On Costumes

    Pity the fellow dressed as a pickle.  Did he not foresee that an inch of air-brushed latex would be stifling?  Or did he weigh the novelty of his gag against his tolerance for discomfort, and conclude that triumph always requires personal sacrifice?  I’m less generous than that; I bet he’s just not that creative.  Whatever the fault, I don’t begrudge the impulse.  Resorting to costume has, since antiquity, permitted a freedom from whatever propriety we feel bound to—which accounts for the dramatic spectrum of results, from tame to barely contained.  Past a certain age, though, men are wise to leave alone the purely silly (and usually uncomfortable) in favor of more nuanced attempts.  While I wouldn’t categorize costumes of this sort as cerebral, they do require some careful thought and crafty repurposing of clothes and accessories on hand.

    Ten or so years ago, I was invited to a splashy formal event that stipulated venetian masks.  I was talked into a rather well-made plaster number by a friend, a classic domino mask covering just my eyebrows, nose and temples.  The list of characters who have worn this shape (if not this particular Venetian design) is long, from Zorro to The Green Hornet and his sidekick Kato.  The above examples actually demonstrate another point about these nuanced styles of costume: one need not go overboard.  A domino mask worn with a black gaucho hat and pencil mustache is all it takes to clearly broadcast Zorro.  Along with their masks, The Green Hornet wore nothing more elaborate than a chesterfield topcoat and a trilby; Kato, a black chauffeur’s hat.

    Hats really offer the simplest solutions, but fedoras and trilbies are hardly the most evocative.  A deerstalker, tweed jacket and pipe instantly conjures Sherlock.  For the solemn-faced amongst us, Buster Keaton is a porkpie and three-piece suit away.  My favorite homburg-wearer is Poirot, Agatha Christie’s persnickety sleuth, but that’s a costume that takes more than a surface treatment.  The bowler or derby is the richest source of character costumes, perhaps because this stiffened style of hat is both an icon of Englishness and, as society journalist and author Lucius Beebe famously put it, “The hat that won the West.”  Each Halloween I see as many convincing John Steeds from The Avengers as I do Butch Cassidys—both famous bowler wearers.  The best bowler oriented costume I’ve witnessed, though, was by an art student in a dark Mackintosh, white shirt, red tie and black bowler.  It had me scratching my head until he brought the green apple he had impaled on a stick up to his face.

    Umbrellas, canes and other hand-held appurtenances are often required in conjunction with the hats and masks mentioned above.  In addition to a bowler and a white shirt, those aspiring Alex’s from A Clockwork Orange will need a blackthorn cane.  To pull off Monstresor and Fortunato from Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado, in addition to venetian masks, a pair of friends will need a half-drunk bottle of wine with the neck sheared off and a torch.  Keep in mind, though, that the real advantage to costumes of this sort is the ease with which an evening out can be navigated, so anything more elaborate than a few signifiers of character is self-defeating.  

    There does lurk a danger in this approach, however.  In conceiving of and composing a costume, one might discover that it all comes together rather too easily.  This is an indication that one’s wardrobe runs a tad to the theatrical.  I would be personally concerned if little more than adjusting an accent was needed to pull off a pitch-perfect Poirot or Sherlock, an Al Capone or Oscar Wilde.  Costumes really should read as just that, but it’s a problem if one’s ordinary clothes obviously do too.  This, in some ways, is as bad as dressing as a pickle.

Trousers, À La Carte

Most dress codes today ban things rather than suggest standards from fear of driving away business.

    Most have heard of the traditional, albeit somewhat fusty, practice of the emergency tie—the inevitably creased and limp piece of silk kept behind a maitre d’s podium for the guest who might have forgotten his own.  In a perfect scenario, the tie is the establishment’s own, perhaps embroidered with an insignia and in some muted color palette.  More often it has been fished from the lost-and-found bin, dribbles of clam chowder still very much intact. 

    I have seen the practice extended to blazers at clubs and restaurants that require a jacket.  Hilarity ensues when a busboy is sent to chase down the borrower who, after two glasses of chilled Beaujolais, has forgotten he wasn’t wearing one when he entered.  But during a recent visit to the Yucatán Peninsula, I witnessed this practice applied to the lower half: the lending of trousers, I am sad to report, exists. 

    It was the evening following a raucous wedding, and our large party had a considerable wait before the tables and staff could be mustered.  We were in good, if groggy, spirits, and filled the time pleasantly with rounds of Havana Club, Aqua Mineral y Limón.  Several restaurants faced each other in the courtyard where we lounged and people-watching was inevitable.  At some point I became aware of a group of men stepping into what appeared to be baggy trousers.  I considered for a moment if they were some sort of troupe gearing up for a performance, but then they followed the tuxedoed maitre’d into the dining room and sat down.  Several moments later, and in front of another restaurant, I saw a sunburnt couple approach; a few words were exchanged before the hostess reached into the drawer of a small chest, producing a similar pair of large, black pants.  The man sheepishly stepped into them before being seated. And then I grasped the game: the dress codes of all these places prohibited shorts, but rather than turn away those wearing them, the savvy business decision had been made to provide trousers.  

This beach-goer has little to fear come dinnertime on the Yucatán coast.

    This anecdote might just be a cheeky account from a foreign port-of call.  But with ample time on the return flight to consider the implications, I have decided the lending of trousers is significant beyond its humor.  The practice asks: what is a dress code?  Historically, rules governing dress are signifiers of status.  Consider sumptuary laws from ancient Greece through Medieval Europe and feudal Japan.  Portions of these rules dealt specifically with what cloths and degree of tailoring various echelons of society were entitled to.  We might view this as quaint or irrelevant today, but consider that many laws remained in place through the Protestant Reformation, and indeed made landfall in the US alongside Puritan settlers.  This idea—that rules of dress rein-in and separate—is still ingrained, something that sadly plays itself out by the toting of so called luxury brands.  One might argue that the steeper taxes often imposed on these goods are a contemporary version of sumptuary laws—a built-in penalty for those who desire to display their riches.

    The other way of looking at a dress code is as an aid in the face of confounding and infinite choice.  If men are asked to wear tuxedoes, and if what constitutes a tuxedo is not permitted to drift, then there exists little room for error.  If guests are instead asked to wear, as one recent invitation put it, “chic party clothes” the margin for egregious faux pas is a gaping canyon.  Put simply: the presence of a clear dress code is a relief rather then a burden.  It must, of course, be enforced if expected to equalize those to whom it applies.    

    The problem with handing pants out at the door (not the hygiene one) is that they don’t improve the aesthetics of a dining room; nor do they shame anyone into dressing better in the future, as demonstrated by the hooting and hollering men I saw cinched into their communal coveralls.  Ultimately, what may have started as a quiet convenience for the tie-less man has ballooned into a farcical enabler of ever lower standards.

The cocktails were good there though.

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.  

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?