Basic Civilization

2011-07-12T10:51:00.005-04:00

Dear Internet,

Those of you who know me best will readily testifiy to the fact I am a sophisticated cheapskate. VERY sophisticated, sure, but a cheapskate nonetheless.

So, much like I have done previously with wines, I am here to give you the inside track on getting spectacular, Robb Report-like levels of luxuriosity for chump change.

This is where you need your Uncle Joke.

Today's steal is the Pedro Martin Cigars Corojo blend.

The short version of the back story is this: Back in Cuba, there was a guy (Pedro Martin) who grew up in the cigar and tobacco business. His father and father-in-law were legends in their own right, growing top-shelf leaf and rolling amazing cigars. So this guy has serious DNA going on.

The bad guys take over Cuba, and Pedro and his crew come to the USA. Pedro sets up shop at Tropical Tobacco and immediately starts producing ridiculously good cigars, cigars that give a good scare to the giga-buck illicit smokes from Cuba. Pedro rides the initial wave of the cigar boom to well deserved acclaim and the hits just keep on coming: V Centennial, Don Juan and culminating in the spectacular V Centennial 500* Series, about which Cigar Aficionado's raters fell over themselves to praise with no score lower than a 90.

Pedro is riding high, and he has great plans for the future. But then...

(You KNEW there would be a "but then", right?)

Pedro gets sick, and is forced to sell the company.

Many years later, his daughter Maria finds her dad's "recipes" (the cigar blends) the near-mythical Pedro had devised all those years ago, in the expectation the tobacco growers would finally provide him the raw material to work his magic. Having absorbed much of the knowledge and wisdom her father had to impart, Maria decides to make a bold move: She will honor her family legacy by creating a cigar company dedicated to resurrecting the legendary blends her father had devised.

Such is her faith that she and her business partner, Ammer Cabrera launched her company into one of the worst economies in living memory.

I'm here to tell you that faith was very, very well placed.

But I'm skipping ahead.

With cigars I like to try one "straight" and then one the way I'd normally enjoy one in a social context. Sometimes a cigar that tastes great in isolation doesn't go with a spirit, and vice versa. A stellar cigar does both, with no stories and no apologies.

This, dear Internet, is a stellar cigar.

First of all, if you were a Very Bad Person you would buy all of these that you found and relabel them with some fancy-pants embargoed Cuban cigar bands, and you'd fool ANYONE, and get repeat business. Seriously, if this thing had a Cuban label, you'd have to bay upwards of $25 per stick and be glad for the privilege.

But be gladder you don't have to. This thing is a steal.

I got a Churchill. Me, personally, I prefer a high wrapper to filler ratio. You do whatever you want.

The wrapper is minimally veined. Smooth, glossy and a textbook definition of what a cigar wrapper should look like.

The pre-lighting aroma was very cinnamon/cedar. Construction was firm, but not hard. Clipping and drawing were easy. This is classical stuff. So we light.

The aroma of sweet spices ERUPTS from this cigar. Cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg envelop your senses. The draw and construction are -- and there's no other way around this -- flawless. The downside to a flawless construction is that, if you're not paying attention, you will have cheerfully smoked the whole thing down to the band in no time at all.

Of course, anything with the name "Pedro Martin" on it had better be constructed perfectly, otherwise Pedro himself may come back down to earth and start chasing people with a chaveta.

The ash is a dark silver, tight and even all the way down. (Seriously, I may YouTube a video of this thing, you have to see it to believe it.)

Anyway, as the filler warms up, different notes appear in the cigar, (don't think I'm crazy, but I sensed an orange creme brulee thing that was delicious) going from citrus, to hazelnuts, to a leather thing was was unspeakably heady. This, incidentally, is a full bodied cigar. Very, very smooth, but full bodied. Kind of like a Navy SEAL in a Savile Row suit, you don't realize how full bodied it is until it sneaks up on you. This is not "medium-to-full" or anything like that. Unapologetically full. Like the classics ol' Pedro grew up with.

In a way, it's like finding an opera or symphony written by a great composer that had never been performed before. That's what this cigar is like. It gives you an idea what Pedro Martin was thinking when he looked at a tobacco crop, or a warehouse full of curing leaf.

Finally, these amazing blends get to come back to life.

Draw remained perfect to the very end.

So, basically, you should run and not wait and buy a box. Actually buy two, because with a Corojo cigar like this, it can only improve with humidor time.

-J.

* Just last year, a mint, unopened box of V Centennial 500 robustos sold for $1200 at auction. Stop and ponder that.

My St. Valentine's Day gift to you.

2011-02-15T13:35:00.001-05:00

Truffle French Fries (as hacked from the menu at the Culver Hotel)

2½ lb Yukon Gold potatoes (+/- 6 medium, and yes, it MUST be Yukon Gold, this recipe will not work otherwise), scrubbed & dried and cut into ¼" x ¼" sticks
6 c. peanut oil or "pure" (i.e., NON Extra Virgin) olive oil
6 large basil leaves, minced as finely as your patience will allow (flat-leaf parsley is OK too)
¼ c. truffle oil (take it easy, this stuff is strong)
Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, grated finely with a rasp-style grater
Sea salt

1. Combine potatoes and oil in large (it MUST be twice as big as the volume of oil, you do not want to have hot oil boiling over) nonstick stockpot or Dutch oven. Cook, over high heat, until oil has reached rolling boil, about 5 minutes. Continue to cook, without stirring, until potatoes are limp but exteriors are beginning to firm, about 15 minutes

2. Using tongs, stir potatoes, gently scraping up any that stick to the pot, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until golden and crisp. (Start looking at them around the 5 minute mark, but don't let them go longer than 10 minutes. Using skimmer or slotted spoon, transfer fries to thick paper bag or paper towels. Season with truffle oil, and toss, then season with salt, basil and Parm, serve immediately with aioli and jalapeño ketchup.

Coffee is God's way of apologizing for mornings

2011-02-06T11:12:00.004-05:00

When it comes to coffee (and by coffee, I mean espresso) I like doing that whole-bean grind-it-yourself trip. Once you do it (and do it right, which takes some fussing around) there's simply no going back to preground coffee. The next step in the slippery slope -- he said merrily mixing his metaphors -- is seeking out varietals and estate coffees, etc.

So, where could one find all these exotic coffees? There are specialty coffee stores (from Starbuck's on down), but those tend to be Not Recession Friendly. Specialty websites have slightly better prices but shipping costs will eat you alive. Supermarket prices are high and the coffees not quite best or most exotic.
I just tried "Kirkland Sumatra French Roast Whole Bean Coffee" which is a surprisingly bold, full-bodied coffee. I love its rich aroma, extra dark roast -- it says "French Roast" but it really is more like an espresso roast -- and mellow, earthy taste. What makes it particularly worthy of your attention is that it's both bolder AND less bitter, and the bitterness it does exhibit strikes the palate more as an element of great balance than as an "off-flavor."

The beans are a dark mahogany, glossy but not overly oily, and extracted shot has a beautiful "crema" and gorgeous mouthfeel. The caramel and earthy notes are wonderful and rich.

If you like darker, bolder coffees like Sumatran, you will find this a congenial candidate for your espresso machine.

Did I mention this thing costs just under $14 lb. for a THREE pound bag at Costco? Not $14/lb. $4.67/lb. Mind you, not every Costco carries this (you can always beg, wheedle and/or cajole) and in Miami only one of the 3 stores in my radius carries it. Some people are making a damned fine profit loading up at their local Costco and then reselling this online, because even at twice the price, it's still a great bargain.

But don't do that. Buy it at your local Costco and save a huge bundle.

-J.

Steal this wine.

2011-02-05T19:52:00.002-05:00

Since Vinapedia is on something of a hiatus, here's a freebie review.

Garnet. Notes of blackberry liqueur (Chambord?) and blackcurrant supported by aromas of black pepper and herbes de Provence. The black fruit flavors are elegant and perfectly concentrated, with minerality, a bit of lavender and that smolder-y grill-y kind of smoky thing. It gets richer with "breathing time" too.

$14!

Goes great with none-too-saucy grilled steaks or lamb chops.

Seriously, steal this wine.

-J.

P.S. Did I mention it's only FOURTEEN DOLLARS?

Joining the dark side.

2011-02-04T08:58:00.000-05:00

I have relented and purchased an Apple product. It's the cheapest possible iPod touch, bought at Very Big Warehouse Club Chain. And there's only one reason why I bought it, and that's because of two "apps."

I guess that's two reasons. You get the idea.

The first is Beachbum Berry's Tiki+ app. which puts almost all of his recipes into a package smaller than his four books. So that's pretty cool. Even though I already had those, I still felt compelled to drain $4.99 from my coffers. BBB is worth his own post at a later date.

The second app -- and a freebie at that -- is Alan Flusser's "Bespeak" which is really, really cool if you are a civilized gentleman who takes some measure of pride in dressing well.There are a few niggles* with the app, but given that IT'S FREE, these are really not material concerns. The way it works is like this:

You set up a profile for yourself, whereby you enter your hair color, skin tone, eye color, facial and bodily shape.

The app then suggests possible outfits. If you're one of those averse to the sophisticated matching of patterns, this will take some getting used to. You've been warned.

You can scroll through the near infinite assortment of outfits, or you can pick one (or more) elements of a given outfit and modify it at will and the app will tell you how well it works with your profile and with the rest of the ensemble. Pretty neat.

* Every once in a while it gets "stuck" and it winds up suggesting the same, say, necktie over and over and over and over again... Also, it doesn't provide options for sports jackets, blazers, bow ties, etc.; and the resolution could be a little bit higher, but did I mention IT'S FREE?

Unrelated to anything.

2010-09-09T09:09:00.002-04:00

Hi again, Internet.

This is my quarterly post.

I don't mean to make my posts as infrequent as "quarterly" but such is life these days. Hang tight and all will be right in the end.

But this is not the purpose of what I'm talking about today.

I want to discuss books today.

Especially a new book: True Prep.

This book, written by the editor & co-author of The Official Preppy Handbook (Lisa Birnbach, on whom, I must confess, I had a bit of a crush back-in-the-day) seeks to both update and follow-up TOPH.

While I await delivery of mine -- and I reserve the right to amend this if, upon perusal, I change my mind -- I wanted to share a few thoughts on both books and their differences in feel.

For the purposes of discussion, I want to place a few boundaries. I want to take you back to 1980 when TOPH came out, and its impact on those who read it then. Not that it doesn't hold up today (it pretty much does) but the impact today on a first-time reader isn't the same impact it had back then.

Basically, there were two groups of people who read and enjoyed* that book in 1980. Those who were preppy (and, quite often, didn't truly realize this) and those who were not, but all of a sudden were inspired to be. Native-born and naturalized, if you will. A very simple way to determine who was who is this:

1- If you received -- unbidden -- 3+ copies of the book, plus assorted merchandise such as the decanter and whiskey set, the cheese plate, the brunch plates, the set of mugs, the scrapbook, the jigsaw puzzles, the stationery set, the cooler glasses, the old-fashioned glasses, the t-shirts (polycotton? really?), the photo album and the various sets of Christmas cards...you are likely one of the native-born Preps.

2- If you read this book in 1980 and a lightbulb flicked on in your mind, and it changed your life you probably are a naturalized Prep.

Here's where things get dicey.

While LB goes to great lengths to highlight the inclusive tone of TP, it must be remembered this is merely an expansion of TOPH's manifesto, as stated in its introduction. Which is all good.

But, like in any society where there is a sudden influx of newcomers, there is bound to be some tension and some miscommunication and some misunderstanding.

To a lot of people arriving on the welcoming shores of Prep Island, the "whole preppy thing" is purely an æsthetic. Which is fine. A colossal swarm of consumers clamoring for madras and seersucker is good, as it assures us of sufficient supply to tide us over during the next drought. That whole seven fat years/seven lean years thing.

But I have a wee bit of difficulty accepting Prep as a self-identified thing. Come to think of it, I generally find it difficult to accept anything on the basis of self-identification. Standing in your garage doesn't make you a car. Even if you are wearing red head to foot with a Ferrari logo on your flank.

There is a certain ethos that comes with the Prep thing, whether you are born or naturalized. Accept it and live it out and you're in, or don't. This is not, as LB (correctly) asserts about being from a Grand WASP Family, living in a Grand Manner in a Grand Manor. There is some of that, of course, but it isn't even a chemical trace of a requirement. Prep, as a distinctly American thing, has always been surprisingly democratic. LB is Jewish and nobody ever whispered against her PrepCred.

I, myself, am not Anglo, Saxon or Protestant. Yet those Preps who were, readily acknowledged my membership in the tribe. Preps, in general, are an inclusive bunch. If you ever want to see right-wing Republicans having a terrific time, cheerfully cooperating with left-wing Democrats, go to a black-tie charity event for some semi-obscure cultural institution. Their non-Prep equivalents are usually only found together waving opposing placards and shouting.

The point that I'm making is that those people who treat Prep merely as a sartorial plaything of an idle hour, weaken its currency. Here's hoping more of them embrace the whole thing.

-J.

* There were, naturally, those who read that book, hurled it with great force announced "these will be the people first up against the wall when the Red Dawn arrives!"

Rum, bloggery, and the lash.

2010-05-21T17:32:00.009-04:00

You would have thought I considered it unseemly. Me? Enter a blog contest? Am I not legendary for not entering these?

Yes, but not for the reasons you suppose.

I have actually entered two contests. This entry represents the second contest's. The first was to submit a Tiki-drink recipe, more or less about late December 2009, in the hopes of winning Jeff "Beachbum" Berry's latest mash note to the mixologists of yore, Remixed. That contest, if my understanding coincides with the facts of the case is still being tabulated, hanging chads examined, etc. I come from a long line of patient people, so I will wait merrily.

This second contest is in a similar vein. Organized by the estimable (if orthographically undorthodox) Matt "Rum Dood" Robold, it involves the exciting possibility of winning sensational potables, all of which would go towards making a Mai-Tai of glorious excellentness. Under these circumstances I can set aside my abiding phobia for effort and throw myself into the task, pressing on regardless.

This is what I am doing now, so you had better be wildly apprciative.

The problem is the rather broad parameters involved:

Write a blog post about your favorite rum, rum cocktail or best rum experience. Tell me and your readers why a particular rum or drink captured your attention or about the first time a bartender made your eyes pop out of your head with some rummy goodness.

See what I mean? Pretty wide-open.

So let's take those one at a time.

"Write a blog post about your favorite rum"

That's like writing a blog post about my favorite internal organ.

"...rum cocktail"

Not getting easier, is it?

"...or best rum experience."

I may have something under this category. I'll check the memory archives.

"Tell me and your readers why a particular rum or drink captured your attention"

I may have something along those lines as well.

"...or about the first time a bartender made your eyes pop out of your head with some rummy goodness."

That's easy. Never. Possibly owing to the dearth of craft bartending 'round these parts, but that's never happened. All mind-blowing rum experiences (or, for that matter, all mind-blowing cocktail experiences) have been self-induced. So that one's scratched off right away.

So, tell ya what. I'll just ramble cheerfully.

As someone whose ancestral-types hailed (partly, but for the purposes of this entry, most significantly) from Cuba, rum runs a close second to mother's milk. Not just Bacardi* but Matusalem, and others scattered (mostly) in the Caribbean in post-Communist diaspora. You get used to distinguishing between the "mixable" white rums, the more sippable gold rums, and those dark rums which God hath placed in His creation to best accompany cigars.

