It's Alive!

Country calf: pebbly.  

    What has three eyes, an excellent tan and an open throat?  Possibly the most versatile men’s shoe, of course.  By open throat, we are in the world of derbies (bluchers), the more casual configuration of traditional shoe as compared to closed-throat oxfords.  However, the reduced number of eyelets, two or three as opposed to the standard five, and lack of any further ornamentation elevate this shoe above the merely casual.  The color?  Some deep, reddish brown that gets along with indigo denim through pale gray flannel.  These were once known as hilo shoes—a sort of truncated chukka boot with a sleek, unadorned shape.  

    The problem is in fine-tuning the configuration without losing the mind.  Do two rather than three eyelets increase the formality or nudge the results from useful to weird?  Should the sole be a low-profile single, as seen on oxfords and loafers, or the more rugged double leather typical of derbies?  Or perhaps the hilo is an opportunity to use a thin rubber sole for durability and all-weather wear?  There is another nagging question.  I have long wanted a shoe in the pebbly, characterful leather know as country calf.  Is this the right application?

    Strangely, when I realize the need for a new pair of shoes, the impulse is as likely to originate as a color than anything else.   This is unusual; most men might say something like “I need a conservative oxford for business” or, “suede wingtips would be perfect with my flannel suit.”  I suppose I’ve thought something similar, but usually it goes more like this: “tan shoes for summer would be great!”  I then realize I would rarely need a tan oxford, which leaves derbies, monk-straps and loafers.  Perhaps I have seen a good looking monk-strap recently; inspired, I picture the monk-strap in the shade of tan I have in mind.  If no capillaries have burst, I file the idea away for a month or two.  Following this gestational period, and if it seems my mind’s eye was firing on all pistons when conceived, the project gets green-lighted.  

A monk's defining feature--the buckle.  A more sensible option to the rather obscure hilo?

    Speaking of monk-strap shoes, they seem to occupy a similar place in a man’s shoe wardrobe to the hilo—neither particularly dressy nor so casual as to never see wear with a suit.  In fact, I vacillate between this hilo idea and a sturdy monk even now as I try to bring the vision into greater focus.  Versatility seems such a straightforward concept; the more one meddles with its underpinnings, though, the more likely it becomes to lose control of the reins, the project itself generating its own, rather disconcerting life.

    Certainly no one shoe can do it all, from dinner jacket to jeans.  But I bet a pebbly, reddish, three-eyelet derby would get a lot of use in-between.  Of course there is always the risk of creating something ghastly—something that ticks all the requirements and sounds sensible, but, once released from its box, causes the sharp intake of air from its creator.  I think only the most experienced men nail the details every time ; I feel a more realistic aspiration is in learning to avoid the monstrous.

Reasonably Seasonal

This Cote de Brouilly could go either way--chilled or cellar temperature. 

    Perhaps four years ago at a lively bistro on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, I sat for lunch with my wife on a particularly hot day.  She was rather pregnant at the time, and perhaps because of this, we were given a table very quickly, despite what appeared to be an impatient lunchtime crush of regulars.  The tables were tightly arranged in the small dining room and so eavesdropping was unavoidable.  Next to us sat two men; while I hesitate to say they were rude, their manner was certainly brusque, and more so than might be excused by local custom.  The waiter, a Frenchman, was patient while one of them studied the wine list, finally jabbing an index finger at a name.  The exchange was brief but perfect:

“Is that the red wine you are supposed to drink cold?” 

“That Beaujolais would be fine chilled.”  

    I was impressed how expertly this professional dealt with what, for lesser waiters, might have been an opportunity for haughtiness.  His response was delivered with a gracious smile, but the message was clear: you may drink that particular Beaujolais chilled because the day is hot and the spirit in here conducive.  As a devoted Beaujolais drinker, I was satisfied.  This young, uncomplicated French wine can, indeed, be chilled.  Some combination of varietal (Gamay) and fermentation method (carbonic maceration) produces light bodied, fruit-forward and yeasty wines without the tannic astringency that would become metallic and flat once cold.  The problem is that the fashion for chilled Beaujolais tends to creep outside of those appropriate moments.  Ordinary Beaujolais doesn’t need a chill to be good, and the Crus (small, pricier producers) can demonstrate complexity and nuance that would be a shame to flatten out with chill.

    When it works, though, few wine experiences seem as clever.  So ingrained is it that red wine should be served at room temperature, that any sign of chill seems an error.  Perhaps this is why red wine is often served too warm; the fear of faux pas creates an overcorrection.  Counterintuitively, Beaujolais almost becomes more serious when chilled.  The signature fruity nose develops juicier and darker notes and a bracing structure can emerge where before there was little.  Well-chilled Beaujolais is also dangerously drinkable, and not unlike rosé, is a practice best reserved for those warm weather daytime events where a few drinks seem less an indulgence than a right.  The waiter was spot-on; chilled Beaujolais is more about atmosphere than correctness—the enhancement of time and place through an unusual practice.  

    A surprisingly similar sensation can be had by going sockless.  A collection of quality, over-the-calf hose can be the difference between dressing and dressing well.  Having multiples of sober colors is an efficiency, and a complement of less serious patterns is the mark of a more sophisticated dresser.  But even the most comprehensive collection can’t compete with the thrill of going without on those warm and casual occasions when even the sheerest, coolest wearing versions stifle.  I adore my own collection of lisle, merino, silk and cashmere, but my favorite day on the sock-wearing calendar is the one when the breeze finds its way between loafer and trouser cuff.  

    But socklessness, like chilled red wine, can creep too.  Any occasion more serious than a non-business lunch or casual outdoor event really requires socks.  I don’t usually look out for ankles, but a bare one at a wedding or business function is hard to ignore.  It’s funny to think of a man’s ankles as being distracting considering our collective tolerance of exposed flesh these days, but somehow that little patch of skin between foot and calf is weighted differently than midriff and décolletage.  Specifically, it signifies leisure.  This is why a tie requires socks; on younger men forgoing the latter looks affected, on older men, like a jarring omission.

    The only real danger in chilled Beaujolais or socklessness is deploying either too regularly.   This is often the case with seasonal indulgences; they only delight when experienced in contrast to the expected.  Of course this cuts the other way too; the instant the practice feels routine, a return to more conventional habits is welcome.  We are blessedly early in the season though, so at least once a week I will be the guy drinking cold Beaujolais, ankles very much in the open.

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.

Laced with Loyalty

The gold standard: Wallabees.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heel Love

A good polish emphasizes the swooping shape of stilettos.

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

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

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

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

Calfskin

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

Suede

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

Patent

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

Exotic skins

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

Pony Hair

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

Textile

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

Sequins, crystals and gems

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

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

A Brief Defense of Black Loafers

The black loafer in its natural habitat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reflections on a Sunday Ritual

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

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

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

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

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