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.

The Small Things

    Between the steamer trunk and the hand-bag exists the traveler who goes lightly, but not entirely without those small artifacts of civility.  For my wife, these are capra goat hair makeup brushes, at least four sizes and individually wrapped in tissue paper.  She is otherwise a very sensible companion.  My small cache of home comfort consists of three utilitarian items, not one of which has ever raised the suspicions of a surly border agent.  

    A thumb-sized purse might have slipped into irrelevance with a move to the US where the $1 banknote made carrying coinage unnecessary.  It rode in the center console of my car for some time holding quarters, but even parking meters are paid in plastic these days.  It now is essential when I travel, holding collar stays, cuff links and the occasional tie-pin (for windy, tie-wearing occasions abroad).  Pig skin, double stitched with a nickel zipper.  Despite physical abuse, not to mention multiple existential upheavals, it endures.  

    A shoe horn might seem an obvious-enough accoutrement to travel, but try finding one small enough that doesn’t require unfolding or some other switch-blade-like action alarming to security guards and spouses.  Mine is black leather embossed in gold with the words “Made in England,” a calming phrase which must defray some of the shoe-horn’s threatening nature.  I have no idea where it came from; it appeared one day in my carry-on like some sort of talisman of a future without crushed heel-cups.

    The final, and most recent addition to my arsenal of creature comforts is a mitten of shearling and pebble grain leather for the purpose of buffing one’s shoes while away from the full complement of emollients and horse-hair brushes.  The design is ingenious, rolling up to save space (and, presumably, the purity of the sheep pile).  I have not yet had the opportunity to test the full patience of a border agent with this device; it can’t possibly be any more offensive than individually wrapped cosmetic brushes.

New York City's Leffot has a basket of these nestled among a collection of very fine shoes.  

Heave and Cleave

An ideal splitting surface has a wide sturdy base and tightly packed grain.  

    When I was a boy, Robert Frost’s 1915 poem “The Wood Pile” inspired me to take up a splitting axe and go to work on a mouldering stack of logs behind my childhood home.  The poem itself doesn’t romanticize the chore; the speaker understands the labor required to split a cord and is puzzled that it should have been spent only to abandon the fruits in an untrammeled wood.  Fuel disappears in a fireplace at about the same pace it takes to split, haul and stack it. This is why the fellow with the tender shoulders and rough hands is least likely to complain of a dying fire and the cooling living room.  Splitting logs is damned hard work.  It’s also terrific exercise.  

    What would Frost think of the current taste for mimicking labor for the purpose of exercise?  Some of these gyms have duffle bags full of stones; paying clients haul them around in punishing routines.  It brings to mind another Frost poem “Mending Wall”

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
​To each the boulders that have fallen to each. (13-16).

Frost is aware of the futility of repairing a stone wall that each year tumbles, but at least there is a wall to point to (or a tradition to uphold).  What about mimicking splitting wood, a task with neither?  In a gym, this is safely executed by pounding a tractor tire with a sledgehammer.  I don’t doubt the exercise is effective; I just prefer having a wood pile to admire when finished.  

    Of course wood-splitting isn't possible without a few arrangements.  Space—say a clearing with a five-yard diameter.  Some shock-absorbing surface is best—wood chips or grass—to help deaden the flight of the errant log.  The best splitting surface is a heavy and squat log—some unsplittable cross section taken from the base of a tree with the beginnings of a root structure that will act as a stabilizing flange.  The axe must be a splitting axe, or maul, with a wedged head not lighter than seven pounds and a sturdy handle with a reenforced neck.  Goggles and gloves are supposed to be worn.  

    The technique is rudimentary, engrained even.  Stance is shoulder width.  Dominant hand grasps the neck, the other firmly above the pommel.  Take aim at the cut end of a vertical log, drawing the axe back on the dominant side before bringing it up and over the head.  On the down-stroke, slide the dominant hand down the handle, driving the axe head into the center of the log.  The poetry, and I suspect the physical benefit, is in the rhythm that develops.  If you wish to last more than a few logs, a measured pace must be established.  Don’t forget that retrieving and stacking the spits is half the work.  Aim for duration rather than volume.  Learn to cleave in one blow.  If (and when) the maul gets jammed, put the log on the ground, step on it and rock the handle back and forth until released.  If that doesn’t work, lift the jammed log to the swinging position and execute a controlled stroke, striking with the sledge end of the axe.  The log will split itself over the upturned blade.  

    What about safety?  I know I have split safely when, the day following a session, my torso and shoulders are sore.  But a sore back portends injury.  A back becomes sore when it is put in charge of the stroke—a mistake as the back lacks control.  And the arms are merely the cables holding the axe; control comes from the front and sides of the midsection—the muscles facing the action.  I wonder, though, if the same exertion occurs when the danger is removed—say when pounding an immobilized rubber tire with a sledge hammer?  I think Frost would agree: the difference between a sisyphean task and a fruitful one is purpose: “Before I built a wall I’d ask to know / What I was walling in or walling out” (“Mending Wall” 32-33). 

The fruit.

The Full Complement

One or two courses?

    Indecision.  Conspicuousness.  Mediocrity.  Subterfuge.  Disappointment. A classic dish with a resume like this should already have perished alongside the ham in aspics and salmon molds that haunt an American culinary past.  A silly, rhyming name (made much worse by a juvenile contraction) should have been the death blow.  Surf n’ Turf persists, though, a recurring zombie of seaside and landlocked restaurants from sea to shining sea.  Maybe that very appeal of bicoastaliality is the dish’s lifeline; perhaps the symbolism of a plate groaning beneath the fruits of a wholesome land and a fecund sea is just too good to cast aside.  But then why isn’t Surf n’ Turf our national dish?

    The classic preparation is either a demonstration of restraint or an opportunity to check off the list of regrets that opened this short essay.  Ideally the beef is premium, relatively lean and not too large.  A small filet mignon—better, perhaps to call it petite—is the unrivaled correct choice when grilled properly.  Next to that morsel: a modest lobster alive when boiled.  Lemon and parsley are welcome, Béarnaise sauce borderline.  So what’s the problem?  Cost.  Two premium proteins, even if dining at home, is an expensive premise.  Restaurants manage the issue by altering expectations.  A single filet becomes filet tips or shell steak smothered in mushrooms (effectively hiding the diminutive portion), and the lobster loses its claws and body—the tail is “butterflied,” which is menu code for “pushed out of the shell to make it look bigger.”  Everything swims in sauces or hides beneath a shower of parsley.  Lemon wedges fill in any remaining gaps.  Cost is driven down, but the consumer price remains lofty.  