A quick detour. A while ago someone brought me a rum from Cuba. To be perfectly blunt and for reasons well afield of the purposes of this post, I really don't go out of my way to score Cuban rum. But this was a gift, and I figured there would be little harm in sending -- circuitously -- Castro's sugar crop into the sewer. This rum ("Ron Varadero" of which I had never heard before) was ostensibly a white rum. But I noticed that it looked a bit, well, beige.

I made a few classic daiquiris with it, and then the notion hit me. This rum looked rather like a reposado tequila. Most people don't know that reposado means "rested" in Spanish and it basically works out to mean "aged, but only a little bit." This is in the sense that the ragged edge of youth is just taken off with a brief pause in an oaken halfway house. I deduced this is what was going on at Varadero. So I tried an experiment with some of the last few drams of some silver and gold rums I had left over. Voila.

2:1 silver:gold yields a clone of this, and results in what is, to me, the ideal rum for daiquiris and other very simple, classic cocktails, where the rum is the frontman and there may be the odd sweetener well off in the wings and the merest suspicion of a modifier playing, for a change, acoustic bass. Naturally, the better the rums used, the better the resultant "ron reposado." But for starters, try it with the remaining droplets of Bacardi that loiter in those 1.75L jugs after a biggish party.

Now, in the spirit -- not exactly the letter mind you -- of the contest, I go all stream of consciousness on you, regarding my fondness for rum, touching upon the impressive ridiculousness to which my rum-o-philia has soared.

If you know me as the debonair bon-vivant, the elegant raconteur, the connoisseur of all that is fine and desirable, the man in bespoke gentlemen's apparel, or the aficionado of collectible automobiles, etc. you may be in for a rude shock. You have been warned.

It involves Tiki.

There, I said it.

At some impressionable point during my formative years, after much wheedling and pleading, my parents took me to Walt Disney World. What really stood out from that experience was the Polynesian Resort. Easily the most immersive Tiki environment. In all the other greats, past and present, you have that little voice in the back of your head reminding you that a) there is a Real World outside those doors and b) you had better pace yourself, because soon enough you're going to have to drive through there.

Anyway, I was enchanted. I was WAY too young to drink, but my parents ordered some and they came in fanciful vessels ferried by some lissome young ladies. I remember the whole experience vividly. This is what I wanted to have as my fantasy space. Cool.

Aiding and abetting my aberrant tastes was the lovely and gracious Poppy, who kept slinging Trader Vic's written output my way.

See it's not one thing with rum.

It's everything.

Rum, as opposed to every other ardent spirit, is a veritable rainbow. Bourbons, vodkas, cognacs are all, in a very broad sense, more-or-less the same. They are like cats. There is SOME variety from one to the next, but for the most part they are far more alike than they are different.

Rums are a riot, like dogs. Big, small, hairy, hairless, pointy, squashy, loud, quiet, slobbery, shy, and in a rainbow of colors and hues and shades. They continually mix themselves up with other breeds and give rise to new breeds. This is the analogy most apt for rum.

Anyway. Tiki.

When I was a kid, my parents Saturday afternoon cocktail of choice was the Mai-Tai (made, sadly, with powdered mix) and it was in search of this experience that I went researching. It seems that when Trader Vic invented this -- admittedly, riffing off Don the Beachcomber's QB Cooler -- the idea was to highlight the wonderfulosity of the J. Wray & Nephew 17 y.o. rum.

"Aha!" I said.

This is about the rum, and the rum matters. Rum, really good rum, this cocktail proved, can be liberated from the strightjacket of sniftery sipping. It can be showcased in a cocktail.

Highly, highly fabulous.

This, naturally, led me to on a lifelong quest to seek out rummy excellentness where'er it may be found. Which, in turn, led me to find it in rather unusual places.

See, because rum is such a whirlwind of variety, in order to make all of the various drinks you want to make, you will need to have...um...inventory. You can get away with a couple of Scotches, a couple of bourbons, and whichever your favorite cognac/rye/vodka/gin might be.

But you can't do that with rum.

Tequila sort of aims for the same thing, but can only manage the first couple of steps in the fandango, because tequila is tied, inexorably, to a fairly restricted chunk of Mexico. Rum, as we all know, is distilled anywhere someone has any leftover scrap of sugar cane. It is this geographical promiscuity -- along with the different distillation styles brought to bear by those people populating all these different places -- which explains the infinite permutations.

So all this (purely for the sake of science) research has led me to cultivate a panoply of rums, ready to leap into any number of Tiki drinks.

Anyway.

Here is my go-to list of cocktail rums, in no order:

Cruzan Aged Light
Bacardi 8 -- I know Bacardi is often showered with sneerage, but the "Ocho" can proudly stand in the most exalted company. Really. Great price, too.
Cruzan Single Barrel
Rhum Barbancourt 8
Appleton Estate Extra
El Dorado 15
Bacardi 151 -- I realize this isn't the most flavorful 151 around, but it's the only one I have found locally. This leads to some rummy juggling.
Appleton V/X Estate
Zacapa Centenario "23" -- The ultimate sippable rum, especially for those of us whose OTHER side of the family hails from Spain and consider sherry brandies the stuff with which one is to be weaned.
Flor de Caña 18

Finally, let me tell you about the Rum I Miss The Most.

Eons ago, I had a client who was in the cigar business. This led to meeting with another guy, in the rum business, who had dire need of my services. This guy, for all his failures in strategic and tactical business thinking, made a HELL of a rum. He had left Cuba and set up shop, for reasons which were never satisfactorily addressed, in Mexico. Whatever. He had background in sherry brandies and used his expertise with rum. His brand was called "Caña & Roble" and cam in utterly, unspeakably hideous vessels I can only describe as "corn jugs" decorated with watercolor scenes of sugar cane fields. He was very proud of his artisanal presentation but I was aghast.

He distilled some from molasses, some from sugarcane juice, some from sugarcane syrup. He aged them in barrels of varying sizes and woods, and blended them the way Rain Man counted cards. This was glorious, epochal stuff. Elixir-of-the-gods stuff.

The distiller, Ramón Portela, sadly, got cleaned out in a divorce and shortly thereafter developed cancer. I have never been able to reestablish contact with him. I don't even know if he "is still with us." To this day, when I taste a high-end rum, it's his "21" I have in my mind's palate. I have tasted others which I have loved and delighted in.

But, oh, that rum.

It haunts me to this day.

-J.

* Bacardí, if one wishes to be pedantic.

Speaking of setting up your first bar...

2010-04-29T09:41:00.001-04:00

Look at this on sale!

-J.

Passing the Bar.

2010-04-24T17:00:00.011-04:00

People often stop your Uncle Joke out on the street and demand advice on all manner of things related to the arduous task of living civilizedly in a world seemingly overrun by philistines. The most thorny of all questions is the one of wanting to have a "good bar." Not because of the degree of difficulty in answering, but because the answer is lengthy.

But, I have a few moments, and I am feeling voluble. Lucky you. Here goes:

First, my general approach. Find a drink that you like and get the highest quality ingredients therefor. From this "genesis" cocktail, branch out. A daiquiri begets a mojito, etc. DO NOT head to Bob's Liq-O-Rama with a blank check.

If you have guests over, and if your guests are the sort who enjoy a variety of properly crafted tipples, this is going to run you +/-$350.

WHISKEY

My cocktail bourbon of choice is Maker’s Mark. The price will give you reverse sticker shock -- especially if you can purchase it at a warehouse club's liquor store -- quality is excellent and it is supremely mixable. If your bourbonic cocktails run more to the mostly-straight (and mine do not, being more of a Whisky Sour than a Manhattan sort) or even doing the whole snifter routine (which I enjoy on occasion), then I vote for Knob Creek. My favorite Super Special Limited Edition is Wild Turkey's Rare Breed, but this is so optional as to be an afterthought.

If you had to pick just one: Maker's Mark.

Rye-wise, I really, really suggest you seek out Russell's 6-year rye. Failing that, Wild Turkey's rye. Failing THAT, Jim Beam is the easiest to find and it’s affordable. But rye isn't the linchpin of a bottle shelf that newly minted cocktailians would have you believe. If you get a bottle of rye, unless you, yourself, are a big fan of rye-based drinks, it is very likely that bottle will last you a good long while. Just saying.

For your old-school scotch-and-soda drinker, Johnny Walker Black will be just the thing. Now, I'm a big fan of single-malt scotch and have a veritable surfeit thereof. But my go-to single-malt scotch is Aberlour 10 Year. Like Maker's Mark in the bourbon category, this is the one that does the most things well. It's smoky enough, for those who like that, not so much that it will leave the others coughing. It goes exceptionally well with a cigar -- it's my default for a cigar -- it does marvels with soda, ice, or playing solo in a snifter. I also have Macallan 18- and 25-year, and Balvenie, Laphroiag and Cardhu (the core whiskey in Johnnie Walker). I can also heartily recommend Kirkland 19-year old, made for them by Macallan. Not only is it superb, but it will give you the reverse sticker shock we all know and love. Not to mention the irony of serving "Costco scotch." (If that is more of an issue than a perverse point of pride, place the contents in a decanter. Seriously, nobody would ever suspect.)

If you had to pick just one: Johnnie Walker Black.
If you had to pick just one single-malt: Aberlour 10, or that Costco one.

For the odd moment where Irish whisky is needed or desired -- which, really, ain't often either here -- I have a bottle of Michael Collins which I received from my dad and was probably a gift to him. After several years and two owners, it's still sealed. Mind you, there could be a colossal awakening of palates to Irish whisky, but for now, it really is something beyond the scope of "a basic bar."

If Canadian whisky drinks manifest themselves in your life, use Seagram’s VO.

GIN

During the warm-not-hot times of the year (here in SoFla, that means the last two weeks of April) I like gin. Especially London Dry gins. I am currently going through a bottle of Bombay Sapphire which is phenomenal. But my default is Plymouth, which is less botanical. Prior to that I liked Beefeater. Any one of these will be fine, and nobody will think you deranged if you chose Tanqueray. But Plymouth is the more flexible of all, with more manageable levels of juniper and botanicals.

(The botanical gamut runs, from least to most, thus: Plymouth, Bombay Sapphire, Beefeater, Tanqueray.)

If you had to pick just one: Plymouth, or Bombay Sapphire if you can't find Plymouth.

VODKA

I admit it: I don't "get" vodka. There is only one drink made with vodka which I love -- the Bloody Mary, as recipe-ed in The Preppy Handbook -- and for that I am wildly flexible. I also like consuming smoked salmon or caviar/roe on blinis accompanies by an icy shot of vodka. But that's it. To be brutally frank, people who drink "vodkatinis" or vodka-and-tonics or Cape Codders are not the sort that would be able to distinguish the nuances between Ketel One and Grey Goose.

Any good vodka will do. This is not to say I can't taste the subtleties that separate, say, Stoli from Smirnoff...it's that I just don't care about them. (Cook's Illustrated ran some cheap, plastic-bottle vodka through a Brita pitcher a few times and pronounced it as good as any hyperdollar brand.)

At the moment, we have Finlandia, with a gifted bottle of Absolut Citron in the freezer for blini duty. When that runs out, I think I have an unopened bottle of the Smirnoff silver label (whatever THAT's called) and if I'm wrong, then I can try the new Kirkland vodka, made in the same town where they make Grey Goose -- draw your own conclusions. If your vodka-loving pals are few and far between, and the few that do drink it stick to Bloody Marys...then get Tito's.
Incidentally, we also have 10-12 minis of Finlandia in the freezer. When those run out, we refill and refreeze.

If you had to pick just one: Tito's or the Costco one.

RUM

This is where it gets interesting. Rum is a strange liquor. Before I go on, I'll illustrate via an analogy:

Think of cats. They vary in coloration and hair length and some of them have squashier face, but that's it for cats, variationwise. Dogs, on the other hand, are a riot of variations. From great danes to pekingese to labradoodles to shnauzers to boxers and pointers. Rum is like dogs. Rum can be as colorless (and flavorless) as vodka, as overpoweringly offputting as one of those middle-of-nowhere single malt scotches and everything in between.

There is a gamut, see.

If you are an aficionado of Tiki drinks -- and you should be -- you will need a minimum of five rums. Silver, gold, black, aged, Demerara. Maybe an aged and an overproof if you really want to be thorough.

Here's what I suggest: Silver rum - Cruzan, Gold rum - Bacardi 8 (Bacardi has a less than stellar reputation among cocktail snobs, but their Bacardi 8 is really above reproach), Black rum - Cruzan Blackstrap or Gosling's Black Seal, Demerara (a smoky, funky rum from Guyana) rum - El Dorado 12 year old. I'd also suggest Barbancourt 8 for your aged rum, and for your overproof...pick 'em. I have Bacardi 151. This bottle will last you a long while. Flavored rums? Um. Cruzan Coconut, otherwise learn to infuse your own.

If you are not into Tiki drinks (it happens, even in the best families), you'll still need a silver and a gold rum.

If you had to pick just one (of each): Cruzan Aged Light and Bacardi 8.

TEQUILA

I find tequila wildly overrated. There. I said it. Outside of the margarita I don't see a lot of call for it. And here in FL, when people think of a slushy something with a kick, they think daiquiri and not margarita.

Basically, there are three types of tequila (blanco, reposado and añejo) distinguishable by color (clear, "beige" and amber). There is no such thing as a "gold" tequila. It's merely a blanco with caramel. Don't be fooled. You also want to go with something labeled 100% Blue Agave. Again, don't be fooled. If it doesn't say so, scoot down the shelf to the next one.

Some people like their margarita made with a blanco and some with a reposado. I'm neutral on the issue. More important is to select the right brand. I am especially partial to Patrón is a really good, reasonably priced tequila, available anywhere. Take your pick of blanco or reposado. Again, because I am perversely inclined, Costco's tequila (made by boutique distiller Tonala) is on my list of things to try, especially for $23 a bottle.

If you had to pick just one: Patrón or the Costco one.

ABSINTHE

This is treacherous ground. The only people who like absinthe, so far, are those folks doing the whole belle epoque I'm-so-indolent trip, complete with cravat and ridiculous tonsorial affectations. If you can score some legit absinthe, go to it.

BRANDY

When people say brandy, 99% of the time mean Cognac. The sad thing is that Cognac has a pretty clear relationship between price and quality. You will NOT get, ever, reverse sticker shock with Cognac. If you have a lot of friends of the snifter-and-fireplace persuasion, pop the coin for an XO. If you are someone for whom the finesse and delicacy of a stellar Cognac mean everything, then you already know what you like and you can skip this section.

Otherwise, stick to Martell VS, which is a really nice (albeit not outrageous) bargain, both better and cheaper than its VSOP stablemate. No, I don't know why, but there you go. I like Martell XO if you're going a bit more uptown.

But Cognac has a rogueish brother, Armagnac. You can get a LOT more bang for your buck with this brandy. My pick? Sempe Extra, which often comes in a blue Limoges "Crown of Louis XIV" decanter (skip the decanter and save a few bucks). Cognac also has an even more rogueish first cousin, sherry brandy from Spain. Get the Lepanto, which comes in a snazzy, gold-leaf decorated decanter.

I also suggest, if you are so inclined, that you look into Kirschwasser, Calvados and Poire. I suggest, respectively, Etter Kirsch Buger, Calvados du Prieure, Etter Poire Williams. But this is really getting beyond the basics. (In the cherry front, Cherry Heering or Luxardo are useful, not so much for making cocktails in my particular case, but for making for-reals, legit cocktail cherries.)

If you had to pick just one: Martell VS.

LIQUEURS, CORDIALS, ETC.

