley.  Serve immediately. 

.Lobster Spaghetti--perhaps the most economically sound use of the famously expensive crustacean.

Italian Jobber

    Even died-in-the-wool advocates of traditional British cloths must concede one category: Italian mills dominate lightweight jacketing.  I find this reassuring; what assumptions might be made of heavyweight tweed that has emerged from a sun-baked southern Italian mill?  Gossamer blends of wool, cashmere, silk and linen from that same mill, however, have been conceived and tested in the correct conditions.

    One book in particular demonstrates the resulting expertise: Ariston’s Giacche.*  The translation—“Jackets”— might be read as humorous: so comprehensive is this bunch, that one wonder’s if these really are all the summer jackets.  Weights range from 210 grams (7 1/4 ounces) to 295 grams (10 1/4 ounces) but the compositions are what matter: high-super wools, cashmere and silk, wool, linen and silk, cotton and linen, wool and mohair—the combinations are dizzying, as are the finishes, from smooth to slubbed.

    One of the complaints often heard regarding light- and mid-weight cloth is the relative lack of bold pattern.  This is the last problem here; bold windowpanes, exploded plaids, table-cloth ginghams all mix with subtle herringbones, a few solids and some excellent hopsacks.  There are even two micro-checks that have been “spray-dyed,” whatever that is (the effect is mottled and, in dark brown, would make a smashing beach-side suit).  

    These things shouldn’t matter, but even the cover to the book (a powdery blue, faux shagreen) conveys the Mediterranean spirit within.  The gallery below does its best to capture the feeling, but as usual, photographs alone fall short.  This bunch wants to be held up to the light, felt between finger and thumb and generally fawned over. 

*NB  This particular bunch has since been updated; many of the cloths featured in the gallery might have sold out or been reissued in different weights or compositions.  But, you know, whatever, the point remains.  

Glorified T-Shirts

A white or off-white polo is indispensable during the season.  Keeping them that way is another matter entirely.  

    Part of the difficulty with truly casual garments is that they are worn for active pursuits and laundered accordingly.  One’s general shape might remain the same, but a favorite pair of wash-and-wear beach slacks might, one day, and for no particular reason, just not fit well enough to make the coming season.  Where tailored clothing molds to the figure, casual garments tend to morph away from one’s shape with time.  

    The most frustrating example is the polo shirt.  I have never bought a new one that fits perfectly from the start.  Indeed, if it did, I would likely return it to the rack for fear of shrinkage.  I expect to wear my polos for real activity (zip-lining above the jungle canopy, and/or, squash).  Given this sort of use, and the necessary laundering, most polos become handkerchiefs by the end of a single season.  

    This is a pity, as the polo shirt, when good, sits alongside the tuxedo in terms of masculine style.  Bad ones—like poor tuxedos—can be clownish.  But a well-fitting, properly detailed polo is a style magnifier, conferring a sporting élan to its wearer—a clear message of action and propriety.  But it must be worn in the spirit of real active-wear to deliver its charm.  If you get: “your t-shirt has a collar,” congratulations, you are doing it correctly.

The dark navy polo: up there with the well-cut dinner jacket.  

    The details count enormously, though.  Cotton jersey makes particularly poor polos; the collars wrinkle and collapse and the effect becomes more polo-shaped-t-shirt than anything else after only a few outings.  The addition of silk, modal or linen can improve body, but the moment the results need dry-cleaning they are, in my book, disqualified.  My preference is for finely woven cotton pique for its ability to breathe, resist wrinkles and, when mated to ribbed collars and sleeve bands, retain a certain crispness throughout its life.  The seams should be durably stitched, and the armscyes must be high and curved for comfort during movement.  I like the simplicity of two buttons at the neck; these permit two settings—lunch, and aperitifs.  

    Speaking of styling the polo, how and where it should be worn is a matter of vehement debate.  For me a polo is strictly sportswear, like a bathing suit or a pair of plimsolls.  In the US, however, perhaps helped along by the corporate aesthetic and, of course, golf, the polo has somehow ascended the formality scale.  Mostly it’s found uncomfortably jockeying about the  tortured business casual category, but I must admit, I’m occasionally drawn to the idea of an unstructured jacket worn over a polo.  This is the domain of the expert though—the villainous yacht-owner or the swarthy seductor.  The safer rule is far simpler: if sports are in the immediate past or future, a good polo will do nicely.

Winner's Purse

Clams, ready to pop.   Reserving one or two to place outside the papillote  on the sheet pan will serve as an indicator of when the others have opened.

    When the unexciting translation is considered—in parchment—it’s no surprise the technique isn’t more widely appreciated.  En papillote, however, is a particularly effective way to cook delicate fish and mollusks.  The limited cooking cavity inside the folded packet forces the commingling of aromatics, liquids and fish.  But the real value is in the reveal: a plumped and golden purse pleasantly fills the dining room when pierced.  