    The other route—one I endorse to an extent—is to alter the theoretical premise of the dish.  Higher concept restaurants have been doing this for years.  I’ve had scallops filled with braised beef cheeks.  I’ve also had bone marrow foam alongside razor clams.  This might sound avant guard, but the idea trickles down the line (and far back, historically).  Bacon-wrapped scallops?  Crab-topped steak?  What about that Victorian classic beef and oyster pie?  Spanish paella?  Food from the Azores seems not even to draw much of a distinction between surf and turf: pork, sausage, mollusks and fish appearing in conjunction is standard.

    I find the best approach is to think in terms of dishes.  One pork dish, and one scallop dish.  One platter of barbecued chicken alongside a poached salmon.  Skirt steaks grilled and served with roasted tomatoes and a dish of rare tuna, sliced over arugula.  When two dishes are made, options multiply.  One or the other can be eaten; one can be eaten, then the other; they can be eaten together.  The user determines the level of harmony, from none, to two proceeding courses, to an experimental pairing of land and sea.  

    Harmony is really the point.  Azoreans know well that pork fat enriches otherwise lean shellfish.  Meaty oysters seem at home with braised beef and bacon has never detracted from a scallop.  These examples rely upon each other, which, sadly, reveals the downfall of classic surf n turf.  Filet with lobster is a pairing based upon pretense—the expectation of luxury—rather than palpable harmony.  Apart they are noble; together they are complementary in name only. 

Pork tenderloin shares a grill with large scallops.  Whether they share a plate is another matter entirely.  

Heavy Metal

The blazer wall (part of it, actually) at Tender Buttons.  

    Where did I come into the idea that, with perseverance and an easy attitude, a suitable blazer button would make itself known through the piles of uninspired, unentitled, ugly, and unworthy?  Why should I ever have thought something handsome and understated would have found me?  I suppose some naiveté can be forgiven; the internet promises vast choice, but remarkably few viable leads.  And even trace impatience erodes the delicacy of the task.  Choosing a blazer button demands respect for what’s at stake: the finished garment’s character.  

    The smart shopper will know in advance what the things on buttons mean.  At the top and most explicit level, school, club and military emblems.   These are easy to eliminate from a search if one has no attachment to the institution.  Paradoxically, these are the most prevalent.  They tend to be intricate, colorful and loaded with busy symbolism.  My impression is they are more secret handshake than understated elegance anyway.  Generic symbolism comes next.  These cast a broad net: lions (monarchy), thistles (Scotland), anchors (nautical), but always strike me as adrift in vagueness.  Does the thistle-wearer endorse an independent Scotland?  Will the anchor-wearer blush if asked about his boat?  A subspecies of this category is the literal symbol: golf clubs, racquets, guns, foxes, pheasants, ducks etc.  These are safe for the sportsman who wields or shoots at one of these, but, again, what if the wearer just likes water fowl?  The rarest category is the blazer button free of anything literal or symbolic—the metal disk with some subtle machining or nothing at all.  This is what I’m after.  

    Keep in mind though that no garment is ever entirely free of association.  A tank-top means something; so do horn-rimmed spectacles.  A navy blazer with metal buttons, regardless of what appears on them, will register some association with those who encounter it.  My intention is that my blazer registers as a blazer rather than an orphaned suit coat; I am relying upon metal buttons to some extent, but also upon the textured hopsack cloth and gently swelled edges.  Put another way, the buttons are only part of the display.

    New York City’s Tender Buttons was the most promising brick-and-mortar source.  While a charming place, the choices are either very specific (Civil War uniform buttons set in 18K gold) or, and it pains me to say this as the place really is lovely, rather generic.  Online (or through a tailor) new buttons can be had from two premium English sources: Holland & Sherry and Benson & Clegg.  The former offers an edited selection of generic and literal symbols alongside a handful of plains all in solid brass, some enameled or plated in precious metals.  The latter offers much the same at a lower price point as well as school, club and sporting buttons.

    The wild card in this endeavor is the wider marketplace—the public auction or street vendor.  Perhaps one has Welsh or Swiss roots, or was born in Hong Kong or Auckland.  Perhaps one’s uncle was a paratrooper, a crack shot or a wizard.  Maybe the albatross or loon is a point of personal fascination.  Buttons featuring all of these exist waiting to be snatched from the ether.   A family friend recently sent me an image of some buttons she found at a market with hopes of deciphering the strange symbol of a chimeric creature wrapped about a gothic column.  I haven’t turned up anything yet; if she wears them perhaps someone will one day approach with an elaborate handshake.  Now that would be a good button story.

Knit Picking

Behold--the world's most versatile garment.  Made by Sunspel.

   In the context of clothing, summer is far less predictable than winter.  Cold weather always requires layers of covering; whether 13 ounce worsted or 15 ounce flannel, whether a shetland vest beneath tweed or a lightweight cashmere roll-neck beneath camelhair—these decisions are about personal tolerance.  The wearer can shed or pile on as necessary.  Not so for summer.  Depending on the occasion, warm weather might have one in a suit, where light or breathable cloth is the only defense against challenging heat, or on the beach where trunks and a polo are suddenly inadequate against a stiff, onshore breeze.  I have experienced that last scenario too often; I now always bring a sweater to the beach.

    What qualifies a knit as a warm weather garment is the construction and/or the composition.  The most disappointing garment I have ever owned had high marks in both categories—an expensive lisle cotton crew-neck.  Perhaps the problem was that it was too good; by the end of season two it was unsalvageable.  I hear knit linen is more durable than cotton, with many of the same cool-wearing properties, but its loose weave and droopy weight always remind me of fishing nets—not the seaside connotation I am aiming for.

    In my experience, merino wool is far superior to either.  A relatively high-twist means the yarn can be woven to a smooth, breathable finish that is at once resilient and very fine.  The result is something that won’t wilt in a beach bag and is smart enough for casual lunches and dinners.  Merino is soft enough to be worn against bare skin—preferably this way in warm climates as when layered the insulation multiplies—and will launder easily on a delicate cycle or in a hotel sink.  Laid flat on a towel-covered luggage rack before heading out, a merino sweater will be dry well before cocktail hour.  