Anisette

A small bottle of Pernod or Herbsaint for classic cocktails. This is like absinthe with training wheels, easier to find and without that whole Green Muse pas de deux.

Benedictine

NOT, you will kindly note, Benedictine & Brandy (i.e. B&B). If I want brandy with my Benedictine, I'll do so myself, thankyouverymuch.

Orange Liqueurs

Cointreau: Once you hop from generic triple sec or curaçao to this, you will NOT be able to go back. But you CAN substitute it rather well with Patrón's Citronge, for about half the price. Really.

Grand Marnier: Not a direct substitute for Cointreau. Yummy on its own.

Créme de Cassis
If you cannot live without Kir Royle, get the Marie Brizard.

Irish Cream
Bailey's is the archetype. Stash it in the fridge once opened.

Raspberry
Chambord is the archetype also, but my liquor store guy convinced me to try Mathilde, and I have been quite pleased.

If you had to pick just one (of each): Citronge and Bailey's. Maybe a couple of minis of Chambord. Maybe.

VERMOUTH

You need a sweet and a dry, I like Noilly Prat dry ("green") and Cinzano sweet ("red"). If you can't find Noilly Prat, Martini & Rossi or Cinzano dry are just fine.

BITTERS & AMAROS

At a very bare minimum, you’ll want Angostura bitters. You can, as you advance further up the fluid food chain, get something like Peychaud’s or Reagan’s orange bitters.

Campari

Vital to a Negroni and a must. In a pinch, it's a terrific substitute for orange bitters.

SYRUPS

Here is where it's verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry easy to get derailed. A good rule of thumb is to make a beeline for the back label of any bottle. If there is no real, natural flavoring (i.e. almonds in an orgeat, pomegranates in a grenadine, etc.) or if there is high-fructose corn syrup (i.e. HFCS) move to the next one on the shelf. Here are the ones you will need, especially if you are often doing Tiki drinks.

(While all of these are easy enough to make at home, they do require some forethought and time. I very, VERY strongly recommend Trader Tiki syrups, available online and at some stores.)

Grenadine
Orgeat
Passion fruit syrup
Falernum
Cinnamon syrup

Cream of Coconut. Until Trader Tiki rolls out Phase Two, you will simply have to gather up some canned coconut cream (Thai Kitchen is the most readily availableone, and while usually the "lite" will work fine, in this case it will not) and mix it to your liking with sugar until it's a luscious tropical sludge. The Very Famous Ones available are riddled with chemicals. Avoid them.

BOOKS & EQUIPMENT

This is a personal idiosyncracy. Whenever I see a bartending book I flip it to the Bloody Mary recipe and, if that recipe calls for lemon juice instead of lime juice, I almost always (only one exception, ever) quietly place it back on the shelf. Here are my recommendations for bartending books:

Esquire Drinks or Killer Cocktails - both by David Wondrich. The Esquire book is the only exception to my Bloody Mary rule.

Williams-Sonoma: The Bar Guide - passes the Bloody Mary test, great sections on history, ingredients, equipment, etc. These days you can pick it up for under $2 used. A bargain.

Remixed and/or Sippin' Safari - both by Jeff "Beachbum" Berry. The irrepressible Mr. Berry is the clear leader of the tiki cocktail rennaissance. His books are terrific and fun reads. I especially love the Kevin Kidney illustrations of Sippin' Safari. If your cocktailiness runs to Tiki, you are disgracing yourself by not having these books on your shelf.

You are also going to need some gear:

Shaker - The two-part Boston-style, in a metal-and-glass configuration. Make sure the glass part has ounce measurements along the side.

Jiggers - OXO makes the almost perfect one. (It needs a ¾oz measurement to be perfect.)

Strainer - You want the spring-encircled Hawthorne strainer from OXO, it will fit inside your Boston shaker. (Just make sure you clean the springs of citrus pulp, mint leaves, etc.)

Bar spoon - There is a great one out of Australia, Uber Pro-Stirrer, but that beauty (what with shipping from as far as one can be and still be in the same planet) will set you back almost $28! Basically you want a long-handled spoon, with a twist in the handle, and a flat/blunt opposite end. This way you can used stir (you'll need that to keep clear drinks like Manhattans and Martinis from getting cloudy), for bar measurements (some recipes call for a “barspoon” of X), for layering (down the swirly handle, and gently across the blunt bit at the other end) and for some moderate muddling or strirring from top to bottom with the blunt end.

Citrus juicer - Repeat after me: You cannot get away with bottled lime or lemon juice. You can get away with not-from-concentrate orange juice (I suggest Florida's Natural) which is especially handy when you have a horde descending upon you. But it is clearly a case of mere adequacy. But in the case of lemons and especially limes, there is no getting away from the fact you will have to squeeze all those lemons and limes. Accept it. The good news is that, properly refrigerated, those juices will keep quite nicely a couple of days. Pre-squeezing also allows you to strain out pulp, pith and pips. You can also zest these citri and do all kinds of fun things with the strips o' peel.

A side note on juices: Do not -- ever -- use canned juices. Your drink will suck, even if your guests are too polite or dipsomaniacal to say so. If bottled juice is bad, then tinned stuff is Dark-Lord-of-the-Sith-evil. You don't have to (and often can't) get fresh juices, especially of the more exotic fruits (and, depending where you live, a pineapple may count as exotic). In those cases, frozen pulp (Goya or La Fe are my standbys of choice) or the stuff in cartons is your best bet. The only semi-exception is banana nectar, and I suggest Looza.

Anyway. Citrus. I have an ancient Braun (ca. 1992) electric juicer and it still works perfectly. If your bar doesn't have access to electricity, the enameled steel ones (green for lime, yellow for lemons and orange for, well, oranges) are great. Just remember to cut the citrus halves ALMOST in half before using them in these squeezers.

Muddler - Vital for smushing chunks of fruits, peels, mint or sugar. I prefer the silicone and metal version. I stole a Bacardi branded one for $3 on eBay.

Zester/peeler - To cut long strips of peel from citrus. OXO.

Ice crusher - If your fridge doesn't have this feature (or if it doesn't perform this particularly well) you will need such a gizmo. I grabbed one that fits my Oster blender for $6 on eBay.

Blender - I adore my Oster. The separate blade assembly allows for two things: 1) different blades (for blending, for ice crushing, for frothing) and also the blade assembly neatly fits onto your standard Mason jar -- DO NOT USE WITH HOT LIQUIDS and DO NOT OVERFILL! It's also a snap to clean. Get the beehive model with the most power you can find. For slushy drinks I especially love the "cloverleaf" jar. There are a whole lot of glorious attachments for it, too.

Glassware - To start off, we will NOT be discussing wineglasses. That's another post. For cocktails you only really need four kinds of glasses: short fat ones, skinny tall ones, biggish stemmed ones and cocktail glasses. If you're sashaying down the pre-Prohibition aisle, to the tune of Prof. Jerry Thomas, you may want coupes, toddies, etc. If you're doing the whole Tiki thing, then ceramic coconuts, bamboo-shaped coolers, and tiki mugs could be your thing. This is all fine, mind you, but it ain't the basics. So skip that if you're not at the sophomore level or higher.

The short/fat ones are old-fashioneds, although you cannot get old-fashioneds any more. Now they are double old-fashioned glasses. They hold 13-14oz. of beverage goodness. Tall/skinny ones are highball (or cooler or Collins or chimney) glasses and usually hold between 14-16 oz. of beverage goodness.

The biggish stemmed ones are often called "water glasses" and usually hold between 16-20oz. They are good all-rounders, and can also hold water or beer in an elegant way. Anything you might envision served in a hurricane glass, or a tiki mug, or laden with fruit/veg. garniture, etc. can find a home in one of these. The cocktail glasses are usually called “Martini glasses,” and while it may take some effort, you really want them with a capacity of right about 8oz. Not only is this easier to serve and drink from, it's also a bit more responsible, host-wise.

If you feel a bit more ambitious, you can also opt for a shot glass or a snifter, which, for the maladjusted, is like a hippy wineglass with a very short stem.

My personal suggestion is to find a brand that is sold at restaurant supply stores. This will assure you of plenty of replacements and a decent price. My personal choices for the stemware is Luigi Bormioli's Michelangelo (this also extends to the wineglass selection, like I mentioned, a whole post in and of itself) and for the glassware Luigi Bormioli's Strauss.

Coasters - Get some, preferably those porous stone ones, or cloth (!) bar napkins. You want to absorb condensation, not merely direct its flow.

There. Now you know.

(Stay tuned as I update this with hyperlinks and photos.)

-J.

Margaritæ

2010-01-25T20:53:00.000-05:00

Some of you gasped in disbelief that I would publicly posit a notion so contrary to tradition -- what with me being hidebound and reactionary and all -- as a frozen margarita. So, in the interest of fairness, justice, equal time and balance, here is my "straight-up" margarita.

Incidentally, there are many fanciful tales about how/when the margarita originated. Most of them are utter, frightful bilge. The rest are merely wrong. "Margarita" is simply the Spanish word for "daisy" and there was (still, is, FWIW) a drink called the "Daisy" and it was gin, grenadine and lemon juice served in a sugar-rimmed glass. Replacing these ingredients with tequila and those with which is usually associated (lime and salt) and triple sec in lieu of grenadine to take the edge off and voilá: Margarita.

Anyway.

The main difference, ingredient-wise, between my frozen and straight-up versions is in the proportion of Cointreau to tequila. (Keep in mind that most recipes call merely for "triple sec" and that is a lower proof than Cointreau.) In a version that doesn't have the analgesic coldness of a slushy frozen concoction, the same amount of Cointreau would give too much alcohol-hotness in one that is merely shaken with ice. This is also why you want a more flavorsome tequila. Any "100% agave" white tequila will do. (Any that is labeled "gold tequila" is merely white tequila tinted with caramel trying to mimic "añejo" or "reposado" tequila. Which aren't really suitable* for margaritization. So never mind.)

Here is my straight-up margarita.
Gather your implements. This is a Boston shaker (steel tumbler, slightly smaller glass tumbler -- I like those with cool gradations and recipes printed along its surface -- and a "Hawthorn(e) strainer.)
The ingredients: 100% agave tequila (Patrón Silver) and triple-sec (Cointreau) and limes.
A close-up of the limes.
You'll also need coarse salt, for the rim of the glass.
One jigger of tequila, one half-jigger of triple-sec.
Juice the limes in question. (One lime per person.) Note the absence of any sugar in the straight-up margarita; these are supposed to be unarguably dry.
Pour the tequila and triple-sec into your glass tumbler.
Fill the steel tumbler with cracked ice.
Put the glass tumbler into the steel tumbler, squeezing the latter slightly to create a vacuum seal between the two. You'll note the condensation on the steel tumbler.
After some pretty ærobic shaking, you'll note the condensation has gone a bit frosty, and is higher up along the steel tumbler.
The contents. Bubbles mean there has been adequate æration of contents, i.e., everything is properly mixed and diluted the correct amount.
Everything goes into the glass tumbler.
Slip the Hawthorn(e) strainer (OXO makes the best one, but any that fits your glass vessel will do) over the glass tumbler.Strain out the revivifying fluid into the chilled glass that has had its rim frosted with salt.
(You know you have done it right when you can see a layer of ice one trillionth of a millimeter thick.) Serve and drink.

-J.

*You may also be tempted to really go for Grand Marnier over Cointreau. Don't. The brandy base of the GM really doesn't play nicely with the more assertive flavor profiles of lime, salt and tequila. It sounds very chi-chi to say you make your margaritas with gigabuck tequila -- like Cuervo's "Reserva de la Familia" which is sadistically expensive -- and Grand Marnier and Key Limes, but it tastes pretty awful. AMHIK.

Wintry Iberic-ness

2010-01-05T11:46:00.003-05:00

I am making a GREAT classic of Northern Spanish cuisine in my Crock-PotTM. I can freely use that because my slow-cooker turns out to be an official Crock-PotTM slow cooker.

Anyway, because I aim to benefit humanity in all I ever do I am posting probably the oldest recipe in our family, one dating back well over a coupla hunnerd years: Fabada.

Fabada derives its name from the type of bean used, called "Fabes." You will not find this bean (at least not reasonably priced) anywhere outside of Spain. So don't even bother to go look for it. What you want is the largest white bean you can get, but not lima beans or butterbeans. Canellini beans are what I use for everyday.

And so, the recipe (this is as still made by my great-aunt Maria Cristina, sans the slow-cooker):

2 1/4 lb./1 kg of fabes
1/4 lb./200gm Spanish NOT MEXICAN chorizo (I like the Palacios brand, but Goya is workable) 1/4 lb./200gm morcilla ("black pudding") or just go w. 1/2 lb. chorizo
1/4 lb./200gm unsmoked ham (something like domestic prosciutto is ideal) cubed 1/2" x 1/2" (1cm x 1cm)
1 medium yellow onion
1 pinch of saffron (OPT)
1 tsp. of smoked sweet Spanish paprika (also called "pimenton dulce ahumado" and it's OK if you don't find any that's actually Spanish, just as long as it's smoked and NOT the hot stuff you'll be fine)
1/4 lb./200gm unsmoked bacon (think pancetta) is optional.
1 quart/liter Ham stock (from a couple of ham hocks -- OPT, but so-o-o-o-o-o desirable...chicken stock or broth or even water will work, but stocks contribute a bit of gelatin that makes this all unctuous and yummy...add water to come up to the correct amount)
Salt to taste (if you use stock, be CAREFUL with the salt!)

[Basically you want a 3:1 or so ratio of beans to porky goodness, in whatever proportions suit you. Oh, and trivia factoid: the combination of porcine goodies is called "compango" in Spanish.]

Soak the beans overnight.

(This part can me made wa-a-a-a-ay ahead) Put in the chorizo (and any bacon-like whatever) in a pot over low heat with a bit of water, and render out its fat. Pour off most of it. Add ham, morcilla, diced onion and cook until the onions are translucent. Add saffron/paprika and let cool.

This "base" will keep a week in the fridge and damned near forever in the freezer.

Drain the beans, put them along with the porkified base in a stock pot and cover them with stock/water over medium low heat or in the CrockPotTM on "high" for a couple of hours.

Turn the heat to low. Let cook a couple of hours and then mash some of the white beans against the side of the pot. Stir and reduce heat to "warm" until dinner time. It's even better the next day.

-J.

P.S. You may want to skim the orange chorizo fat...but not ALL of it, as its presence is crucial for flavor...but a little goes a long way.

Thai one on.

2009-10-17T17:12:00.003-04:00

Here you go:

1 Qt shrimp stock
1 stalk lemon grass, white part only, smacked open with the flat of a knife
3 kaffir (I used "regular" 'cause that's what we have in FL) lime leaves, fresh or dry, julienned
1 thumb-size piece fresh ginger, peeled and sliced
2 Thai bird chiles, sliced in half the long way (seed 'em if you must, I don't)
3 garlic cloves, smashed; 1 (13oz) can unsweetened coconut milk (I used "lite")
2 Tb fish sauce (nam pla)
1½ Tsp sugar (palm sugar, ideally)
4oz dried mushrooms (I used morels), soaked
4 limes, juiced; 1½ c. "salad" size shrimp (50-70 count)
sea salt and freshly ground pepper
¼c. chopped fresh cilantro/coriander or the green parts of the scallion (I opted for the latter)

Optional: "Glass" or rice noodles to give it more body. (I like this also, add halfway through the simmering phase)
Bring the stock to the boil over medium heat in a soup pot. Add the lemon grass, lime leaves, ginger, chilies, and garlic. Lower the heat to medium-low, cover, and gently simmer for 10 minutes to let the spices infuse the broth.

