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. 

The Broiling Point

Massive scallops and wild salmon await the broiler.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four out of five langoustines agree: broiling is superior.

Penumbra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the Heat is On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Penance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ingredients:

18-ounce canister of premium rolled oats

2 whipped egg whites

1/2 cup of canola oil

1/2 cup of honey

Pinch of salt

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

 Method:

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

Oats, awaiting anointment.  

i-Fold

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

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

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

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

Diction Matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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