    Good candidates for inclusion: any flat, white fish; chunks of meatier fish or scallops; shrimp or split langoustine; mussels, clams, cockles; any other sea creature.  The ideal combination is perhaps sole or flounder topped with clams and shrimp, providing a range of seafood textures and flavors.  The addition of shellfish contributes significantly to the cooking liquid, releasing its own essence, helping along the mild flat fish.  

    I’m not one for wild experimentation in these established preparations, although this technique is particularly forgiving of variance.  The categories are carved in stone though: aromatic vegetable, herbs, fat, acid, seasoning.  Fennel and tomato are brilliant in more Mediterranean preparations, but a simple mirepoix will suffice.  Herbs should be fresh; parsley, chervil, thyme or oregano are the classics.  Olive oil is fine; butter superior.  Lemon is nice, but a splash of dry white wine is the only acid necessary.  I limit my seasonings to salt and (white) pepper.  

Papillotes, doing the heavy lifting.   

    The design and construction of the parchment packet is critical.  Start by unrolling and cutting a 12-inch section of parchment.  Fold it in half. Clip-off the corners (fusty French technique has you cutting a semicircle or half-heart shape, but, well… the French also flute mushrooms).  Layer your ingredients on one half of the sheet, retaining a two-inch perimeter of clean paper.  Fold the other side over.  Beginning on one side, crimp the two parchment layers together in obtuse, overlapping folds until you reach the other side.  Tuck any excess under the packet.

    These packets, done several hours in advance of service, can now quite comfortably wait on a sheet pan in the refrigerator.  This is ample time to make a rice pilaf, go swimming, or press a few shirts before dinner.  When your guests arrive, set the oven to 375 degrees; pop the pan in twenty minutes before you’d like to sit.  The bags will puff and brown and, as if through alchemy, create a world-class sauce.  One note: any attempt to remove the meal from the parchment to a service platter and drizzle with that sauce will fail.  Instead, tear open the top of the purse and enjoy the novelty.

The finished article, having already filled the dining room with its perfume.

Bobbing About

Early morning is the best time for a furtive swim--so early that this swimmer was still wearing his evening shirt.

    I no longer have easy access to a swimming pool, so when on holiday and one is suddenly available at all hours, I take full advantage.  A hard swim raises the heart rate and taxes the muscles, but, unlike running or skipping rope, I never emerge in desperate search of a shower.   I know of no other exercise that is so rigorous and so refreshing.  I disappear several times each vacation day, before meals and between engagements, returning a little out of breath but otherwise ready for whatever is scheduled.  

    Maybe my definition of swimming for exercise differs from most.  I often see other swimmers plodding away, rhythmically putting length after length behind them.  I have neither the patience (nor, likely, that sort of endurance) to spend an hour in the pool.  So I sprint.  Down-and-back, rest, down-and-back, rest and so on.  I’m not opposed to slower, longer swims; I just prefer the thrill and efficiency of half-a dozen sprints.  

    The crawl is the classic fast swim.  It works the shoulders, torso and back, but I always find it lacking for the legs.  Strangely, the breast stroke, which is slower and more methodical, is a greater challenge when executed at speed.  I think this has something to do with drag; the crawl forces a long, elegant line through the water, whereas the body is square during a breast stroke, ploughing through the chop like a slow but capable tug boat.  

    A brisk breast stroke also seems to work the chest in a different way to the pushup.  It’s a spreading versus a pressing motion, and the muscle fibers quickly make themselves known by a deep and unfamiliar ache.  The same is true for the legs; squats might strengthen the thighs, but the frog kick required during the breast stroke forces a pulling and pushing that becomes apparent by sprint number two.  And whether it is realized or not, none of these motions are possible without tightening the abdomen.  The chest, thighs, abdomen—these areas are precisely what a man should keep an eye on as he ages if he wishes to fill his jackets and avoid letting out his trousers.  

    Like my other preferred forms of fitness, no gear is necessary.  I see others with goggles and noseclips, earplugs and swim caps.  I’m sure they provide benefits for the dedicated, but I find sauntering into the pool area, cranking out a dozen sprints before cooling off in the shallow end is about as efficient and carefree as exercise gets.  One minor word of caution though: as you become faster in the water, and the waist inevitably slims, you will be tempted to vault yourself from the water at the pool's edge.  Do make sure your trunks have a good drawstring.

Ready, steady, swim... (followed immediately by cocktail hour).  

Casual Encounters

In case all the usual details aren't quite enough, the laces on these suede tassels are braided. 

    The language of loafers is definitely more exciting than for any other category of shoe.  Oxfords rank themselves in mundane fractions: quarter brogues, half brogues, full brogues.  Derbies permit more color with the prospect of agatine eyelets and storm welts.  But loafers bristle with possibility, and for each variant there seems an exciting name: venetian, penny, full strap, tassel, beef-roll, moccasin, horse-bit, kiltie.  

    Perhaps casualness encourages experimentation by both the consumer and the producer—a sort of chicken-or-the-egg scenario where both parties are willing to indulge an urge to flout convention.  Interesting origin stories exist for specific styles, and great energy has often gone to try and organize the menagerie into a formality matrix.  But I wonder if the real joy in loafers has as much to do with perceived rankings and history, than it does with two other familiar principles of style:    nonchalance and versatility.  