Uncover and stir in the coconut milk, fish sauce, sugar, mushrooms, lime juice, and shrimp. Simmer for 5 minutes to heat the chicken through; season with salt and pepper. Ladle the soup into a soup tureen or individual serving bowls. Garnish with cilantro. (Fish out the lemongrass, ginger & lime leaves.)

Yield: 4 servings

A history lesson.

2009-10-08T13:45:00.005-04:00

It's 1521. You're a chieftain on some lovely Pacific island. You have the most women, the biggest hut, your pick of outrigger canoes. Life is good. Then some big ships show up. "Great. MORE Europeans." The Europeans make friends with your rival chieftain from the other side of the island. You snub everyone. The Europeans take the snub as a snub and choose to attack you. But they misjudge the tide and leap into water waist deep in full armor, and too far to use their weapons.

You slaughter them all, especially the leader.

That leader was Magellan. Immortalized by the Magellan Straits and also that GPS* thingy, among other things.

You?

You're chief Lapu-Lapu and, instead, you're immortalized by a tiki drink served in a cored-out pineapple, most famously at Walt Disney World's Polynesian Resort's Tambu Lounge. This past Labor Day** we went to this very spot. TFBIM had the selfsame beverage. Verily she loved it and has developed a fondness therefor and I was commissioned to replicate it.

Like so.

You start off with a pineapple. Note the corer. US$3 on eBay. Before I get more carried away with this, let me say I cannot say enough good things about this cheap-o corer. Yes, you can get fancier ones, made of stainless steel with sharper blades and finer teeth. These will give you less jagged pineapple rings, if that means that much to you. I, personally, couldn't care less about the aesthetic qualities of the rings...so the extra 600% premium isn't worth it.

You lop the top off, much like Lapu-Lapu's warriors seemed to have preferred. (Hence the name?)

All you have to do to core out the pineapple is center the corer right on the, er, core of the pineapple and drive the corer in, twisting with slight downward pressure. When you get down as far as you want, you pull up as with a manual corkscrew.

Et voilà

TIP: Place the pineapple being cored inside bowl of some kind, as there WILL be juice spouting forth generously and you want to capture said juice. This will also keep your wife from exhibiting displeasure.

1 Tbsp Simple "2:1" syrup

1 Tbsp Passion fruit syrup (50-50 passion fruit pulp and 2:1 sugar syrup)

1 Tbsp Orgeat

2 oz Orange juice (absent any fresh-squeezed, of all the supermarket brands, I suggest Florida Natural)

2 oz Pineapple juice (absent any fresh-squeezed -- you'll recall I said above you wanted the fresh juice -- I suggest Dole; this scenario presumes you're making this in a regular glass)

2 oz Dark rum (I like Appleton Estate Extra, but I am trying to finish a decanter of Myer's. Clement's Rhum JM would be a stellar choice, as would Flor de Caña 18 or any other particularly dark aged rum.)

2 oz White Rum (I like Cruzan Aged Light, but I was trying to finish up a gifted bottle of Bacardi Silver)

[Picture would have gone here, but my eldest was getting hollered at by my beloved.]

Put this all in a shaker with about 6oz of cracked ice. Then you shake...

...and shake. Until the tin of the shaker frosts over.

TIP: With any drink calling for syrups, juices, etc. and you're only using ONE measuring vessel (i.e. a jigger or shot glass) do so in this order: syrups THEN juices THEN any flavored liquors or liqueurs THEN the spirits. The thinner and more "solvent" liquids will better rinse out the previous, thicker/stickier ones.

And here you are.
(all photos -- both the excellent and the ones which proved unusable -- courtesy of Numbah One Son)

-J.

* SatNav to the rest of the Anglosphere.

** First Monday in September to the rest of the Anglosphere.

My Mai-Tai

2009-05-19T21:10:00.001-04:00

A couple of days ago I was asked for my recipe for the Mai-Tai.

Well, for the visual learners in the gallery, here it is in a photo-essay format. Because I am awesome like that.

Okay.

Here is the road company of ingredients: (back to front, left to right)

Rock candy syrup

Orgeat

Steel half of the Boston shaker

Rum (today's star is Barceló Añejo, because I wanted to try it...basically used the most gloriously aged rum you can manage)

Cointreau (s'posed to be triple sec, but I prefer Cointreau)

Glass half of Boston shaker, with a Hawthorne strainer (OXO, which is not only the very best, it's also stupidly cheap)

Lime, atop the lime squeezer (were I to be making a bucket of this, instead of one, I'd use the electric juicer, otherwise, I'd wind up with forearms like Popeye)

We start by crushing ice. The first batch of which goes into the glass. (This glass? Birthday gift from the extremely lovely and monumentally gracious Poppy.)

For added cold-related excellentness, I put it in the freezer, on standby.

And we start building our beverage.

Start with 2 oz. of rum

½ oz. of Cointreau

½ oz. of rock candy syrup

½ oz. of orgeat

1 oz of lime juice.

Not only do I slice the lime in half, but I also score each half pretty deeply into quadrants. To get maximum juicefulness.

To be safe, I stick the juicer into the steel part of the shaker, lest I spray everything within a 10' (3m) radius with lime juice, especially my eyes.

...and here we have the post-squeezery phase.

Believe me there was an ounce of juice (and a tiny bit over) to be had from that small lime.

Drop the spent lime shells into the glass half of the shaker. Fill the steel half with crushed ice.

Assemble the shaker. When you do this make sure you squeeze the steel half ever-so-slightly and that you push and twist the glass half. This creates a seal. Important if you don't want to sprinkle any Mai-Tai all over the place.

Shake until you have a good frost -- not merely condensation -- on the outside of the steel half, then another 5 seconds. For those of you in arid climes, figure 30-45 seconds, total.

Retrieve your vessel from the recesses of the freezer, and pour through the strainer. It is very important you pour into fresh "dry" ice -- not dry ice, mind you.

Garnish with the spent lime shell (or some cherries, pineapple chunk, orange slice, etc.) and enjoy.

-J.

Click, please.

2009-05-04T09:54:00.000-04:00

Latest is up at Vinapedia. Please click and keep me in free wine.

If you were among those who...

2009-04-20T08:57:00.007-04:00

...managed to get a seat when the music stopped, you may be interested in the Paul Stuart trunk show -- which is fine -- and the custom* made shoe event, now through the end of April.

Tell 'em I sent ya.

-J.

* They say "custom made" but whether it is so, or merely made-to-measure is afield of my knowledge.

Clickage time again.

2009-04-14T22:12:00.001-04:00

My latest review is up at Vinapedia.

Please click and keep me in free wine.

OK. Thanks. Bye.

-J.

Mistah Flussah speaks out.

2009-04-13T10:12:00.001-04:00

Watch it in HQ.

1- He's absolutely right.
2- A stroll to the barbershop wouldn't kill him.
3- Neither would a stroll on the treadmill
4- But he's 100% right.
5- His shop rocks, and do his clothes.

Cheers,

-J.

To help.

2008-11-09T23:38:00.001-05:00

Some of those who know me gasp in disbelief when I publicly posit a notion so contrary to tradition -- what with me being hidebound and reactionary and all -- as a frozen margarita. So, in the interest of fairness, justice, equal time and balance, here is my "straight-up" margarita.

Incidentally, there are many fanciful tales about how/when the margarita originated. Most of them are utter, frightful bilge. The rest are merely wrong. "Margarita" is simply the Spanish word for "daisy" and there was (still, is, FWIW) a drink called the "Daisy" and it was gin, grenadine and lemon juice served in a sugar-rimmed glass. Replacing these ingredients with tequila and those with which is usually associated (lime and salt) and triple sec in lieu of grenadine to take the edge off and voilá: Margarita.

Anyway.

The main difference, ingredient-wise, between my frozen and straight-up versions is in the proportion of Cointreau to tequila. (Keep in mind that most recipes call merely for "triple sec" and that is a lower proof than Cointreau.) In a version that doesn't have the analgesic coldness of a slushy frozen concoction, the same amount of Cointreau would give too much alcohol-hotness in one that is merely shaken with ice. This is also why you want a more flavorsome tequila. Any "100% agave" white tequila will do. (Any that is labeled "gold tequila" is merely white tequila tinted with caramel trying to mimic "añejo" or "reposado" tequila. Which aren't really suitable* for margaritization. So never mind.)

Here is my straight-up margarita.
Gather your implements. This is a Boston shaker (steel tumbler, slightly smaller glass tumbler -- I like those with cool gradations and recipes printed along its surface -- and a "Hawthorn(e) strainer.)
The ingredients: 100% agave tequila (Patrón Silver) and triple-sec (Cointreau) and limes.
For the citric voyeur, a close-up of the limes.
You'll also need coarse salt, for the rim of the glass.
One jigger of tequila, one half-jigger of triple-sec.
Juice the limes in question. (One lime per person.) Note the absence of any sugar in the straight-up margarita; these are supposed to be unarguably dry.
Pour the tequila and triple-sec into your glass tumbler.
Fill the steel tumbler with cracked ice.
Put the glass tumbler into the steel tumbler, squeezing the latter slightly to create a vacuum seal between the two. You'll note the condensation on the steel tumbler.
After some pretty ærobic shaking, you'll note the condensation has gone a bit frosty, and is higher up along the steel tumbler.
The contents. Bubbles mean there has been adequate æration of contents, i.e., everything is properly mixed and diluted the correct amount.
Everything goes into the glass tumbler.
Slip the Hawthorn(e) strainer (OXO makes the best one, but any that fits your glass vessel will do) over the glass tumbler.Strain out the revivifying fluid into the chilled glass that has had its rim frosted with salt.
(You know you have done it right when you can see a layer of ice one trillionth of a millimeter thick.) Serve and drink.

-J.

*You may also be tempted to really go for Grand Marnier over Cointreau. Don't. The brandy base of the GM really doesn't play nicely with the more assertive flavor profiles of lime, salt and tequila. It sounds very chi-chi to say you make your margaritas with gigabuck aged ("reposado" or "añejo") tequila -- like Cuervo's "Reserva de la Familia" which is sadistically expensive -- and Grand Marnier and Key Limes, but it tastes pretty awful. AMHIK.

Some T&A

2008-09-14T11:36:00.000-04:00

Esquire made me do it.

2008-05-22T13:09:00.007-04:00

Esquire used to be my favorite magazine, once upon a time. But these days it has devolved into a sort of masculine-manqué manual for those newly arrived to New York.

Anyway.

They published a list of 75 things a man should know or be able to do and #12 was How To Buy A Suit. The problem with the advice is that it's mostly "sound and fury, signifying nothing" and anyone who goes by the strict letter of it will likely wind up ill-suited.

So.

Uncle Joke is going to help you out. If you're a regular, chances are this won't be so bloody new to you, but in case you run into someone who may profit from this, you may want to print this out and hand it to them. It'll seem more authoritative than your telling them the same thing because, as we all know, no prophet hath honour in his own land.

Of course the simple and sensible thing to do is sprint to a tailor accustomed to arraying civilized gentlemen, but that is neither quick nor inexpensive. Still, there is something to be learned from them as you go purchase suitable raiments.

The single most important matter in selecting a suit is its fit, and the most important aspect of fit as relates to the jacket is the shoulders. Pretty much anything else "wrong" with the jacket has a remedy, but if the shoulders are off, no amount of tailoring will set it right. In fact, you'd probaby spend as much as a MTM* suit in trying to fix this in vain. So if it doesn't fit your shoulders let it go and never look back.

Now, as far as fitting your shoulders go, there are two factors to keep in mind: width and pitch. Width we all know (or should, you caveperson) about: the shoulders should be wide enough for you to hug yourself, but not so wide it looks as if the epaulets are stitched on the wrong side. Pitch is something a bit more difficult to pin down. Basically it's how the jacket's shoulders slope as you get further away from the collar.

The cheap way to do this is to go in a straight line, regardless of what ideas your own collarbones may have in mind. In order to look good you need to stand ramrod straight at all times which, unless you have some spinal condition or nervous tic carried over from military school, you won't be able to do for long. Your shoulders have, to one degree or another, a measure of, well, slouch. Your jacket's shoulders ought have a similar curvature. Incidentally, when it comes to shoulder pads, you want almost none on your prominent shoulder (right, if you're a righty, left if you're a lefty) and just enough on your opposite shoulder to make the jacket symmetrical.

Delving deeper into the "bones" of the suit -- and I'm sorry, this simply wouldn't photograph well for me, so just play along -- the armhole (or scye) should be shaped like the silhouette of an egg. This is to afford you maximum freedom of movement with minimal fabric and padding and all that. With ready-made stuff this is less likely, so just aim for something as oval as possible. While you're at it, look at the way the shoulder is attached to the body. It should be obvious from the silhouette where the body ends and the shoulder begins. Like a tiny little speedbump. Look for what are basically very subtle pleats on the shoulder, this indicates it was sewn by hand and will have a more yielding (i.e. comfortable) feel than something hacked together by machine.

OK. There are many touches that distinguish something worthwhile from something so-so. Look at the lapel. Its width should be such that if you kept going straight from its outer edge it would neatly bisect the width of your shoulders. If it swallows up the pocket square it's too broad, if it reveals all of the breast pocket it's too small. Look behind the lapel. If you see a little loop of silk to hold the stem of a flower in place, it means the tailor took extra care to make this jacket. Never mind you'll never wear a flower, someone who has bothered so much with an invisible detail will have really sweated out the big stuff. This is good.

Now look at the breast pocket. (It's a crummy picture, so make an effort, will you?) Most of the time it will be a perfectly oblong strip of fabric perfectly parallel to the floor. Ideally it will slant slightly downward from the shoulder side to the chest side, and even more ideally, will be "boat shaped" meaning the outer seam will be, instead of a pair of right angles, a +/- 75 deg. at the top and 105 deg. at the bottom.

Move over to the other outside pockets. Now, I happen to like the smaller "ticket" pocket, but it's OK if you don't. (You are under no obligation to maximize your stylishness.) Note the pockets flare slightly at their rearward edge. This a) keeps them tucked in when you want to go for a more "continental" or sleek look and b) make it easier for you to work your way inside the pocket to reach for something. This is another of those details that add up.
Now flip the jacket inside out. The more handstitching you see (you can tell because the stitches will be visible and ever-so-slightly irregular, as opposed to the invisible precision of machine-sewn) the better. There are two ways to go on the inside of the jacket. One is a half-lining, which is pretty posh because it requires all of the exposed seams to be neatly finished, which adds hours to the garment which jacks up the price. The other is with a full lining which can be pretty posh, if you select silk over the more pedestrian rayon, for example. I tend to lean towards a full lining, because it makes for a smoother dressing experience and less friction between jacket and shirt as you sit, move, turn, etc.
If you look carefully, you'll note those little touches...a pen pocket, for instance. Or the interior pockets fastening with a button and loop which is cheap and easy to replace were it to fray or tear (as opposed to a buttonhole on expensive silk lining, which isn't either).

Turning the jacket right-side-out again look at the sleeve cuff. In a custom/bespoke/MTM jacket, there should be working buttonholes -- this is so that you may wash your hands without having to take off your jacket -- and this means if the jacket sleeves match your own (i.e. they stop just shy of your wrist bump) the garment was made for you exclusively, blahblahblah. This sort of sleeve in pretty unalterable, which means the jacket is not really wearable by anyone else. Yes, I s'pose you could detach the sleeve and reattach it at the correct length but for the expense it would run you you might as well get a MTM suit.