The collared knit: at home on boat decking or under an odd coat.

    The way the neck is finished is what gives these various sweaters their names: crew-neck, v-neck, polo-neck, turtleneck.  I have one of each, but I might as well have just one: a navy cardigan.  In merino, this configuration might be the apex of versatility in wardrobe theory.  I wear mine over shirts and under tweed, over polos at the beach and under a blazer to dinner.  I can vaguely recall the last time I travelled without it: I was chilly.

    Actually all merino knits are good for travel; in addition to resilience and versatility, they are thin enough to pack without sacrificing too much space.  I find they also suggest themselves in ways they might not when home; a navy polo-collared merino knit really is very dashing with cream linen trousers.  And v- and crew-necks are perhaps a man’s best excuses for neckerchiefs.  Could these knits be the link between all elements of masculine style?  Perhaps, but I should stop before readers suspect me of having a stake in the global merino wool trade.

Fish Story

This red snapper has lemon, spring onion and mint stuffed in its cavity--not such a terrible fate.  

    Delicate sauces, well-planned side dishes—even handsomely laid tables—these components of a good meal go ignored the instant some large, primal piece of protein is introduced.  Is respect for the unbutchered beast hardwired into our species?  Does the felled mastodon stir our appetites still?  I think it does; Thanksgiving is a celebration of bounty, the centerpiece of which is a large, unadulterated bird.  Consider too the modern pig roast; the ones I’ve been too are as much about status and chest beating as good taste.  And then there is fish.  The true mark of a good haul isn’t the gentle fillet or the raw morsel.  Only the whole fish, cooked and plated, proclaims mastery of the sea.

    Cooking anything whole requires an unexpected restraint, but none more than fish.  I say unexpected because the assumption is usually the opposite—that hauling and preparing something large and intact requires elaborate procedure.  While a pig can be heavy and unwieldy, even a large fish is a one-man operation.  It begins like this: “One cleaned fish please.”  Cleaning fish—removing the guts, scales and fins—is nasty business and there is no advantage to doing it yourself.  Once home, season the cavity with salt, herbs, lemon and onion, tying it off in a few places with butcher’s twine.  Drizzle the outside with olive oil and lemon juice and season with salt.  Roast in a hot oven or grill over medium-high heat until skin is crisp and flesh opaque.  Over- or under-doneness is not much of a concern—when it looks finished, it is.  

    Good results begin with selecting the right fish.  If a grill or oven is large enough, a whole salmon is a very dramatic thing to put on a table for six or more.  Red snapper (typically from the Gulf or Caribbean) seems exotic but is widely available.  Its red skin turns mahogany when roasted and its flesh is mild.  Serves two to three.  For one reason or another, branzino from the Mediterranean is a bit of a status fish.  Its flesh is sweet and mild and crisps well in a hot pan or grill.  One per person as an entree.  Oily fish, like mackerel and sardines, are pungent and do best over real charcoal or roasted in a wood-oven, where the smoke and char are good foils to any fishiness.  

    There are bones in whole fish.  Announce this four or five times before service, and then twice more during.  Even then, some boob will no doubt point out: “there are bones in this!”  Unless you are a connoisseur of invertebrates, there are bones in all creatures we eat.  We don’t throw down our silver at Thanksgiving and announce that there are bones in our turkey legs, do we?  So why does the presence of bones in fish consistently alarm?  I suspect some combination of squeamishness and fear of choking is to blame.  The solution is very simple though: anticipate bones, chew slowly and don’t panic if one is encountered.  

    The very presence of those inedible parts—the bones, heads, tails etc—is what makes whole fish a pleasure.  They force a slower, leisurely pace—not methodical, just unhurried.  This is food that requires interaction from its audience—conscious, attentive eating full of knife and fork work and sips of wine.  The appearance of a whole fish might be primal, but eating it is rather more civilized.

Presto (Patience)

My shirt bucket materializes beneath a magic oak tree when summoned.  

    Remedies for stains often have a whiff of magic.  Treat red wine with white, as if the latter is the cosmic opposite of the former and, when introduced, both will vanish in a poof of cancelled ions.  And do we all realize that the prevailing theory for why club soda is superior to plain water is that the former’s fizz levitates the stain from cloth?  As for commercially available products, I would be hesitant to squirt anything with sensational claims on my clothes, no matter how charismatic (or Australian) the spokesperson.  

    The rather boring truth is oil and water-based marks in washable cloth—what we commonly refer to as stains—can be removed or lessoned with soap, hot water, rinsing and patience.  That last bit—patience—is crucial.  Soaking a soiled garment is often the difference between salvation and the Salvation Army.

    First, a word on prevention.  I suspect qualms about tucking a dinner napkin into a shirt collar can be traced to a common fear of the lace jabot.  This strikes me as a legitimate concern, as demonstrated by George Lazenby in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  But if splash-prone foods are forced upon me, I prefer jabot to uh-oh.  The other, and more sensible option, is to avoid dishes with a higher probability of splatter.  Soup is deadly; Alaskan crab legs worse.  Strand pasta is dangerous too; of course most Italian men I know are not afraid of temporarily looking like Lazenby.  

    Despite precautions, stains happen—sometimes just as magically as those cooky remedies mentioned above—and when they do, a good soak is the wisest option.  The vessel is important.  I prefer a standard round bucket as its narrow opening prevents garments from merely floating on the surface, and a large one will keep five or six shirts comfortably submerged.  This bucket should be dedicated to its role, something best achieved with masking tape, a permanent marker and a sternly worded message.  A lid is useful, but not necessary.  

    A good solution is hot and soapy.  Some swear by white vinegar as its mild acid seems to loosen stains and deodorize, but I find natural white soap works much better and without the unpleasant Greek salad top notes.  Using a micro-plane grater, grate several tablespoons of soap into the bucket; fill two-thirds full with very hot water, stirring to dissolve soap; plunge garments; leave the house if you cannot resist the urge to prod and stir and fuss.  Several hours later (or the next morning) lift the bucket into a deep sink and run cold water into it until the garments are thoroughly rinsed.  Drain, squeezing extra water out, and launder as usual on a gentle cycle.  Hang-dry and press.  

