The Desert Island Bunch

    Though the thought gives me mild palpitations, had I to forsake all others in favor of a single cloth bunch, I’m not sure I could do better than the H. Lesser 311 book.  This isn’t one of those far-ranging bunches, like Golden Bale, containing everything from gossamer tropicals through to beefy flannels.  Rather these cloths all fall in around 11 or 12 ounces—a weight the cover deems “lightweight worsteds”—which is on the upper edge of middle-weight cloth by today’s standards.  They don’t feel it though; some combination of weaving and finishing gives these a lighter-than-listed appeal.  

    Fans of British worsteds will almost immediately notice that this bunch lacks the very dry hand characteristic of the genre.  In its place is an elusive softness, a certain broken-in character that, while lacking in crispness, has still retained its guts.  Perhaps this is what much stouter worsteds look like after several years of loving wear?  

    The patterns are classic though: bold pinstripes, subtler rope stripes, faint windowpanes, sharkskins, herringbones and a dizzying array of solids.  The plain and over-checked birdseyes are perhaps the highlight, the weave allowing some extra softness, and the glen checks are sprinkled throughout in perhaps a dozen shades and configurations.  The back of the book contains what I think of as the hobbyist’s corner—a dozen bold and unusual cloths reserved for those whose wardrobes have all the basics deeply covered.  

    The sum?  A comprehensive bunch that is neither too heavy nor too light; neither too crisp nor too soft; neither too conservative nor too wild.  Is this the elusive all-season cloth most enthusiasts agree doesn’t exist?  Has the grail been hiding in plain sight?  Or is this just the right bunch with which to be marooned on a desert island?  Only a dozen suits can decide.

Blue Wrapsody

The party DB at the basted stage.

    The first few months of any new year is when wedding invitations (or at least save-the-dates) start appearing, and so far a number of hefty ones have been plonked down in our mailbox.  We are honored, of course, but there are those of a certain disposition whose minds almost immediately turn to dress and whether or not the old wardrobe can accommodate.  When one considers the variables involved—location, time of year, time of day, venue—the wedding can quickly become a challenging event for the clothes-conscious guest.

    But the real moment of pause occurs when scanning the remainder of the invitation one encounters an opaque phrase like Formal.  In the classic sense, formal means nothing short of white tie and tails.  Common sense (or unfortunate experience) suggests this isn’t what’s meant, so one may consider the tuxedo.  This is usually also incorrect; in the US the F word refers to a suit.  When Black tie is Suggested, Encouraged, Optional or indeed anything short of Required, most men wear suits.  In any case, phone calls are inevitably made between guests and eventually the bride herself, or her mother, will intervene.  This is too bad; there was a time when people just knew.

    I like a black tie wedding, but the truth is they are going the way of morning dress weddings in the US.  There is practicality to consider—most ceremonies take place in the early afternoon when tuxedoes aren’t correct—but the real reasons have more to do with an increasingly casual culture, and, to a lesser extent, fear of appearing elitist.

    For those with a greater sense of occasion, however, all is not lost.  One may choose to wear a suit styled with more formal details.  At the top of this category is probably a dark three piece with peaked lapels.  If the waistcoat is double breasted, the effect would be particularly grand.  This suit is perhaps one notch below the tuxedo, and for some, that may just be the problem as its relative formality reduces its utility.  For me, a double breasted in a plain or subtle self-weave seems a smarter choice, ideally in navy for its ability to appear rich, subdued and celebratory in equal parts.  And double breasted, for that configuration’s ability to appear formal and somewhat undone at the same time, something that must stem from the classical tension between the wrapped asymmetry and symmetrical buttons.  

    Now this is not a novel idea, but what separates a standard navy suit from the consummate party suit is the cloth. The right shade of navy is crucial.  Dark, true navies always look smart but can seem too severe in the afternoon.  A navy that has been permitted to retain more blue is better, as long as one doesn’t cross the invisible line that divides navies from blues.  How to know?  One must spend hours comparing similar swatches in every conceivable way until one is certain of the differences.  No, really.

    Chris Despos (my tailor) and I spent three full hours with what the casual observer would have noted were dozens of near identical swatches of navy suiting.  We ran between, dim, artificial and natural lighting.  We set several up about the room to determine how each rendered at varying distances.  I held many against my skin while gazing silently into a mirror like some vain pantomime.  It was a trying experience, but just when I thought I was losing grasp of the objective, my awareness of the subtleties suddenly peaked, and before me no longer lay countless scraps of navy cloth but a handful of real contenders whose differences where as dramatic as a book of tartan plaids.