Anyway, some off-the-rack (or off-the-peg) jackets will have an open seam at the sleeve that it may be altered to fit you and then have buttonholes cut thereinto. Go for those if you can find them and they fit your budget. Do not, of course, go for those which already come with working sleeve buttonholes.

When it comes to trousers, the crucial fit factor is the waist. Easy enough. Not just the size of the waist, but how high it sits relative to your own natural waist. Ye Olde Classiques used to sit fairly high up, say, at the navel latitude. The European stuff sits, jeans-like, at the hip. Go for the Goldilocks effect and aim for something that sits at just below your navel. Given that our waistlines will fluctuate somewhat no matter what we do, and given that belts are far too much the hallmark of a sartorial rube, you want some sort of side-tab adjustment. There are two kinds, the slide-tab and the button tab. The slide tab has the advantage of being infinitely adjustable, but the disadvantage of needing not-infrequent adjustment. The button tab (featuring 2, maybe 3, buttons per side) is set-and-forget, assuming the buttons are sewn in the correct spots. I like the button tab arrangement better. Also, if something went awry, I could sew one of the buttons back on...dunno I could work my magic on the slide mechanism.
Incidentally, you needn't opt for suspenders (or "braces") but they do add a serious touch of style.

While we're down there, look at the front of the trousers, where everything fastens together. There should be something called a French fly (now, now class...) which is basically a longish, diagonalish tab that is affixed with a button on the inside of the waist. This keeps any extraneous bulges to a minimum, lest the little old lady whom you help to cross the street thinks you're particularly happy to see her.

Once you're all buttoned up -- or zipped, your call -- we get to the matter of pleats. You can't really see it clearly in the picture, but these trousers have their pleats opening up towards the center or "inward" pleats. 99% of all the pleated trousers out there are OUTWARD pleats (i.e. opening up towards the hips) and these are wrong. Flat-front trousers are really only flattering on the slimmest of men (31" waist, at most).

The legs of the trousers should taper gently, like your own legs do. Flared, straight and pegged trousers are all wrong. Figure the width at the knee of +/- 22" and +/- 19" at the cuff. Oh, and speaking of...the trousers must be cuffed (except for formalwear): 1.625"-1.75" depending on your height. (The taller, the cuffier.)

When it comes to fabrics, you want nothing lower than Super100s wool. If the label makes prominent mention of the mill where it was woven (Sherry & Holland or Loro Piana, for example) this is a very good thing. Stick to fad-proof colors and patterns. Navy or dark grey (pinstriped, micro-herringbone, "nailhead" or plain) are always good, and you may accessorize them to meet the whims of the zeitgeist or of your own peculiar satrorial proclivities. Once you have an inventory of some basics, you can move to more advanced options, such as linen fabrics or glen plaids or houndstooth patterns. Single- or double-breasted is your call.

Of course, if you're feeling flush you can just saunter to, say, Alan Flusser and have something custom/bespoke (meaning the pattern has been created exclusively for you and your measurements) or, if slightly less flush, made-to-measure (meaning all the same measurements are taken, but the pattern is a standard one adapted to said measurements).

-J.

*Made-to-measure, you philistine

What passes for modern dandyism in some quarters these days...

2008-05-17T11:21:00.000-04:00

Sounds like he's talking about this collection.

-J.

More than I could Handel

2008-05-15T15:44:00.005-04:00

As you may know, Uncle Joke is axle deep in High Culture.

As a consequence, Uncle Joke likes attending (and therefore has a box at) The Opera. That said, it doesn't mean that Uncle Joke checks in his own idisyncratic tastes at the box office. There's stuff he likes and stuff he does not.

This is about the latter.

Now, as every opera subscriber knows, every season sees a couple (sometimes three) of The Usual Operas. You know...Tosca, La Boheme, La Traviata, Carmen. That sort of stuff. Then you have a couple more of the lighter-rotation stuff, but still things a somewhat sentient layperson would dimly recognize: Cosi Fan Tutte, Die Zauberflote, La Cenerentola and so forth and so on. And, then, of course, you have The Wild Card.

This is an opera that is a complete and utter unknown quantity. Either it's one of those "modern" things such as That's No First Lady, That's My Wife! about some torrid love triangle between Jonas Salk and Eleanor Roosevelt and Douglas MacArthur, or it's something that's not really known by one of the usual composers.

This year we had two of these. The first was The Pearl Fishers. Which I enjoyed. Then we had last week's Julius Caesar. I'd never really thought of Handel in terms of opera, so I was curious. This production featured Leah Partridge who, above and beyond being a hottie, also has spectacularly amazing pipes.

So I was favorably predisposed.

Now, this opera usually features at least a brace of counter-tenors, and that takes some getting used to. Apparently, Handel wrote a goodly number of things with castrati in mind and these days we assign those roles to the counter tenor, who normally don't get a lot of airplay, and definitely not en masse. Anyway, this production had three (Brian Asawa as Tolomeo,

John Gaston as Julius Caesar and Jason Abrams as Nireno) and they all sang amazingly well, especially Gaston, who belted out his arias with agility and superb clarity.

Once you get past that whole counter-tenor thing (my wife couldn't, but that's just the way it works) that's fine too.

Then there is the instrumentation. Which is rather "of its time" with clavichords and harpsichords and whateverchords and lutes and what seemed to be a sitar with a gland condition, as well as assorted other plinky things that often remind one of the better sort of music box. The conductor, Gary Thor Wedow, brought this off without a hitch. I really enjoyed this aspect, also.

Again, once you get past the relative novelty of it, that's fine too.

But here is where the wheels begin to wobble. The sets, which remind me of the "Memphis" movement of the early 1980s in their galling minimalism and smallest-box-of-Crayolas color scheme, and the costumes which are -- save for Cleopatra's which were culled from Cyd Charisse's in Singin' In The Rain -- exactly what all the minor Death Star characters wore in the original Star Wars in 1977, really were a letdown. Sesto and Nireno, more than the rest, looked like Two Surgeons In Bondage.

But where I really, really failed to enjoy myself turned out to be all Handel's fault. Let me explain:

Being the utter lout I am, I classify operas in two categories (this is unscientific and wildly unlearned, but stay with me) in the first you have singers whose arias or duets actually convey information to keep the narrative flowing:

"This guy came over/
he yelled at me/
I yelled back/
He said to bugger off/
I gave him the finger/
He threw a rock at my head/
It hurt like a mother#$%&er/
So I pulled a knife on him/
I accidentally cut myself/
he screamed like a wuss/
I fainted from blood loss/
Then I fell on top of my beloved/
And I stabbed her/
So I'm all bummed out."

Then you have those operas where there is a whole Hell of a lot of singing, and coloratura, and orchestral fireworks but nothing is really being said. Like so*:

"I stabbed her!
In the heart I stabbed her!
In the heart! In the heart!
I stabbed her, I stabbed her!
In the heart! I stabbed her!
In the heart, I stabbed her!"

and so things wear on for 11-12 minutes at a stretch. It would take half an hour for one guy to say "How are you?" and the other to reply "Just fine. You?"

The subtitle screen would go blank for minutes at a stretch because the lyrics were not conveying anything that would advance the plot whatsoever. When this happens (Aida is another example) my Philistine mind wanders aimlessly. The fact the music (orchestra and singing, both) are doing monumental service to the composer's work cannot, in my mind, cover for the fact the composer himself is dragging me into a comatose stupor.

Our boxmates -- for the first time in two years, that we've noticed -- left at the end of Act One, probably thinking that whatever Caesar Augustus did to Cleopatra was well deserved and likewise wondering if Brutus wasn't perfectly justified in ventilating Julius Caesar's torso, if history was anything close to the Handel's account of it. Half the folks in the adjoining box left also at the end of Act One, and the rest followed by the end of Act Two. I could peer below me and spot a massive exodus, like a nouveau riche Grapes of Wrath, by the end of Act Two.

Handel was hemorrhaging people out of the theatre. The only way more people would have left more quickly would have been for the police to announce that a suspicious briefcase had been found making a ticking noise right next to one of the building's load-bearing walls.

We? We stuck it out because I'm too well-bred to walk out, especially when the artists are reaching dizzying heights with material that, honestly, didn't deserve the love and skill being lavished upon it. The singers, in particular, sang their lungs out. Not just Partridge and company, but also Elise Quagliata (Cornelia) and Katherine Calcamuggio (Sesto) sang beautifully, especially given the rather somber material with which they had to work.

As it was, I worried about the nearly one hour hacked off the running time (Nireno, in particular, bore the brunt of these excisions) but given that:

1- We had an 8pm curtain after a long Friday and
2- That an extra hour probably only represented an additional paragraph of information, and
3- That if people were already fleeing the theatre as if vials of anthrax were being lobbed indiscriminately at only a +/- 3 hour running time,

there might have been a riot if it ran a picosecond longer than that.

Fortunately, there were enough people (I'd say half the house, down from a near-sellout at curtain) to give Partridge, Gaston and Wedow the richly deserved standing ovations they earned in spite of Handel's conspiring against them.

That's that.

-J.

* I'm riffing off Jackie Mason on this.

In praise of the polo tennis shirt.

2008-05-14T09:51:00.004-04:00

A while back, I touched obliquely on the ideal tennis shirt and how it may only be obtained on eBay.

Still, some background is in order.

These days, alas, most people foolishly refer to this style of shirt as a "polo shirt." Which it is emphatically not. Not that long ago, most folks called this shirt "an Izod" or an "alligator shirt" because for all intents and purposes there was only one, the very highly coveted Izod Lacoste shirt.

The alligator part was wrong, too. It was a crocodile, the mascot of the shirt's inventor, French tennis star René "Le Crocodile" Lacoste, who used to slap images of the reptile in question -- as can be seen heah -- on pretty much any raiments he wished to wear.

Today we call this style of shirt a "polo" not because polo players wear them (they don't, the true polo shirt has a collar the same fabric as the body and hemmed sleeves) but because a certain Mr. Ralph Lauren cornered the market on this tennis shirting when there was fractious upheaval between the Izod and Lacoste contingent in the late 1980s-early 1990s. This is why the "alligator" shirt disappeared for a long time and only now is available as a Chemise Lacoste, which ain't the same thing.

The original Ralph Lauren version, to distinguish itself somewhat from the (then) Izod Lacoste version was made of a pima cotton interlock knit, while the I-L version was made from a cotton piqué knit. The former wore down to a softer and fuzzier finish, while the latter became cooler and crisper. I happen to prefer the latter, myself. Apparently, so did Mr. Lauren, because the Polo line barely carries the interlock-type, and mostly is seen in a piqué variant. Either due to the staple of cotton used, or the specific sort of piqué knit, it doesn't wear down as crisp-n-cool as the old I-L, but there ya go.

The question, then, is where are we to find the "good" shirts today if we don't want to go eBaying? For some people, eBaying is a problem. The I-L shirts tend to shrink over time and even when new, the XL (or "grand patron") is not much different from a biggish Medium today, so imagine what it's like after 15 years of laundering.

If we want an piqué knit tennis shirt, with

1- Not overlong sleeves (an unfortunate tic of the mid1990s) with ribbed edging

2- Proper "tennis tails" (i.e. the back tail is longer than the front of the shirt)

3- A two button placket -- three buttons are more golf/polo territory

4- That will launder down to a cool and crisp finish our options are somewhat limited. Brooks Brothers' "Golden Fleece" version carried the torch for a couple of years after the Izod v. Lacoste divorce, but BB has been bought and sold more often than can be recounted, and these shirts have been among the casualties. Polo is not among the desirables, for the reasons enumerated above (although RL's Purple Label is quite good if you can stomach the wallet-eviscerating prices).

Preppy standbys like LL Bean are only adequate if your neck is longer and thinner than average, because LLB fetishizes models that must have a few giraffe chromosomes. Joseph A. Bank is OK, but the "oversized" cut and lack of tennis tails is troublesome; although the prices -- especially on sale -- can be bargains.

The closest thing to the classic of yesteryear, today, is Lands' End's "Men's Banded Original Mesh Polo Shirt" which has the advantage of not carrying a logo and being available with a monogram (for $5) and at $20-$25, the price is right and the cut is close-enough, even if the sleeves are a teeny bit long. (If you can find their "Summer" polo shirt -- and good luck with that -- you'll have the ideal shirt.)

I have spoken,

-J.

Click unto me.

2008-05-13T17:24:00.000-04:00

My latest is up at Vinapedia. Please click (early and often), and keep me in free wine.

Thanky much.

-J.

First principles

2008-04-27T12:18:00.005-04:00

Over the next few weeks, I'll be going over some of the basic elements you ought have in your wardrobe. Well, if arraying yourself like a civilized gentleman is of any importance to you.

Today we discuss the buttondown shirt.

Not so long ago, the choice was clear: Brooks Brothers, with some contrarians opting for J. Press. Things aren't quite so clear today, alas.

There are some aspects of the shirt that are nonnegotiable. Primus inter pares is the collar. It must "roll," that is, the collar must have a gentle waviness to it that will accomodate a necktie without changing shape. Like so:

This means it mustn't be so long that it's flopping carelessly, nor so taut that it seems starched. The material should be 100% cotton oxford, or sometimes pinpoint oxford. The desired colors are white, blue and pink. Maybe yellow, if you're the sort who can pull off tweedy earth tones. Candy stripes (medium blue and brick-red) are appealing if you're a navy-blazer sort or like swanning about in sweaters.

Mint green, heliotrope, peach, etc. are best left to the more advanced dresser. You can, maybe, get away with one of these more unorthodox choices, but the man who looks good with a peach shirt is not a man whom heliotrope flatters, etc. For the moment, stay away from the "fun shirts" and plaids. Stock up on the basics first, and then we'll talk.

The maker who has seized the market for the archetypal shirt is Mercer & Sons, basically making the old-school shirts you know and love. Another particularly reactionary touch I love about them is the number of customization features available. If you place an order with them, these are the ones you want:

1) Gauntlet buttons. The originals from Brooks Brothers never came with these and it was a pain to have the tailor put them in. Much better if they come like this from the factory. This is crucial to keep the sleeve from gapping at the forearm.
2) Button at the back of the collar. The originals from Brooks Brothers used to come with these and it's an even bigger pain to have the tailor put them in. Much better if they come like this from the factory. This keeps the back of your tie from peeping out in an unsightly fashion.
3) Pocketless. The late George Frazier (correctly) inveighed against short pockets because the only sort of men who would put anything these are those "who don't know the score." It's a cleaner and more slimming look.
4) Tapering. This is a tough call. IF you wear your shirts under jackets more often than not and IF you're trimmer than most, THEN it's advisable.
5) "Pullover" style. This is VERRRRRRRRY old school. That is, if you are reading this, you're not old enough to remember when this sort of shirt was the standard. Tread carefully.

If you're a frugal sort, then your best bet is eBay. The original Brooks Brothers shirts were manufactured so beautifully that they'll last forever. You should live so long. The catch is that you need the O-R-I-G-I-N-A-L Brooks Brothers shirt, and given that the company's been bought and sold more often than a Heisman Trophy winner with substance abuse issues, this makes it hard to determine.

You want the ones that have a white, oblong tag that reads "Brooks Brothers Makers" in a red oval surrounding the size which is always expressed in terms of 15-2 or 16-5 and not 15-32 or 16-35...and NEVER 15-32/33 or 16-35/36. At the bottom of the tag it must read "All Cotton" )not "100% Cotton") and also "Made in U.S.A." (See photo above.)