    Admittedly, soapy water and buckets are less exciting than hocus-pocus potions and alakazam additives.  If you feel the above procedure lacks pizzaz, consider painting your bucket black and adding a brim: your shirts will emerge like pristine bunnies from a top hat.  Personally, I am satisfied with the slow magic of soap, water and time.

Shouldering The Burden

Artist's rendering of proposed travel coat (borrowed pen on cocktail napkin).

   Travel is usually considered broadening, but I wonder if it also reins one’s imagination in, creating focus where before was only whimsy.  I write from an airport lounge, the morning after packing, and at least an hour before that cart rumbles down the aisle bearing a Bloody Mary.  I am preoccupied with clothes for travel; not the stuff neatly stored in a (hopefully) single carry-on, but the ones intended for the journey itself.   At the moment I have on ready-wear chinos and a navy merino cardigan over a shirt, a comfortable if somewhat pajama-like ensemble.   But “travel cardigan” hardly seems like a sound solution for racing between planes and trains.  No—a travel odd coat is what’s needed.

    Traveling clothes is a romantic genre full of tweed capes, reversible balmacaans and hidden buttons.  Historically, the principle was simple: more durable, less precious clothes should be worn that still look well enough to appear in public.  Features, such as convertible collars that could effectively be worn up, might afford some additional comfort in a drafty club car, but I suspect had as much to do with novelty as necessity.  Tweed suits were standard; so were wardrobe trunks and porters and bar cars captained by experienced barmen—irrelevant, the lot of it.

Porter & Harding's Glorious Twelfth book is packed with faux tweeds made of high-twist worsted wool in busy little patterns--perfect for camouflaging the occasional mishap.  

    Today’s travel garments reflect the current environment, one that, if we believe Agatha Christie, has significantly decreased in elegance.  Comfort, convenience and security are the main objectives, which wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t translate into oversized clothes made of nylon embellished with more zippers, latches and buckles than a standard flak jacket.  Designers view traveling as battle, and the ready-wear market for this specialized type of clothing is packed with technical garments.

    I think a good travel coat should securely contain passports, boarding passes, device(s) and whatever else is needed, but not at the expense of style, and, more to the point, ordinariness.  This might mean nothing more exciting than a subtle navy check with patch-and-button-flap pockets, perhaps one or two additional interior pockets, and a durable lining.  I don’t mean the coat should be uninteresting; I just want to be able to wear it outside of the context of travel without even a single Inspector Gadget reference.

Proposed Guidelines for Travel Coat:

Cloth must not be precious

Cloth must be durable and somewhat breathable

Color should be dark, or busy enough to disguise the minor calamity

Pockets must be sturdy rather than capacious, and might benefit from having a button closure

Lining is necessary so the coat won’t grip trousers while you leg-it to another terminal

Coat should be useful upon arrival at destination

A Master Presses

    Sometimes words fail, and not because a few can’t be committed to paper—that never seems to be a problem.  Describing the complex or entirely subjective can be a challenge, but some jagged attempt is always possible.  No—the impasse to which I refer has little to do with ability; sometimes words are just not the best medium.  

    Returning from a recent trip, and despite my well planned packing, I found a linen suit was creased beyond the charming rumples that make wearing the stuff a pleasure.  With a holiday weekend full of invitations approaching, I needed it pressed.  As it happened, I had an appointment with my tailor, Chris Despos, so I brought the suit along with hopes of a tutorial.  What I instead witnessed was a master in his dojo vanquishing wrinkles with razor-sharp focus, speed and a few moments of humor.  

    His iron is old and formidable.  His bench wears a battered padded top.  Other implements—a standard spray bottle, a sleeve board, a shoulder stand, strips of unbleached muslin—are no more high-tech than the principle behind pressing itself.  As Despos puts it: “wrinkles release under pressure, heat and steam—remove one and you aren’t pressing.”  This is why he warns against hanging garments in a steam-filled bathroom—that old routine does little  but fuzzes the nap and puckers the seams.  

    I dislike when crafts or skills are compared to art as I feel doing so cheapens both.  But I must admit the parallels to poetry are obvious: form, structure, intent, beauty, and, finally, imperfection.  “A suit,” Despos says, “should never be perfectly pressed.”   Could have fooled me.

The Latest Amendment

Hockey puck in size, not density.  Pack loosely and you will be rewarded with a tender and moist hamburger.

    “Hamburgers and Hotdogs” isn’t a meal; it’s a declaration of indifference.  When someone asks “What can I bring?” the answer is too often: “We’re just doing hamburgers and hotdogs, so bring whatever.”  In other words, so generic and casual is this thing we are hosting, that should you turn up late, drunk and empty-handed, it won’t matter.  I feel this is a shame; hamburgers and hotdogs deserve a more respectable seat in the pantheon of authentic foods.

    The prevalence of deeply processed, bland and generic versions is responsible for the pejorative sense of the expression “hamburgers and hotdogs”.  For those who haven’t experienced either, the former arrive frozen and mechanically punched out, the latter, as disturbingly uniform tubes vacuum sealed in plastic.  They are either burned over a hot grill or carelessly heated through, slathered with sweet condiments and sandwiched between cheap, sugary bread.

    Of course I should step gingerly here.  I realize dismantling prized examples of American authenticity is a tricky business, even if the intentions are good.  And so, in the spirit of not wanting to offend, I’ll sidestep specific origin stories and further declarations of mediocrity and just say this: hamburgers and hotdogs share common European ancestry, arriving independently in the US sometime in the latter half of the 19th Century where they became, through the gyre of American assimilation, widespread, iconic, and the food of nostalgia.

    What’s most surprising is that hamburgers and hotdogs share more than similarities of origin; they are born of a common technique.  Most would immediately recognize a hotdog as a sausage, but hamburger meat is really just beef sausage that has been made into patties rather than stuffed into casings and twisted into links.  Sausage as a genre is about maximizing yield from a slaughtered animal—taking lean, tough meat and grinding it with fat and seasonings until palatable.  What shape is made of the result is only a matter of taste.  

Real frankfurters are longer than the generic hotdog.  One more reason to ditch the bun.  