    The winning cloth is a rich navy in a fine twill from H. Lesser’s Lumbs Golden Bale.  The cloth is a solid navy, although the subtle diagonal rib lends a certain surface interest, and the depth of color is extraordinary.  Some may take issue with the weight (10/11 ounces) considering this suit will often be worn in the summer, but I feel that is a small tariff considering the benefits of drape and longevity.  I fully expect to be wearing this suit in fifteen years.  Of course what conventional wedding dress will look like then is anyone’s guess.

The party DB relaxing before an evening out.

Cloth Between Brothers

The navy suit in question, made of Lesser 13 ounce hopsack. 

Several years ago, in the intimate ballroom of Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel, I stood and delivered a best’s man’s speech to the guests of my older brother’s wedding reception.  It was a mixed crowd; a younger set expected the groom to be well roasted; the aristocratic forehead of the Bride’s father, prominent and frightening even from a distance, reminded me, however, that his friends filled a majority of the seats and they expected banal brevity lest the consommé cool.

 I found my solution in my inbox.  For the better part of the previous year my brother and I had exchanged dozens of emails concerning the commissioning of a dinner jacket for the occasion. This had not been an ordinary exchange.  My brother is rather particular, and as even a casual reader here may gather, I too have my opinions.  Among other preferences, my brother does not tolerate any cloth that even remotely itches.  He wishes to be swathed in gossamer, and though I do not understand the compulsion, and tried mightily to sway him toward stouter stuff, it was his wedding, not mine.  

 And so what developed was a semi-technical exchange concerning microns and mohair, barathea and grosgrain, peaks and shawls--the sort of discussion to which anybody who doesn’t count themselves as a clothing enthusiast might raise an eyebrow.  My brother’s illustrative written style made my job easy when it came time to deliver the speech; why tell jokes when direct quotations, delivered in a controlled deadpan, prove far funnier?  

 At the heart of this light-hearted moment though is a debate about cloth.  The opposing camps could not be clearer: the majority seeks the finest, lightest and most ethereal cloths, whatever the cost, whereas a small but vocal minority rejects the modern efforts in favor of heavier, drier and more durable suit-stuff.  In many ways, it is the familiar “new” versus “old” debate in which one side (from behind German, rimless glasses) suggests technological innovation and the other (briar clenched between teeth) bloviates about longevity and tradition.  In short, I love my brother but he has despicable taste in cloth.  I imagine he would say the same of me.

I suppose wool itself must shoulder some of the blame.  It really is too versatile for it’s own good.  Italian firms in particular can make worsted suiting of such fineness one might easily confuse it for sheer linen.  Conversely, I have held 18 ounce semi-milled worsteds that might prove useful should one suddenly need to refinish a wooden skiff.  Confusing things is price.  Fine super cloths can be very expensive; the ready-wear market pushes suits in these cloths as luxury items and charges accordingly.  Of course a suit made of quality heavy British worsted is also an expensive item, albeit not one adopted by the ready-wear market.  There is another layer of complexity too: proponents on either side have launched propaganda campaigns.   One side suggests anything heavier than eight ounces is obsolete since the advent of central heating; the other responds with tales of split trousers and sleeves being ripped clean off by a determined enough breeze.  

The first suit Chris Despos made for me began life as a navy blazer.  I had wanted something sturdy for travel and weekly wear and had considered cloths from twists to serges.  I settled eventually upon a 13 ounce hopsack from Lesser’s 303 book.  The swatch seemed magical, rebounding from however I crumpled it in my hand and had a deceptive sort of weight at once greater and less than what the book’s cover indicated.  I’m not  sure we made it to a second fitting before we decided to add trousers.

 I realize opinion on a 13 ounce, densely woven hopsack suit might be divided.  It would positively send my brother to the funny farm.  But I must admit an obsession with the garment.  The depth of color is remarkable, managing to be unmistakably navy and not black or blue, a fate many a “navy” suit suffers.  The subtle weave is dead-matte in daylight, with enough surface interest to seem at home with madder, knit or woolen neckties.  It transforms at night, though, when that surface awakens with lustrous depth and richness enough to set off the sheen of foulard and satin.  Most importantly though it feels to me like a suit of clothes rather than a set of pajamas, a quality that should not be dismissed considering this suit has become my favored choice for more serious affairs where one might appreciate not feeling so exposed.  

Speaking of pajamas, a few months after his own wedding my brother was invited to an old friend's own nuptials, another Brit living in New York.  He was looking forward to the event until he learned the bride wished the groomsmen to wear morning suits.  My brother has lived in the States too long to necessitate morning clothes and so was compelled, along with five other saddened individuals, to rent.  On the day, the itch from the burlap-like cloth became so severe he felt he had no choice but to stop at a mid-town discount mall and purchase flannel pajamas which, despite a high in the mid-80s, he wore beneath for the duration.  

 Oh how I wish I had that gem the night of my speech.

Texture and depth: just two of the benefits of heavier cloth.