There are also some good variants worth seeking out. Lands' End (pre-buyout) made some amazing shirts in "Royal Oxford" and Jos. A. Bank's makes the best affordable approximation of the old Brooks Brothers shirt, should you be adamant about buying new.

-J.

A Rhône-lover’s Rhône

2008-03-08T15:52:00.000-05:00

Up on Vinapedia.net now.

2005 Paul Jaboulet Aîné Parallèle 45
Rating: ***½

As part of my New Year’s resolution to only drink wines that are uncompromisingly spectacular, monumentally food-friendly and absurdly cheap, I bring to you the 2005 Paul Jaboulet Aîné Parallèle 45.

Diligent Vinapediacs such as yourself will recall my waxing lyrical on the California Rhône-style blends and it was in the course of rigorous investigative journalism that I decided the only noble thing to do is sacrifice myself and launch into an exploration of Rhône Rhône-blends. I mean, it’s the only decent thing, right?

I was fully expecting these sorts of wines to prove serviceable at table and none-too-abusive of my cash reserves. What I was not expecting was the near-uniform goodness these wines what can only be called, in the technical argot of the industry, “way cheap prices.” Yes, you could drum up four-figure invoices with a few judiciously chosen bottles if you wanted to. But why would you want to? Unless you have become enthralled with serious wine expenditures as a means to shelter income from confiscatory taxes – in which case, keep in mind my day job is right in that field and I will travel – there is no reason to do so.

One of the very big wheels in Rhône wines is Paul Jaboulet Aîné. Not only in importance is this big wheelness manifested, but also in the bewildering gamut of wines bearing this imprimatur. To give you an idea, if you were to traipse (on foot or, more easily, online) merrily seeking to purchase one bottle of each bottling, you’d be saddled with almost ten cases of generally wonderful wine. In which case I remind you that I will travel to render assistance.

This wine, which I have kindly chosen to focus upon on your behalf, will certainly provide you with reverse sticker shock. The official price is a paltry $10 a bottle, but you’d have a serious job finding it for more than $8. As I reviewed my receipts and tasting notes, I simply could not believe this wine was priced correctly. To be blunt, this wine is too inexpensive and too food friendly to be believed.

In the glass, it is a limpid purple with some crimson, and a clean blueberry/floral nose. The first tastes are of blueberries (What? Again?) and blackberries , with hints (and I mean hints) of currants and sun dried plums and a half-floral (violet?) half-minerally edge. It has a racy acidity and just enough tannins to give it a bit of scaffolding to make purchasing a case for consumption through the next few months an eminently reasonable proposition. This wine is ideally paired with foods that would be just a bit too overpowering for a rosé. An herby crown roast of pork with savory-sweet aspect to play the complementary card, or something along the moderately spiced ragout (sausage, mushrooms, etc.) spectrum if you wanted to showcase a pleasant contrast…that sort of thing.

If I told you it was $20/bottle, you would be right to sprint to your local Wine Shack, but at $8? You should leave skidmarks in your parking lot.

...and then there was one.

2008-03-06T13:58:00.002-05:00

A long time ago, say 15 years ago, there were two technological forms of enjoying a movie at home. You could go with:

1- The entrenched format which produced a picture and sound most people considered to be between OK and pretty good, which had titles available everywhere at a reasonable purchase/rental cost and the units wherein they played could not only record television programs, they could also be had for a very reasonable cost.

or

2- The newest/latest thing. It offered a FAR greater picture resolution (+/- 40% sharper), spectacular sound, the capacity to include some snazzy special features, and software often came in special editions. The players cost significantly more, fewer manufacturers made them, and titles had both a smaller selection and a noticeably greater cost.

DVD vs. Blu-Ray in 2008?

Try VHS vs. Laser-Disc in 1993.

Blu-Ray has won over HD-DVD, as you all know. Toshiba learned from Sony backing Betamax until it practically bled itself white and cut its losses now. To coin a phrase, Blu-Ray has won the battle, but will it win the war?

What this means is will Blu-Ray replace DVD or will it replace LaserDisc?

As of this moment, I'm not so sure which is which. People took a gamble on HD-DVD because in the last few months, the cost of guessing wrong was pretty slight, not because they simply had to have maximum resolution. What Blu-Ray apologists fail to notice is that most people don't care about the improvements in picture quality of Blu-Ray over DVD. People like me do, but that's cold comfort, because only people like me bought LaserDiscs.

I've said it before: on most (not ALL) films the average person will consider the improvements in picture quality to be immaterial. Note that word carefully. As in "not enough to warrant the expense and hassle of switching."

A highly unscientific way to analyze this is using my wife as a survey group. She was not floored by the leap from VHS to LaserDisc, she was by the leap from VHS to DVD. She has only sometimes been floored by the leap from upconverted DVD to HD-DVD to Blu-Ray. She, whether anyone likes it or not, represents the overwhelming majority of video consumers out there. People who look at Forbidden Planet or Blazing Saddles on some HD format and say "Meh. Looks a bit nicer."

The Blu-Ray people are not doing their long term growth any favors by keeping the player prices so bloody high. As I type -- sort of taking a chance on eBay -- you cannot buy anything to play a Blu-Ray disc for under $400. Stan Glascow from Sony was interviewed by The New York Times and said by Christmas 2008 the much vaunted "inexorable drop in Blu-Ray player prices" is expected to yield a $299 player. Don't expect to see $200 players until 2009.

How this is supposed to eat into DVD's market share is a mystery to me.

At any rate, HD-DVD players are practically free, upconvert DVDs beautifully and HD-DVD discs are actually cheaper than their "plain" DVD brethren. This ought keep most people busy for a while until Blu-Ray decides to get serious, or the next greatest thing comes along.

$399 for a Blu-Ray player? Yeah. Good luck with that, let me know how it turns out.

The next DVD or the next LaserDisc...it's up to them.

-J.

HD-DVD vs. Blu-Ray

2008-02-18T09:39:00.002-05:00

All of the news on this front, since the beginning of the year, have been relentlessly bleak for HD-DVD in this format war. It all started when Blu-Ray managed to tip Warner Bros. from "neutral" to Blu-Ray-Only. HD-DVD began to lose retailer support and it would appear the loss of Wal-Mart -- the same people who got a bunch of people in on HD-DVD just 2 months ago -- over the weekend might be the last straw for HD-DVD.

Like in "regular" war, this outcome was not foreordained. In fact, when this whole thing started, it looked as if HD-DVD's to lose. HD-DVD had a six month head start...an unbelievable advantage. Which they promptly squandered. Rather than go for maximum market penetration, thereby strangling Blu-Ray in the crib, it dicked around trying to squeeze early adopters with $800 players. For which there was no software.

This approach immediately failed to light up the general population.

Blu-Ray followed suit a half year later, and similarly failed to get the population worked up, but the point was that HD-DVD had frittered away its lead. Blu-Ray should have been dead with tire marks upon its carcass and instead it was no worse than even with HD-DVD. The perception was that HD-DVD was losing.

At that point, HD-DVD was on its heels the rest of the way. Given some of the details of the formats, HD-DVD needed to win (and easily could have) with an early knockout. The studios which were noncommittal to either format noticed that Blu-Ray was a lot more studio-friendly (and, it must be said, far less viewer-friendly) in terms of regional coding (HD-DVD has none) and other "protection" schemes which the suits (the same ones who brought us the WGA strike) fetishize so dearly.

By Christmas 2007, somebody with an MBA over at Toshiba (HD-DVD's main hardware proponent) managed to get someone to listen and Toshiba started blowing out HD-DVD players at $99, with free discs thrown in. But as is likely turns out, it was too little. Had Toshiba done something similar for Christmas 2006, or better yet, started off selling an HD-DVD player that topped out at, say, $250 instead of $800 they would be in an infinitely better position, instead of about to write off hundreds of millions of dollars. The "loss" of a few million upfront in saturating the market would have been recouped many times over by January 2009. Microsoft didn't help by not making HD-DVD a standard part of the XBox, like Sony did with the PS3.

It also didn't help that HD-DVD advertising was nonexistent. Those blowout prices on HD-DVD players were strictly conveyed by the grapevine.

Another part of the blame goes to the studios on the HD-DVD side, who could have really committed themselves and tipped the balance. Had the Harry Potter series been released, or had Dreamworks produced a box set (all the Shrek films, say) at the same time as those Christmas blowouts, it could well have made a huge difference. You'll notice that neither side has produced gobs of "must have" content.

You'll note I haven't bothered with the technical specs of one format vs. the other. Frankly, these don't matter and are strictly the province of fanboys. Normal people don't really care. Seeing films available in both formats in an A-B comparison way on my equipment didn't really reveal much of anything. Whatever the specifications the results were not noticeable with even high end-ish gear like mine. In usability, HD-DVD beat Blu-Ray, with features like PIP menus and so forth.

But here's the dirty little secret that neither camp would have wanted you to know: Most movies don't look that much better in HD-DVD or Blu-Ray vs. an upconverted DVD. I compared Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in HD-DVD, Blu-Ray and upconverted DVD and the HD formats looked s-l-i-g-h-t-l-y better. Slightly, with a Capital Slight. It really was nothing to write home about. The only times when the two HD formats looked better than upconverted DVDs were either shot-to-HD stuff (lots of Travel and Nature stuff, mostly) or CGI animated films like Ratatouille or Shrek the Third. Those films have visual qualities worth each and every superlative Roget stuck in his thesaurus.

Music & Lyrics or 300? Not so much.

The inherent limitations of the source (i.e. shot-on-film) really are not transcended by the HD formats. The upconverted DVDs are a tiny bit softer with a trace more artifacts. But that's it. Unless my math is flawed, the number of those CGI films currently out on HD formats is maybe 4 or 5, hardly a clarion call. Seeing how a grand total of two million players (combined!) of both HD-DVD & Blu-Ray have been sold in comparison to eleventy gazillion DVD players, the question is becoming not so much whether the winner will succeed DVD, but rather whether the winner will succeed LaserDisc.

What this format war reminds me of is two men fighting to the death for the love of a woman who, when all is said and done, decides she doesn't like men after all. Soon to follow will be HD downloads or some combination of PPV/record thing in HD. And, with the number of hackers running around, just wait until someone figures out a way to convert Blu-Ray or HD-DVD to a HD-WMV file for easy downloading/uploading.

-J.

Hearts and Flowers

2008-02-14T12:10:00.003-05:00

Today, of course, is St. Valentine's Day. All else being equal, of course, this is a C-Level Gift day. Now, for those of you who are new here might not be aware of how I categorize -- authoritatively, mind you -- these things.

A-Level Gift days are the BIG Birthdays and Anniversaries. Those divisible by 5, 10, or 25; the latter being the most A-Levelish of all. After all, you don't see many people making a huge fuss over their 42nd birthday.

The B-Level Gift days are "regular" Birthdays and Anniversaries, and Christmas (or, for the Jewish kids, Chanukah) and the C-Level Gift days are as above.

One buys one's beloved a lovely bauble, and ideally a lovely meal is shared and affection and sunshine and lollipops and blooming and Cupid slinging his arrows. Tra-la-la.

Naturally, this means that one must dance attendance. Since we have drained the bottle of babysitting privilege to its lees, this precludes our going out for an overpriced dine-and-dash on the most crowded night of the year. In lieu of that, I'm going all out on the dinner fixin's at home. This is a good and wise thing since TFBIM is still working brutal hours and she is having a Day Two kind of day. Ahem.

So I'm going with lobstah and champagne and chocolate (not together, relax).

Normally, by the way, I suggest Japanese food for St. Valentine's Day as it's clean and light and it doesn't weigh you down should the evening proceed into more, er, strenuous pursuits.

Anyway, here's the plan:

Seared Scallops with Beurre Blanc*
Steamed Florida Lobstah with Saffron Aioli**
Amaretto Chocolate Mousse***

-J.

*4 tablespoons white wine vinegar
4 tablespoons dry white wine
2 tablespoons finely minced shallots
Salt and white pepper, to taste
1 cup unsalted butter, chilled and cut into TINY pieces

In a saucepan combine vinegar, wine, shallots, salt and white pepper and bring to a simmer.
Gently simmer liquid until reduced to syrup. Off-heat whisk in 1 tsp. of chilled butter. As the butter is incorporated into the liquid add another piece and continue to swirl or whisk. Put the pan back over the lowest heat and -- don't stop whisking! -- add the bits of butter one at a time.

When all of the butter has been added remove from heat. Sauce will be thick and creamy. Adjust seasoning to taste. Serve immediately. (You can hold it in a Thermos for a while, but you're running a chance.)

** 5 cloves garlic (what?) MAKE SURE it's fresh and firm.
Salt
White pepper
1 pinch saffron threads
1 egg yolk, room temperature (if you are even remotely worried about salmonella, etc., skip this recipe)
1 cup EVOO
1/2 lemon, juiced
Pinch ground red pepper

In food processor or blender (I prefer blender), puree garlic. add salt and pepper and then the saffron and egg yolks. With blades running, S-L-O-W-L-Y add the olive oil in a thin steady stream. Add the lemon juice and red pepper and taste for seasoning.

*** 3.5oz dark chocolate (70% cocoa solids) ideally in "chips"
10oz heavy ("double") cream
2 tbsp Amaretto (or espresso)
1 egg white
3-4 tbsp. sugar
handful of amaretti cookies or chocolate shavings, to garnish

In a small saucepan, heat half the cream until it starts to bubble around the edges. Take it off heat, add the chocolate and stir until the chocolate has melted smoothly. Pour into a bowl resting over ice. Add the rest of the cream and Amaretto. Whisk to soft peaks.

Meanwhile, whisk (clean the whisk, OK?) the egg white until the soft peak stage. Add the sugar in a stream and continue whisking until you have peaks that are firm and glossy. Fold the meringue and the chocolate/cream CAREFULLY (you don't want to pop all the bubbles). Serve in chilled martini or margarita glasses.

Place the amaretti into a bowl and lightly crush with the tip of a rolling pin. Sprinkle over the chocolate mousse and garnish. Serve immediately or chill for up to two days.

Bubbly and Sparkly and St. Valentine-ish

2008-02-13T08:43:00.001-05:00

Just in time for St. Valentine's Day, the good folk at Vinapedia.net have posted my review of assorted Champagnes (and derivatives).

Go ovah theah and click thereon. (The more clickage the more excellent wines I get for free.)

Thanks.

-The Management

Coming to the rescue.

2008-02-11T09:45:00.000-05:00

Our pal Mattis hath posted on the matter of a gentleman's shave. Setting aside the fact that his latest public purchase is essentially a half-scale model of the most lethal vibrator yet devised, it seems the lad -- I freely call him "lad" on the strength of my being a few months older -- ought be schooled in the fine art of getting stubble the Hell off your face. He'll be pleased to know that I won't be running off on a tangent related to my usage of the straight razor, since he is in California and someone residing where "the Richter scale" is everyday terminology shouldn't consider such a thing unless the risk of winding up with your head on your lap adds a certain frisson to your life.

If you cruise the more gentlemanly blogs, you are bound to find one or two that offer good suggestions for proper gentleman's shavery, including a suggested shavekit. Aye, 'tis a good kit, too. So, in the interest of variety and all that, here's my everyday rig, although you new kids would do better to stick to bigger name's suggestion, since he is a Professional. Anyway, here's mine:

Gillette Adjustable DE safety razor. Contrary to popular opinion, I far prefer the slim handle, with the year codes I through N. The loss of heft is more than compensated by the added maneuverability. You should also find what setting works with your choice of blades and quit futzing with it. With the blades listed below, I am at #6. Special bonus? You can pick up new-in-box examples at eBay for chump change.