    If one were to blindly bang together a shoe for the very purpose of breaking dusty old rules, it might look something like a tasseled loafer.  What are they other than ordinary loafers that have been adorned with a complex, non-functional lacing system finished in a square knot and fringed ends?  And yet the result confers nonchalance to the wearer like few other articles in the male wardrobe.  One of the principles of that masculine wardrobe is that the more decorated an item is, the less formal it tends to be; yet tassels, mysteriously, register as dressier loafers according to most authorities, perhaps seen with suits more than any other casual shoe.  Executed in dark suede, the effect sends seriously mixed messages: dark but textured, fussily trimmed yet appropriate, rakish yet conservative.  This beguiling mixture is perhaps what placed tassels in the wardrobes of style icons like Cary Grant, and still sees them worn by leaders of both fashion and classical style.

In direct sunlight, these full-straps lean more Beaujolais than Burgundy.  .  

    Versatility, by contrast, might not possess the same obvious allure as nonchalance, but I’ve always viewed it as a shortcut to personal style, enabling light packing and confident deployment.  Color is perhaps the most important aspect to versatility, and in this regard the family of dark reds—from light burgundy to deep oxblood—are difficult to beat for their ability to adapt to whatever they accompany, whether charcoal worsted or faded denim.  Any reasonable loafer in one of these shades is going to be versatile, but something with a little detail, like a full-strap penny, is bound to quickly become a favorite.  The full-strap design, in particular, has something sporting about it—a whiff of functionality that, if the toe-box has remained slim, doesn’t sacrifice any elegance.

    Exciting language aside, loafers do seem to inhabit a particularly sacred place in most men’s wardrobes.  I can trace my admiration of the genre to battered Weejuns worn through grade school.  I wouldn’t wear that particular style again, but the spirit perseveres through the above two styles, and about a dozen other, colorfully named loafers.

Penumbra (Part 2)

    While browsing wood for an armoire I’m having made, I uncovered from the back of the warehouse a narrow slab of real gaboon ebony.  It was almost jet, with a resinous dusting, and an obvious density far greater than the surrounding walnut and maple.  The carpenter with me spoke dreamily of what a lovely lintel or bar shelf it would make, but I couldn’t shake another idea: split and turned, it would have made a magnificent umbrella stick.  

    Thoughts like this perfectly demonstrate how slippery the slope is once the cloistered little world of custom and vintage umbrellas has been discovered.  I have held sterling silver handles no lighter than seven pounds, and pre-war ivory pommels yellowed to the color of country butter.  Ash, olive, chestnut, blackthorn, whangee and malacca—all these and more have been made into umbrellas.  Hidden swords are no longer popular, but secret flasks, pop-out pens and compasses can be found easily.  I understand real silk canopies provide the sweetest chorus in a downpour, but standard nylon is for me just as magical (and far more waterproof).  

    These materials can be a joy for the collector, but if an edited and practical umbrella wardrobe is the goal, only one design element needs real consideration: the stick.  An umbrella with a shaft that has been affixed to its handle is not a bad thing; it may never break and may even be necessary when dealing with exotic materials like whangee.  But a continuous, solid hardwood stick provides a rigidity, beauty and confidence that is hard to do without out once experienced.  

    I prefer pairs of things to the all-purpose, but if one quality umbrella must suffice, it should probably be a slim stick with a black canopy.  Mine is a scorched and polished maple, and the shaft itself has been turned to a slimmer shape than standard, permitting the frame to roll tightly.   The result is sturdy, conservative, lightweight and elegant.  This is the iconic black brollie carried by a certain generation of Londoners, emulated in television and cinema and symbolic of a bygone civility.  

    A second umbrella might employ a few more daring choices.  Ash makes a strong, country-inspired stick, particularly when the bark has been retained for the crook.  Mine has an especially mottled appearance, with patches of olive, bronze and green; perhaps it inspired the deep, racing green canopy.  For those that give thought to coordination, an umbrella like this  might be reserved for those rainy occasions when the day's clothes reflect a similarly earthy palette.  

    Finally there is the sporting category, where more fun still may be had.  Golfers carry umbrellas for passing squalls; they are big and often brightly colored.  I’m not a golfer so my version, while still larger than the other two, is not oversized.  The solid oak stick has heft and only tapers slightly, and the canopy—navy with lilac pinstripes—broadcasts its use in more leisurely pursuits, like walking the dogs and amateur field sports.  It’s well-made but not precious or delicate.  

    Unsurprisingly, resources are limited.  London’s James Smith and Co. has a deep inventory of sticks, all of which can be cut to order, and a few canopy colors and sizes.  Swaine Adeney Brigg makes a very fine umbrella, some with sterling accents.  Italian makers exist too; their offerings are perhaps less refined, but choices in canopies and handle trimmings are excellent—perfect for a sporting umbrella.  For the truly obsessed, sourcing one’s own materials—like ebony—is possible, but hardly seems necessary considering the existing choices.  There are only so many rainy days, after all.