    The hotdog, what we might more specifically refer to as a Frankfurter, is a style of sausage where a beef and pork filling is ground to a smooth, emulsified forcemeat.  The mixture is then encased in a particularly snappy casing, smoked and cooked through.  The results need only warming though in a hot water bath (as is done in New York) or brief coloring on a medium grill.  Making frankfurters at home is possible, although quite a bit of time and equipment is needed.  Better to find a German butcher.

    Hamburgers, however, I insist you make at home. This is how I do it: find a reputable butcher.  Ask for two large  ribeye steaks, ground-to-order.  Endure the inevitable raised eyebrows and suggestions to buy their pre-ground burger meat.  Once home, put the ground meat into a stainless steel bowl.  Season with salt and pepper, mixing sparely.  Form loose patties slightly larger than hockey pucks.  Gently grill over medium heat, flipping once.  Do not, press, bash, or flip like some chipper 1950’s diner chef.

    I decorate both with restraint.  When good, the well seasoned meat needs little, although a dab of sharp mustard works well.  Even buns are optional, although frankfurters go well in pretzel rolls and it’s difficult to improve upon the structural advantages of a toasted English muffin for hamburgers.   If you still find “Hamburgers and Hotdogs” has a whiff of indifference about it, try delivering the platter to the table with the proud declaration: “Two types of authentic American sausages.”  If you are met with fifteen minutes of silent eating: success.

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.

Evenly Cooked

    For me, the realization that I wasn’t the sort of person whose skin grows golden and lustrous in the sun came shortly following a vigorous game of lacrosse on a South Florida beach when I was perhaps fourteen.  The tingling I felt was not, as I had thought, the salt water and kicked up sand; it was the beginning of a very bad burn.  The next morning, as those around me woke up handsomely burnished and ready for another game, my shoulders and back had developed a Mars-scape of scorched plains and raised plateaus.

    Happily, my skin has changed over the years and seems to take a light tan rather well now.  I say happily because, as anyone who has taken a look at one of those complexion color wheels knows, very little complements the permanently pale.  While I would never strive for George Hamilton levels of tan, a bit of sun on the cheeks can dramatically broaden the range of flattering shades worn.   While I emphasize light above, I wonder if natural is the real operative word; it’s the difference between someone who has tanned, and the tan acquired by someone while otherwise engaged.  The latter is, in my experience, far preferable.

These suggestions have served me well:

Find an activity to do.  Like a rotisserie chicken, movement in front of a heat source produces more even results.

Several applications of lower SPF are better than one slathering of higher SPF—strikingly similar to basting.

The use of accelerants, tanning beds and spray colorant is akin to artificial flavorings and dyes.  

If sedentary tanning must be done, avoid overdoing it.  A few minutes on each side should do.

No napping; the danger of waking up well-done is just too great.

Palms provide lousy shade.  

Some Haul

A jacket neatly inverted and folded.

    For a certain sector of clothing enthusiast, nowhere do principles of cloth selection, construction, versatility and coordination more perfectly culminate than when it comes time to contain their garments in a case for travel.  Packing, is for those fringe elements, art.  I can’t say I share the position; neither can I deny a certain pleasure in a properly packed case that produces barely wrinkled, easily unpacked garments a few moments after arriving at a destination.  So in that spirit, I offer a few principles of packing well.  

    At the heart of the matter is a tension between efficiency and care—the need to use space wisely and the desire not to damage your things in the process.  I firmly favor care, which means I’d rather pack less and make do then cram more and risk wrinkled lapels and shoulders unsalvageable with mere irons and shower steam.  But I also believe the right case can allow some compromise between the two.  A hard shell case might seem old fashioned, but cannot be beaten for interior space and exterior durability.  

    These also encourage the building of an interior architecture.  For a short trip, that architecture might look as follows: two pairs of odd trousers, halved at the knee and laid flat; one pair of shoes, in shoe bags, one at either end of the case; socks and underwear folded or rolled along the long sides of the case; into the central cavity now created by shoes, socks and underwear place folded shirts, handkerchieves, ties, sweaters, polos, bathing suit and dopp kit in layers; buckle straps, if present; finally, lay tailored jackets, shoulders pushed through and folded in half, on top and gently close the lid.  

    What’s this business about pushing shoulders through?  As techniques go, this one is better shown than described, but the basic principle is to reverse one shoulder into the cavity of the other and then fold the jacket in half, protecting the lapels and jacket fronts in the process.  There are two things to keep in mind though.  One, the interior straps of a hard case are terrific for securing your other items, but to cinch a gorgeous navy double breasted is criminal. Secondly, this is a technique most suited to active traveling shorter than three hours, after which time wrinkles are inevitable.  

    Enter the garment bag, by which I don’t mean the luggage variety meant to be checked.  Instead I refer to the vinyl or cloth ones that come with suits.  I despise having to keep these, but I do for precisely the following reason.  Whether through magic or physics, a suit in a garment bag, folded in half and put into a case resists wrinkles.  This ease and care comes at heavy cost though; plopping a garment bag full of suit in a case is a lavish waste of space.  As I said, at the core of packing is a debate between efficiency and care.  

    Hats, of course, are impossible, and I always smile when I see those men so dedicated to their prize felt or straw that the thing doesn’t leave their head for fear of being mangled in an overhead bin.  A valid fear, I would say, but with an unreasonable response.  For me, travel is an ideal opportunity to use a soft cap.  That’s a compromise I’m happy to make. 

Don't feel pressured to close your case until the last moment.  

License to Grow

A planter of herbs is a virtually skill-free endeavor.

    Growing herbs has always seemed to me one of those activities best practiced by the newly enthusiastic—the college student who has made the leap from dorm to apartment, or the young couple who finally gives in to suburbia.  Is there a better symbol for starting fresh than a window planter that quickly becomes abundant with edible verdancy?  Though real cooking happens everyday in our house, I’ve always just bought whatever fresh herbs I have needed along with the other ingredients.  I think this had more to do with convenience than cynicism.  

    Two years ago I was given a pot of English thyme.  I was going to clip the whole bunch of tender shoots and use them that night on a roast chicken, but for one reason or another it was forgotten.  A few days later, out of pity or curiosity, I planted it alongside some Coleus and Celosia.  I was amazed to find it had almost doubled in size by the end of the week, and by the end of the following I was clipping strands to thin the growth and using the fragrant leaves wherever I could.  The realization for me wasn’t that herbs are good—I have been adamant about including fresh ones in most of what I cook for years.  The abundance was the revelation.  