Israeli Personna “Super+” (aka “no-name”) DE razor blades. These truly kick arse, at a ridiculous price. You can also score them on eBay for a (yes!) slightly better price.

Vulfix #2234 badger shaving brush I even got it to match my scuttle. I can get my geek on just as impressively as anyone else, sue me.

Proraso shaving cream The fact it's insanely cheap and readily available at Target stores (although this may be slowly disappearing) is merely a fringe benefit. This cream shaves as good as anything else out there AND the mentholated cooling thing when you rinse is so-o-o-o-o-o go-o-o-o-o-o-od. All this goodness for $6. S-I-X. It also gets my Italophile side squirming with pleasure. Almost as good are Musgo Real and Bigelow's #168.

The Moss Scuttle While not strictly necessary--you can get a lather going on the palm of your hand if you had to--I sure as Hell wouldn't wanna shave without it ever again

Alum block Because you will start out by nicking yourself. Just live with it and use the alum. Pinaud's styptic pencil is also pretty good.

Now, I'm pretty metro-neutral on the moisturizing aftershave. My skin manages to issue so much in the way of lipids that it's never been an issue so far. Those who opine on these things are probably right in liking Trumper, so go with that, or Truefitt & Hill's Ultimate Comfort, if you want something unscented.

Okay. Now go knock that 5 o'clock shadow off.

-J.

Steal this wine.

2008-02-09T12:20:00.000-05:00

If you inflict yourself with superfluous wine publications, you will be (at least dimly) aware the 2005 Bordeaux has been touted as the "Vintage of the Century!" Setting aside such logic gyrations needed to say this only 5 years into the century, and also setting aside the fact we normally hear "Vintage of the Century!" twice a decade, this chant -- which has reached even our ears at the penthouse of Vinapedia Tower -- can be decoded as meaning "these wines are probably pretty good."

But, let's look at things a bit more carefully. What do we mean when we say "Vintage of the Century!"? My interpretation is that during said vintages, even the vintners who normally make pretty good wines stand an excellent chance of making spectacular, epoch-shattering stuff. The guys who are just a furlong down the road from the Big Names and have keen, sharp winemakers who mightn't have the resources, year-in and year-out to make monumental wines.
For these guys, who have to maximize whatever opportunity they get to make the world sit up and take notice, 2005 was such a year. The weather cooperated, the wine makers were in a benevolent mood, the harvesters were pleased with their daily rations of Gitanes and Gauloises and all went well. Thus, 2005 wins Vinapedia's award for Vintage of the Century of the Year.

Having our antennae now keenly attuned to the added excellentness Ma Nature chose to heap upon wines of that time and place, we waited for the opportunity to cadge some freebie tastings. Sure enough, Aloha Tom, flush with glee at his new Reyn Spooner shirts and Panama hat to cover his greying bald spot and focus attention to his greying beard and ponytail instead gave the signal: Aloha Tom's Wine Hut would be having a tasting of selected 2005s. These wines have begun to arrive and/or will be arriving shortly. I didn't ask which were which, because a man who goes around wearing shirts emblazoned with flourescent tropical produce is clearly fearless and therefore capable of anything when riled.

I must say that when you taste wines that are supposed to be Big Important Reds when they are young, you must use your imagination. These wines are not, in the overwhelming majority of the cases, ready to drink. They need rest. Repose. Lots of it. So you must think of what it'd be like to taste this wine after it has had time to calm down and take a shower and learn some manners. Like in the case of goverment statistics based on "seasonally adjusted data" there is some very educated guesswork at play. The better the wine, the less "guessy" the opinions.

Anyway. The tasting. I must admit that Aloha Tom, resplendent in his shirt adorned with stylized kiwi and passion fruit, selected his wines very well. Either that or he put out what he was sent and got very, very lucky. I went around and purposefully avoided looking at labels or prices. I avoided the edibles. All of the wines were wines I could see being spectacular with cellaring, and I was eager to find something for me to latch on.

(When I was but a mere lad of 18 -- those being the days when the drinking age coincided with the age at which one could bear arms for one's country or help elect its representatives -- I managed to score some 1982 Ch. Pontet Canet. It took my little all, but I bought a case, and the wisdom of that youthful choice beams back at me as I stand on the threshhold of respectable middle age.)

So I know what I'm after and I'm pleased to report I have found it.

Most of those wines start in at $75 per bottle and shoot skyward from there. Which is a pity, really. At the end of the night I reviewed my notes and I saw that my favorite wine, which I preferred by only the very slimmest, most translucent of margins to my second favorite, cost $270 per bottle. (Ch. Leoville Las Cases, in case you're stumped for gifts) Most of my other favorites frolicked and gamboled merrily in the $200-$350 per bottle range. But...what about that second favorite?

That, friends, is but a piddly $30. Three-zero. Thirty. Roll it over in your mind and let it fall trippingly off your tongue. Three Hamiltons. You simply MUST steal this wine and, while you're at it, steal a cubic truckload of it. It's the 2005 Clos l'Eglise Cotes de Castillon. Normally I'd hush it up, but I already got mine.

At some places you can get it for the "futures" price and even if you can't, you're only staring at $30/bottle, which is closer to "free" than its real worth. I have no higher praise for a wine than this: I bought, with my very own cash, two cases of it. None of this "Charge it to Vinapedia, Tom! and aloha to you and Mrs. Tom!" stuff. Out of my own pocket.

This wine, even it it remains a relative bargain to the other 2005s, will only go up in price. (The other 2005 Bordeaux's prices will certainly hit nosebleed altitudes pretty soon.) So get it now. As in, pause from your daily grind and order a case now.

Also, make sure you get the right one which is not the one in Pomerol (that one has a price tag to make your eyes water freely).

Here are my notes, verbatim: Pure ruby [color]. Complex and lively aroma. Cherry, raspberry and a little anise. Hint [of] minerals. Has a ripe sweetness, with a fruity sort of lushness. Elegant acidity and strong tannic presence for amazing balance. That earthy-mineral thing is pleasantly noticeable. Long finish. Very suave, subtle and long on the finish. I'd say this can only improve in the cellar, and I'd even say it can handle 15-25 years, though I might be tempted in 10 to check its progress.

Now, at this point the less attentive in the audience might start to whoop and holler about my previous railings against Big Red Wines. Which is wrong. I rail against wines that seek fame and fortune based on fat scores, not from hewing close to the varietal and geographical characteristics of a given wine, but borne of imitating other giga-point wines. This wine is very true to the Bodeaux character, not the Bordeaux caricatute. It is sublime and I'd give it 6 spades if Vinapedia.net would allow me.

-J.

Dammit.

2008-01-06T10:07:00.000-05:00

George McD. Fraser has died.

Argh,

-J.

My Review of ALFA ROMEO 8C COMPETIZIONE: Only a concept?

2007-11-29T04:48:00.001-05:00

Originally submitted at Autoweek.com

Only a cruel man, versed in wheelmanship, would have built a blind left-hand corner as tough as this one. A tall Armco wall blocks the sightline of the apex curb, and you can't see the sweeping right-hander you'll have to negotiate almost immediately by flicking the car the other way, but that's ha...

Think it through.

By JokeIII from miami, fl on 11/29/2007

Pros: Engaging, Easy To Understand

Cons: Lacks Information

Best Uses: Casual Reading, Staying Informed

Some things we need to understand:

This car was sold out wa-a-a-ay before anyone had even hinted at its driving characteristics, i.e. it was sold out on its looks alone.

At a quarter mill. a pop, it means it's going in the garages of people who know a thing or two about making a buck, so it's going there for a reason. Clearly that reason is not performance (by my reasoning, a 4.7L version of the corporate V8 could easily put out 550hp) which is very, very good, albeit probably the slowest sports car in price bracket. As near as I can figure it, it's merely a somewhat lighter/more powerful/prettier version of the outgoing Maserati Coupe. Instead, the reason it has been sold out is collectibility...again, based on looks alone.

Put it this way, 500 have sold and, even if I had the cash to spare without selling off one of my kids, I wouldn't know where to sign up for one. Alfa Romeo does not care AT ALL what normal people think of this car. (They would have offered it with a proper gearbox if they did.)

In sum: This car is nothing more than fanfare and halo effect for its "real cars" with which it has exactly nothing in common. It's purpose is only to get people talking excitedly about Alfa Romeo cars. That's it.

Don't think of it as a car, think of it as an ad campaign with wheels and an engine.

(legalese)

For immediate, or earlier, release

2007-11-28T09:33:00.000-05:00

Vinapedia.net takes on the Absurdities of the 100-point Scale

New Wine Website Calls for a "Wine Ratings System for the Rest of Us"

STUDIO CITY, Calif., November 28, 2007— Vinapedia.net (www.vinapedia.net), a new educational website launched to help people learn wine basics, today posted "100 Pointless," which takes on and lampoons the absurdities of the 100-point wine ratings scale.

"The 100-point scale is like the Wizard of Oz. Yank back the drapes and it's really just a timid, elderly baritone," says "100 Pointless" author, J.M Garcia III.

In his inimitable mock-high-fallutin' style, Garcia points out that the 100 point system is effectively a 30 point system, because anything below 70 is undrinkable and everyone knows it. Furthermore, Garcia suggests, the ideal range for most authentic, regional, food-pairing wines is 85-89. Anything higher and you get a fruit, oak and/or tannin bomb that will pair well with only a narrow range of heart-stopping cuisine. He recommends a simplified, 5-level system more suited to the average palate.

"Wine, to me, is not about superlatives in a vacuum," Garcia continues. "It is about superlatives that can harmonize with the gamut of human sensations, not just those sensations that pair well with medium-rare USDA Prime Beef."

"Besides," says Michael Mattis, Vinapedia.net's proprietor, "Robert Parker might be able to tell the difference between a 96 and a 97 but most everyone else would not only be stumped, we couldn’t care less. It's high time we called the old system into question and begun to think about a new system — one for the rest of us."

About J.M. Garcia III
J.M. Garcia III writes Vinapedia.net's premier column, "The Oenophiliac." When not challenging people's assumptions about wine, Garcia serves as executive vice president of a strategy consulting firm in Miami , Florida . In addition to wine, he collects cars, watches and fountain pens, and searches in vain for the perfect tailor.

He is available for interviews upon request.

About Vinapedia.net
Vinapedia.net was launched in the summer of 2007 by the admittedly novice oenophile, Michael Mattis. "I created Vinapedia.net because I'm not an authority on wine," says Mattis. "I created it so that I could learn more about something I've become passionate about and share what I've learned with others." A founding editor of Business 2.0 magazine, a freelance writer and professional blogger, Mattis currently holds the trendy title of blogster-in-chief at Yahoo! Search Marketing in Burbank , Calif.

Contact:
Michael Mattis, Proprietor
www.vinapedia.net
mike@vinapedia.net
(XXX) YYY-ZZZZ

Inquiries regarding advertising, partnership and content licensing opportunities also welcome.
Michael Mattis Writer :: Editor :: Blogster

Just in time.

2007-11-20T08:31:00.000-05:00

Some of you have expressed some frustration with the links to my Vinapedia.net columns. As a public service (and a special behind-the-scenes treat) here is my next column, unedited:

******

TURKEY-ISH DELIGHTS

Thanksgiving is nearly at our throats and, as this is the one holiday dedicated to the principle that one ought freely engage in lucullan self-abuse and be grateful for the opportunity, the motto of “What ought we drink?” is heard echoing throughout the top floors of Vinapedia Tower in ringing baritones.

Passersby accost us, women of a certain age and lurid disposition sidle up to us in the produce section of our local supermarkets, and incomplete foodies look upon us pleadingly. They all are aware of the searing need for Vinapedic guidance.

Which brings us – calloo, callay! -- to today, your day of potable deliverance.

In order for us to tell you what you ought drink, we must first start with whay you must specifically not drink: Beaujolais Nouveau. This is not some sort of atavistic Francophobia or anti-Gallic editorial policy or viticultural jingoism. It is based on the hard fact that Beaujolais Nouveau simply doesn’t play well with the typical Thanksgiving Day menu. The marketing wizards will tell you Beaujolais Nouveau “goes with everything.” Which is a yes-and-no proposition. It is simple enough and fruity enough and et cetera enough to not stand athwart the groaning board hurling vile abuse at your palate.

But that’s hardly a rousing endorsement, is it?

Mind you, this isn’t limited to Beaujolais Nouveau; the Usual Suspects (even when they avoid the dreaded International StyleTM) are all in trouble with the foodstuffs of gratitude. There is only one wine that has the muscle and finesse and fruit to cope well with the sage- and pepper-inflected turkey’s dark meat and white meat, and the cornbread, and the sausage-bedecked stuffing/dressing, and the gravy and the cranberries and even that thing with the green beans and the canned fried onions and condensed soup your least favorite aunt brings every year. We’re talking about Zinfandel.

Sadly, Zinfandel mostly gets recognition for “white Zinfandel” a role for which it is catastrophically ill-suited, i.e., to make a wine that is little more than a wine cooler without training wheels. No, no, no. We’re talking real Zinfandel. It even has the happy characteristic of not being one of those grapes that has been planted up one continent and down the other. It’s a cheerfully American thing, this Zinfandel.

Now, if you are having a Thanksgiving bash with 50 of your closest friends and family (several of whom might be, technically, philistines) you’ll want to pick a more accessible and affordable Zinfandel than if the party consisted of 20 or 8 sophisticates. Basically, you want something with soft tannins, cherry-berry fruit and a good spice backbone. Here are the choices depending on how colossal your festivities are.

2005 Ravenswood Winery Zinfandel Lodi ($10 street price).
If you had to pick a Zinfandel with exactly zero research – blind, if you will – your safest bet is to reach for something from Ravenswood. At any price, this is a great wine. At $10, it’s practically pointing a blunderbuss at you and demanding to be taken home. The color is a standard red, no purple and none of the rust/brick either. It has a berry brightness that is adorned with very notable spicy and mineral-ly characteristics, with a hint (just a hint, but I’m not crazy here) of citrus. Around this time you notice how deliciously unobtrusive the tannins are, lending just enough support to keep things smooth and sleek. The closer you get to the finish the more pronounced the berry thing becomes, which wraps up with a delicious cherry/spice character. Given that my Thanksgiving will consist of a medium-sized horde, I bought a case of this very thing. With the case discount, it really is an stunning bargain and will also pair up fantastically with grilled steaks. (You’re welcome.)

2005 Ravenswood Winery Zinfandel Dickerson Vineyard Napa Valley ($20)
Yes, it’s another Ravenswood. I know. But this serves to underscore my point that, if you wanted the closest thing to a “foolproof” choice, Ravenswood Zinfandels are among the finalists. This one is clear scarlet, with the usual blackberry/raspberry aromas, with a smoky/herby edge. It has a gleeful acidity and a crisp minerality. Amazing finish, with a bit more tannin than its kid brother above. Good bet for cellaring. If you can find the 2004 at a similar price, grab it and run like a bandit; the extra year will have made it even more stellar.

2005 Ridge Vineyards Geyserville Sonoma County ($30)
Ridge is another of the realibly excellent Zinfandel producers. This one is a deep red, with a bouquet of blackberries and cherries, assorted mineral-ness and herbes de Provence lifted, with hints of star anise and pepper. The body is less than you’d expect from a Zinfandel, but it’s lush and supple and the tannins just poke their heads out to say “hi.” (This is also available in half-bottles at about $18.)

New to the pantheon?