    The following year, alongside thyme, I planted basil, rosemary, tarragon and parsley.  They flourished like weeds.  Which taught me my first lesson about herbs: they do not require any skill to cultivate.  They want to spread and thicken, especially basil and parsley, which very quickly dominate a planter, sometimes to the detriment of less vigorous herbs.  If you have ground, put those there, saving planter space for thyme, tarragon and rosemary where they will receive unobstructed air and light.  

Pesto with body.

    The only maintenance needed (other than water) is thinning—a regular harvesting which is the sole reason for planting herbs anyway.  Woody herbs, like thyme and rosemary, will need a pair of snips; basil, parsley and tarragon are tender enough to pluck with fingertips—just be sure not to disturb the root structure.  I like to take a combination of new growth, which is usually found at the top, and inner, older growth from the center or the interior.  This practice is not just for the health of the plant; the combination of tender, new herbs and more mature ones provides the full range of flavor in a dish.  

    All this abundance requires recipes that star herbs rather than calling for them as a mere seasoning.  A salad of herbs and something more neutral, like butter lettuce, can be a very refreshing start to a meal.  Tarragon and parsley are the main ingredients in Green Goddess Dressing—that 1920’s classic.  And packing herbs onto a piece of meat before roasting is rarely a miss.  But if the herbiest punch is desired, little approaches pesto.  To make a good one, strike the gloppy, buffet horrors and mix-and-match noodle/sauce restaurants from your memory, focusing instead on the name itself.  Pesto is derived from the italian verb to pound or crush, inspired by the original mortar and pestle method.  From Provence to Genoa preparations call for various herbs, nuts, cheeses and oils—not out of wild experimentation, but based upon availability, that most crucial of ingredients.  

Basil Pesto

Wash a few handfuls of freshly plucked basil.  Dry.  Toast a small handful of pine nuts or walnuts in a dry pan.  Let cool.  With a vegetable peeler, fill a small ramekin with strips of a hard cheese, like Pecorino or Grana Padana.  Place nuts and basil in mortar and grind in circular motion until a fairly uniform paste is achieved.  Grate in a pinch of fresh garlic.  Slowly incorporate extra virgin olive oil, about half a cup total, mixing continuously with pestle.  Grind in cheese.

Perfect Squares

Neckerchief, reef-knotted and ready.  

   Between the necktie and the scarf exists another way of closing the collar that has nothing to do with bow ties.  I’m not being coy; this accessory has multiple and varying names, and a general disagreement of size and function.  Is a bandana smaller than a neckerchief?  Is the neck cloth a catch-all term for anything worn inside the shirt?  An ascot is certainly different; like a tie, it is shaped to achieve a particular effect.  But the unisex, unstructured, large square of cloth is what I find the most beguiling.

    I prefer the term neckerchief because it suggests utility rather than mere decoration—precisely the distinction I find important as concerns handkerchieves as opposed to pocket squares.  Of course if someone is crying, or a minor spill needs mopping, whipping off a neckerchief hardly seems the most sensible option.  So what are they for?  On casual occasions in cool weather, a silk or wool neckerchief provides a very effective barrier to drafts.   In summer, a lawn (fine cotton) or linen neckerchief is a glorified sweat band.  I can almost see some readers recoiling, but that’s life when it's hot.  Better a saturated square of cotton than rivulets of sweat collecting about the neck.  Plus they launder.

    This identification of utility should alleviate any timidity in wearing one, but it doesn’t.  Neckerchiefs are still rather conspicuous, even when worn neatly tucked beneath nothing more noticeable than a polo collar.  This is because the effect of wearing anything around the neck is always decorative.  The dullest woolen scarf, soberly arranged, is going to reveal something about its wearer, so what hope does lilac linen have for not attracting attention?  As a countermeasure, I limit my neckerchiefs to muted colors and quiet patterns, allowing the presence of something less familiar to win most of the style points.

    The knot(s) are important too.  True, there are more than one, but really only the reef knot matters.  I realize this sounds narrow, but more elaborate knots are either going to exaggerate the presence of your neckerchief, or invite unwelcome associations to boy scouts (who use a cute little ring to cinch theirs), or chefs (whose traditional four-in-hand produces an awkward, protruding nub).  To tie a reef, first transform the neckerchief from a square into a long strip (known as a pli de base) by folding two opposite corners of the square so they overlap, and folding the remainder in two inch intervals.  Give the result a few twists if you’d like.  Put it around your neck, the left end a little longer than the right end.  Thread the left end over and under the right end, and then the right over and under the left.  The points should protrude from the knot in opposite directions.  Fiddle and tuck the excess.  

    Of course women may do whatever they like with a neckerchief, a point made famously well by Grace Kelly who was once photographed using a silk square as a sling following an injured arm.  Carré de soie, the large, painstakingly printed foulards most notably produced by Hermès are at the top of this amorphous category of accessory.  I imagine either sex occasionally admires items from the other’s wardrobe; I have caught my own wife locked in some mixture of admiration and longing as she held a pair of my sensible brogues.  She has a few nice bags, but nothing tempts me more than her modest collection of carré de soie.  They are vibrant and dense—alive with spring and heft.  More than once, I’ve stood open-necked before them, wondering if I could get away with one of the more subtle prints slipped beneath a collar.

Violet giraffes on an olive ground.  One might say this is an advanced neckerchief.

What the Blazes?

These Royal Welsh Fusiliers blazer buttons are lovely, but not suitable for civilian wear.  Beware military and club associations to which you aren't entitled.  

    An advertisement for very expensive ready-to-wear suits caught my attention the other day, and not for the clothing, which seemed to be struggling to contain the muscular model within, but for the great difficulty the copywriter had in describing the various ensembles.  He or she did well enough with colors, although I cringed when I read gray flannel described as “battleship wool.”  Parsing the type of garment was where efforts failed entirely.  Suits were variously referred to as “jacket with matching pants,” “coat with trousers” and a “blazer.”  That last one was a real howler: it was written beneath a photo of a double breasted chalk stripe suit.

    Blazer is probably the most widely abused men’s clothing term.  I wonder if this has something to do with the somewhat more exciting experience of saying it aloud versus the mundane, monosyllabic coat or suit.  Maybe blazer just makes for better copy, accuracy be damned.  The other reason might be its relative isolation within the masculine wardrobe.  From a marketing perspective, tweed is for picking apples in autumn, suits are for boardrooms, and seersucker is for summer weddings and garden parties.  Because the blazer doesn't neatly fit one of these niches it explodes into the in-between spaces, surfacing when convenient as a term for anything vaguely jacket-shaped.  

    The quick and dirty version of blazer history has the single breasted version originating as a brightly colored rowing club jacket, and the double breasted version emerging as a civilian interpretation of the Royal Navy’s reefer jacket.  This is a plausible, if tiresome, convergence of stories.  Like most origin tales, though, retelling them gives the impression that one day the blazer did not exist, and the next it did.  That’s silly; like a cummerbund or a pair of jeans, the contemporary conception of a blazer is a product of slow emergence and eventual familiarity.  Put another way, the blazer is as much an idea as it is a garment.  

This hopsack makes other hopsacks question their relevance.  

    But we rely upon certain visual cues in order to identify that idea.  The blazer has metal buttons, for instance, to distinguish it from the jacket of a suit.  Of course my last two blazers had horn and mother-of-pearl buttons; both were handsome and still somehow registered as blazers.  Ticket pockets, patch pockets and swelled edges (slightly raised seams) are all sporty details found on various blazers, but none are compulsory.  The cloth itself should probably have some un-suit-like character.  The pronounced twill of serge, the mottling of flannel and the basket-weave effect of hopsack make all those cloths good candidates.  But suits can be made from all three too.  Slippery, no?

    I’m wrestling with these details at the moment.  I’ve had for some months a particularly hopsack-y hopsack in a deep navy sitting on a shelf with the vague idea of making it into a traditional blazer.  This cloth has so much character that I wondered for a while if that alone would be sufficient in distinguishing it from an orphaned suit jacket.  But when else would I use metal buttons?  So I’ve decided on those too.  Whether they should be brass, silver, bronze, gunmetal or copper is still very much undecided.  I also like the idea of swelled edges, because, again, when else would I have them?  The trick, if it qualifies as one, is to use enough detail to establish the garment as a blazer, without distracting from what should be a garment as elegant as it is useful.  An extra detail might easily become one too many.

Short Circuit

I bet bronze helmets chaffed, especially while dancing.  

When I was actively playing sports in high school, weight training was as leaden and uninspiring as the 45 pound discs we all hoped to rack up on the barbell.  One particular strength coach, his thick neck roped with arteries, suggested the following routine: one muscle group, worked to absolute failure, each day of the week.  For instance, on the day we were to train our chests (everyone’s favorite as the desire for full pectorals is deeply coded into the brains of boys) this guy had us line up next to the bench.  One by one we would each do a set of as many repetitions we could muster at whatever the heaviest weight manageable was.  The goal was to fail around the tenth repetition.   And that was it!  Hit the showers, boys.  Of course he had a huge neck, so we all assumed his was the path to similar, collar-busting glory.  I’m not sure anybody even broke a sweat.  I did develop a persistent pain in my lower back, though.  

    Thankfully, straining beneath huge weight once per day has fallen from favor.  Instead circuit training has become massively popular under the guise of countless branded programs.  I chuckle each time I see a new one advertised; circuit training is as old as Jack Lallane.  No—older: Spartan boys training in the brutal Agoge camps performed the Pyrrhiche, a repetitive dance routine of explosive lunges, thrusts, pivots and jumps—all while wielding bronze shield and javelin.  The idea hasn’t changed much: a circuit of similar, weighted exercises executed with vigor and according to a strict clock is an ideal, if grueling, way to boost performance. 

    All that is required is a set of modest weights, perhaps a cinderblock (or the slightly less rudimentary kettle bell) and a clear space.  From lunges to cleans, squats to rows, the variety of exercises is vast: choose five, executing each without rest during the transitions and repeat three or four times.  But circuit training scales down very well—right down to training for nothing more romantic than general physical fitness.  And the only requirements for that noble goal are a few memorized floor exercises, a scant fifteen minutes and some degree of persistence.

    A modest circuit might begin with fifty jumping jacks, followed by fifty lunges, twenty-five  pushups and twenty-five sit-ups.  This might sound too modest to some.  I must pause here to relate a brief story about just that.  A few years ago I was asked to help out with my old high school wrestling team.  For one reason or another I was put in charge of conditioning.  In advance of the first practice, I put together a relatively modest circuit, similar to the one above.  The other coaches thought it far too lenient.  I persisted, as I wanted to gain a sense of general fitness in the room.  We were all dismayed, though, to learn that virtually no one could get through three circuits without real strain and, toward the end, sloppiness.  And therein lies the secret of the circuit; most people can get through one, but will subsequent rounds be all flailing arms and jellied legs?  

    Happily, by the end of the season, I had the team conditioned to a more suitable standard.  That modest circuit expanded from four simple exercises to seven challenging ones.  Three circuits could be crisply executed.  These particular exercises were tailored to the needs of those wrestlers, which is to say explosive strength in the legs, an iron trunk and arms that would not fail.  I’ve reproduced the original circuit below, but unless you are training for a spot in the varsity lineup (or to be a Spartan warrior) a simpler series of four or five familiar or favorite floor exercises should suffice.  Performed quickly and honestly, a more efficient workout just doesn’t exist, and at absolutely no risk of popping the buttons from your collars.

If readers unfamiliar with the exotic exercises listed here are interested, drop a note and I will put together some colorful descriptions into a post.

Yes You Canapé

Checkmate: rosemary ham with gherkin, poached shrimp with tomato, Robiola with beet, hard cooked egg with parsley. 

   In a particularly slapstick production of Moliere’s The Misanthrope I went to see several years ago, some of the sillier moments involved a sharp-tongued servant who, despite good intentions, repeatedly had his tray of canapés inadvertently slapped from his hands.  The canapés themselves were pastel little buns  and discs made of foam—as unserious and cutesy as the comedic scene required.  It occurs to me now, though, that, just as a prop sword or crystal ball must be immediately familiar for the sake of narrative clarity, so too were these faux morsels a popular conception of the canapé.  I’m mildly offended; I love canapés.  

    Strictly speaking, canapés are a class of hors d’oeuvres involving little rounds of bread with some single or series of toppings.  Classically, the bread is punched out from fresh slices with a ring mould, allowed to become slightly stale, brushed with clarified butter, gently toasted, anointed with some sauce which acts as an adhesive for whatever main topping is desired, garnished, and served on individual doilies on a vast silver platter.  They can be complicated, affected, luxurious and delicious.  But do you know what else is a canapé?  Bruschetta.  So is Spam on a cracker.

Mortadella on toasted ciabatta.  Garnishlessness can be a virtue.  

    My canapés rarely involve much more than bread, a topping and a garnish  I can live without toasting the bread if it is dense and sturdy enough.  Those long, thin and precisely sliced rye loaves sometimes found at German butchers and specialty stores make an ideal base.  Lightly toasted (or stale) baguette rounds work well too.  I’ve always found clarified butter a waste of perfectly good milk solids; instead I use salted English country butter; when softened it is an effective adhesive and I haven’t yet encountered a sauce with better flavor.  If the desire to doctor your butter is overwhelming, fold in chopped herbs, some minced shallot and lemon zest.  

    The topping, a seemingly simple aspect to the architecture of the canapé, is often where the assembly goes pear-shaped.  I avoid complicated compounds, favoring instead the single protein sliver or hunk.  In practice this means a fanned-out shrimp rather than a scallop and mayonnaise concoction; a ribbon of parma ham rather than a prosciutto, fig and walnut medley; a room temperature piece of cheese rather than ricotta studded with pistachios, dill and black pepper.  Ultimately, it is just too difficult to improve upon the already well-made, and most efforts, while genuine, obscure rather than enhance.  Ask yourself: do you really feel you can improve upon caviar?  

Make plenty; canapés tend to vanish.

    Garnishes are vital, providing contrast in flavor, texture and color.  Thinly sliced pickled gherkin is ideal.  Pickled anything works though.  Cooked beet is terrific with a bloomed rind cheese.  Seafood often requires little more than a few drops of lemon juice and a slice of tomato.  Shavings of fresh truffle are probably the best luxury garnish.  Herbs, particularly pungent ones like tarragon and basil, are good candidates; sprigs of rosemary and thyme, while handsome, are inconvenient for the guest. 

    Convenience is important for canapés.  They are one-handed, two-bite morsels, and any design or element that challenges that simple dynamic is a poor choice.  Towering arrangements, inedible garnishes, overwrought mixtures likely to let loose down a foulard—these are the results of the cook’s cleverness being put before the guest’s enjoyment.  My wife recently reminded me of a man we silently observed at a wedding last summer.  It seemed he could unhinge his jaw like a python, swallowing the preposterously tall canapés with ease.  Everyone else just avoided them.  The best canapés are approachable, familiar, and delicious, even from across a room.  But if they look like stage props, something has likely gone wrong.

Smart Support

A battered old badge transforms this polo into supporter gold.

    Even the most devoted classical dresser can be coaxed from his worsted and woolen shell when the urge to support a sports team strikes.  This is particularly true at the moment; the World Cup has the unique ability to unearth previously unknown allegiances in friends and colleagues, some hotly defended no matter how spurious the connection.  Pride of this sort can cloud judgment though; who hasn’t witnessed some less-than trim character squeezed into the newer style of painted-on jersey?  Oversized versions are the more common offender, but neither could ever be considered part of an elegant wardrobe, even if rarely worn.  So how can the classical dresser participate without compromising a commitment towards personal style?

    Firstly, why does wearing sports gear chafe the sensibilities of the more classically oriented anyway?  Historically, sports fields and stadia have been a rich source of style.  Polo coats, chukka boots, tennis sweaters, plimsolls, pique polos—all of these items began life as solutions for real athletes.  The social scene that arises around an event was also fecund ground for personal style; Esquire and Apparel Arts sent reporters to cover (American) football rivalries between various ivy league universities in hopes of spotting the newest fashions for their readers.

    The obvious answer is that sports gear has taken a decidedly inelegant turn in the past forty years or so, employing synthetics wherever possible, plastering every available inch with sponsorship branding, and doing away with any element deemed superfluous.  Simultaneously a dramatic change in proportion has occurred; shorts have become longer and baggier, jersey’s often the same.  It wasn’t that long ago that Mike Tyson entered the ring in unadorned black mid-thigh shorts.  He looked menacing and explosive as he surveyed the crowd, most of whom wore tuxedoes for the occasion.  Are we surprised that the advent of bill-board shorts goes hand-in-hand with ring-side seats populated by unshaven, sunglass-wearing celebrities?  

    I almost teared-up when I discovered England’s national kit had forsaken the crisp little collar that made wearing replicas such a pleasure in the past.  France fans are fortunate; their team’s jerseys are particularly smart in navy with white collars.  But, those, too, seem doomed as collarless compression tops become the default style.  I recommend seeking out older jerseys; they may still be synthetic, but even versions as recent as ten years old typically have retained a collar, a tailored silhouette and a less egregious clash of branding.  This is a bottomless well though; secondary markets exist for collectors of vintage and rare jerseys and, like any coveted and limited product, prices can quickly become exorbitant for the most desirable specimens.

A lapel pin never looked so good. 

    If you really cannot bare a synthetic jersey, a subtle, low drama effect can be achieved with a badge or pin.  The truly dedicated might have an official badge sewn on to a well fitting polo; the effect is surprisingly convincing, and no more noticeable than a polo with any other chest-mounted emblem.  I wouldn’t sew a badge on a blazer, but I have worn a pin through the button hole to great effect.  In fact, I attended a garden party during the last World Cup wearing ready-to-wear chinos, the aforementioned badged polo and a lightweight blazer with a small pin on the lapel.  The combination went largely unnoticed until a fellow England supporter spotted me, revealing his own jersey beneath his blazer.  He wanted to know where I found my pin.  

    Finally, scarves, which would be a perfect fan accessory if they weren’t so season specific.  A brightly colored and loudly printed scarf can be worn without fear of looking like a paid mascot.  It can be waived around, held up for the cameraman, or, if your team wins in hostile territory, quickly stuffed into an interior pocket during an escape.  So useful is the supporter scarf, I’m proposing its summer alternative: the supporter cotton neckerchief, to be worn in a square knot  beneath a collared jersey.