2007-10-13T20:17:00.000-04:00

Dear Internet,

As I mentioned in my previous dispatch, just a two weekends ago I was gallivanting around Chicago. On the afternoon prior to the white tie event, my beloved and I decided to avail ourselves of the shopping to be had on and around Michigan Avenue, as well as a spot of lunch. Given that our lunch involved strong ale, my beloved became irredeemably somnolent and had to decamp for our hotel, fortunately a mere block away.

I, faced with several hours -- my beloved is a cataleptic in denial, alas -- of unfettered shopping opportunity, decided to beeline for Paul Stuart; which is, incidentally, fast becoming my favorite haunt for accessories*.

Anyway.

I noticed that they had a made-to-measure thing available. Possibly they may have had such a thing for millennia, but this was the first time I had ever noticed. Seeing as how I was due for my annual suit wardrobe addition, I took the plunge. Normally the off-the-peg house cut is not one which flatters me, being a touch too boxy and narrow-shouldered. But with MTM or custom/bespoke this is not a material issue.

One thing I noticed about the staff at PS is that these guys are professional. The uppah echelon staff at, say, Ralph Lauren have always struck me as being actors in character -- they certainl dress that way -- and at BB they all remind me of people that were at school with someone you know, or are friends of your parents. At Alan Flusser, I have frequently had the impression they are evangelists out to spread the faith. Not so at PS. These guys, first of all, are always very well dressed. I mean, really, really well dressed; in the kind of way you never recall exactly what they were wearing, only that they were immaculate. Furthermore, they all invariably assume that you are a sharp dresser your own bad self and knowledgeable on matters sartorial. They will sling terms like "floating canvas" or "macclesfield" or "barathea" as if you both are members of the same guild. Then, the best part...the dog that didn't bark, as it were...they offered me no suggestions. That was kind of refreshing, being treated like a grownup with a clear sense of personal style. Nice.

Anyway, I ordered this one, but in solid as opposed to chalkstripe. In general, I like stripes -- at 5'9" they help elongate me -- but these stripes, on this suit looked a bit too, y'know, like something from the filming of Cotton Club. So solid it was.

I'll let you know what it looks like upon arrival.

-J.

* Around New Year's 2006, I traipsed in and found (and bought) a gorgeous set of white silk knot cufflinks and studs (studs!) that set off the abovementioned tuxedo -- double breasted, shawl lapelled -- so very perfectly. Next time I pop by, I think some mother-of-pear and sterling cufflinks are in order.

Not dead yet.

2007-10-06T21:06:00.000-04:00

Dear Internet,

Uncle Joke has been busy. Very, very busy dear Internet. Why just last weekend I had to attend a white tie fete with the extremely lovely and wildly gracious Poppy. The fact that in early 21st Century America gentlemen will array themselves in white tie finery for public consumption is a heartening sign that civilization ain't dead yet.

Mind you, traipsing from our hotel (The Affinia, definitely worth a stay as long as you specify a non-renovation room.) three blocks to Chez Poppy whence we'd cab it to the Lyric Opera's Opening Night while in full dress regalia in broad daylight (we had to be there with some spare time) is an unusual experience.

Therefore, since this absolutely stellar look is starting to murmur back to life beyond the wedding party, I thought I'd issue the definitive guide thereon. This is based on my own ensemble, natch.

Before I get going on this, I must own up to the fact I hadn't worn mine since a consular ball a few years back and when doing a dry-run to make sure all was well, I discovered the fit was a mite...uh...constricting. This precipitated a crash regimen of starvation and exercise, until things fit again properly. No, you oughtn't do this. In fact, now that I am back in the Fringe of Paradise, I aim to get back to the proper shape the right way.

Still, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Anyway, here is what I have opted for in the world of Gentlemen's Full Dress:

As you can see in the picture from the Oct. 1936 issue of Esquire, the broader shoulder and lapel really helps to accentuate the "v" thing inherent in the white tie & tails look. To my mind, the lapel ought be of a width that the breast pocket still has about half its length visible...so that the pocket square is likewise visible. (There is a semi-rule about never wearing both a boutonniere and a pocket square. I've never siccessfully ascertained if this is a For Real Rule, or just a hint or what. To be safe, I opt for just a pocket square. It's crisper, it contrasts better with the black of the jacket.)

Now, when I got this outfit run up, I specified the lapels as noted above. The shoulders really work with mine (which are a bit outsize for my height, a perennial complication with off the peg/rack raiments) and that works well. Naturally, the thing to do is to also specify a flower loop, and working sleeve buttonholes. I also opted for the fabric (midweight barathea wool) in midnight instead of black. Black wool, in my experience, tends to take on a yellow/green cast under artificial light; midnight looks "blacker than black." If I had to do it again, I would have opted for a particularly Savile Row touch: secret pockets at the top of the tails. As it was I had to deal with only a slim pocket inset into the inside of the left breast. (Not that one ought carry a huge wallet and cellphone with white tie.) Finally, I'd suggest the lapels be matte ribbed silk with the "grain" of the ribbing running parallel to the lapel's buttonhole.

The trousers in my case were plain front. This is one case where forward pleated trousers might not have been so flattering. If I had to do it over, I'd think long and hard on it. The pleated ones would probably be more comfortable for all the sitting done during a 3 hour opera and 3 hour gala to follow, but might also look a touch too full. Basically, either is fine. At the side of the trousers, you have the option of a satin striping or braiding. Just so long as it matches the lapel, you'll be fine. Mine is the braiding, since my lapels are the matte ribbed silk. Oh, and white tie calls for double-track satin stripes, because black tie goes with one stripe. Li'l trivia bit there.

The shirt is a bit tricky. Ideally, you'd have the pique' front with detachable wing collar number which is pretty much only available from Brooks Brothers (you may have to order it) in the USA and a few Ye Olde Guarde places along Jermyn Street in London. If you're REALLY hidebound and reactionary, you'll also opt for a shirt with detachable cuffs. All this means that you'd single-handedly keep the studs industry in business for years.

But that's not all that likely and also, these tend to have a rather high neckband which may be very unflattering to you. Another option is the all-pique' (also called "marcella") shirt -- for white tie, pleats are so very, very wrong -- available from Charles Tyrwhitt, Joseph A. Bank's, Paul Stuart and Ralph Lauren, among others. Just make sure whatever shirt you get has a "button loop" to keep the shirt front anchored and taut.

In my case, I had a Giorgio Armani shirt with the "tunnel" to hide the tie at the back of the neck, but I was not very impressed with how the wing collar sat. Nobody said anything, but I knew, dammit, I knew. But I was stuck wearing it because...

Oh. Important tip. Make sure the number of studholes on the shirt front matches the number of studs (more on this anon) you own. This could wreck your plans. AMHIK.

The vest and tie also ought be white pique'. The vest could be either a double breasted sort of waistcoat or single breasted. Whatever flatters you best. The tie, if at all possible should be the single size (i.e., non-adjustable) tie-it-yourself butterfly.

Studs and cufflinks. Easy to go wrong. You have three basic choices. Sterling -- or if you feel flush, platinum -- either in a plain design (round, oval, octagonal, etc.) or mother-of-pearl, or white silk knots. The latter, happily, will only set you back MAYBE $30 at a froufrou place like Paul Stuart. Whatever you choose, make sure you avoid those abominable swivel-back cufflinks. Keep in mind that if you go for a shirt with detachable cuffs/collar you WILL need a ton more studs. Alrighty.

Now, shoes. This is where many a strong man stands up, looks me square in the eye and says "check, please." You really need the "opera pump." I really prefer it in matte kidskin which ties in with the whole matte silk thing; patent leather AND those grosgrain bows at the front are a bit too much. (Mine are from Alan Flusser's, from when I had my tuxedo run up.) Yes, I suppose you could go off and use the patent leather oxfords, but why stumble so close to the finish line? Finally, get the thinnest, lightest black socks ("hose") you can manage.

Voila.

-J.

P.S. Photos to ensue as soon as I manage to find the wire thingy.

I'm practically famous-ish.

2007-09-03T22:38:00.000-04:00

Look at me.

-J.

Listen to the Man.

2007-08-29T12:02:00.001-04:00

The following clip from The Charlie Rose Show features Alan Flusser (after watching some political stuff for the first 45 minutes...scroll fast) his own bad self.

Interesting!

-J.

Click me, baby.

2007-08-26T15:04:00.001-04:00

OK. My most recent wine column is up ovah at Vinapedia.net and I ask you to issue clickage duly.

-J.

2007-08-21T15:13:00.000-04:00

As someone who is fairly conscientious about being regularly en blogge, as well as normally cranking out 20-25 emails a day, plus missives to assorted online groups, computer-drafted reports and epistles, etc., I have an inordinate fondness for stationery and fountain pens.

[I have also just mangled my shoulder trying to prop up my pillows. Ouch.]

Anyway, because I'm bored and because I'm (among other things) an anachronism of sorts, I just spent a delightful and instructive spell rearranging my stationery and doing a little maintenance work on the fountain pens.

The stationery thing started ages ago, when I was a callow youth. Maybe 18 or so. I spied (through the shop window) a rather comely lass working in a (duh) shop just on the shadow of the Venetian winged lion. Bristling with the bravado that only youth (when flush with a reasonable dose of wine) can possibly have, I stepped through the doorway, the better to afford this young lady an opportunity to avail herself of the manly bounty that was Young Joke. It was my every intention, you see, to dazzle her in every respect, to intoxicate her with charm. I don't know exactly how much Valpolicella I had occupying space otherwise earmarked for hemoglobin, but I was fairly confident that within 20 minutes I'd have her loudly demanding to carry my child. (In contrast, these days my wife loudly demands I carry my child.)

What I had not counted upon was that she'd bedazzle me, and 20 minutes later I had transferred enough currency to her store's coffers to provide me with a small satchel of exquisite papers, cards, envelopes, and the like. All of which she had wrapped up expertly in a semi-glossy purple-pink paper, as if this were all one great Christmas gift. When I had envisioned her taking advantage of me, this walletectomy was not exactly among the highlights of my thought process.

But I, being the resilient optimist I am, took the whole episode in stride. I sauntered (as much as someone who has blown an shockingly high percentage of his funds can saunter) to a small bar-type place and ordered a carafe of what two honeymooner-types were having. I produced a cheap pen and started to muse upon what I might write on these excellent papers. My thinking was that I ought send lovely missives from this lovely spot to young ladies back home upon whom I had, er, designs. It struck me as a capital notion, when I was interrupted by my waiter.

Y'see, in Italy, people do not eat by themselves, let alone drink by themselves. Most of my tour (if you want to glorify it with such a term) had consisted of looking up at pretty buildings, occasionally peering inside, and more frequently, stopping at these bar-type counters where locals were loitering amiably and having a tipple of some local-ish wine or another. This was sociable and therefore acceptable.

So a guy with a stack of very expensive paper having a carafe of wine one late afternoon all by his lonesome, y'know, stuck out. The waiter, what with Italians being Italians, surmised that I was writing to Someone Special Back Home and before he deigned give me my carafe -- for which I was paying a 50% premium given that I was seated at a table -- he told me I couldn't possibly jot down anything on paper such as that with a cheap-o-matic pen. He was taken aback that I was perplexed. I was partly perplexed because he spoke in rapid-fire Italian and it toom me a while to process his Italian to my Spanish. At any rate, he claimed he had an uncle in the business and he took (!) me through a warren, along diminutive alleys, to a small shop which gave the impression of being The Smallest And Best Hidden Colored Pencil Museum In The World.

I was too stunned and cowed to ask what was happening to my carafe of wine. At any rate, Elio (the waiter) engaged Sandro (the colored pencil maven) in animated speech. As they discussed my predicament, Sandro nodded sagely. It was as if a general practitioner and a specialist were conferring. Looking around I saw all manner of inks, quills, pencils, etc. Sandro asked me, the way one would ask a lost and frightened toddler, what I liked. This was good because I could answer something and not feel utterly useless. I rattled off my hobbies and likes. I kept my more prurient interests to myself, although given the fact I was among Italian males they may have taken my silence to mean I had some sort of glandular deficiency.

Sandro nodded sympathetically, much like when a patient says "it hurts when I do this." Sandro looked at Elio.

Gravely, but sweating self-assurance, he uttered: "Omas."

I thought he had diagnosed me as heterophobic, but he produced a small box with a brushed aluminum pen, with a pleasantly discreet automotive motif. "This is the best thing for you," I understood him as saying. He then wrapped it up like a Christmas gift (along with an ink bottle, the color of which he chose and didn't bother to let me see), helped himself to my funds and bid me good evening.

Elio, looking as if he had saved me from ravenous marmots, led me back to our starting point, chattering effusively. Another, slightly older, waiter-type guy (Virgilio, I think) came up to us and handed me my stuff. My paper, my misfolded map which he had taken great care to fold properly, assorted brochures, etc. Elio then poured me a glass of wine and took his leave of me, returning to refill my glass with what must have exceeded the contents of my carafe and dropping off -- gratis! -- tiny plates of generally unrecognizable edibles.

That evening, dear reader, I started writing down for all the young ladies of my acquaintance some of the most frightful bilge imaginable. A young man on the cusp between high school and university, with his blood volume amplified by wine is capable of truly appalling stuff* in the quest to be (non-rockabilly) Romeo-like.

But the pleasure of feeling ink glide smoothly from a sleek fountain pen to the surface of a creamy off-white sheet has always stayed with me.

Unlike those poor girls to whom I wrote.

-J.

*That nobody struck me repeatedly about the head and neck is a small miracle.

Two-Buck Luck?

2007-08-15T19:20:00.000-04:00

In the circles in which I travel, news broke out that shook the beliefs of many to their foundations. Not news about how Jesus actually became a management consultant and died at the ripe old age of 117; not news about how the sun actually revolves around the earth, not news about UV radiation being healthy. No, more stark than that.

No, starker.

These are the news, in a nutshell: Charles Shaw Chardonnay (a.k.a. “Two Buck Chuck” in the patois of the street…although it mysteriously retails for three bucks, perhaps people are being sensitive about Mr. Shaw’s possible orientation?) won The Very Super Duper Ultra Prestigious Wine Competition, defeating wines from 873 countries, including some which cost more per bottle than three space shuttles and a lease return NASA camper van combined. ABC News posted footage of this amazing David & Goliath feat all over the Internet. Of course, they also had to get some sort of expert to clarify it for all the benighted people who don’t scan Vinapedia.net assiduously. Somehow, the expert failed to agree with the panel of judges that awarded Charles Shaw the coveted Plutonium Triple Crown of All Time Best Wine, Ever! and she said the wine was so atrocious that it was almost as bad as the wine that cost 60 times as much.

Here comes the caveat. I am not picking on any wine because it costs three bucks. I am an ardent believer in wines that give you value for money. In fact, many (most?) of the seriously food-friendly wines will weigh in at less that $20 a bottle, often less than $10-$15. The problem is that even if a wine is “spectacular for the money” there is only so much room for spectacularness in $3. So what gives?

The crucial bit left out – until now – is the answer to “Yeah…so what’s this all mean?”

I’ll tell you what it means. It means that those who place a great deal of store in what judges say are also placing a HUGE deal of store in a couple of semi-hidden, mostly nebulous variables. You read things about Wine X that says “Winner of the Platinum Medallion at the Palookaville WineFest!” and you are inwardly very impressed. You rehearse, perhaps, saying same in a casual, offhanded way to dinner guests…especially if it’s only one guest upon whom you have designs of the basest sort. You are assuming, of course, the judges at the 2007 Palookaville WineFest are all competent, intelligent, and experts/professionals in the field, at the top of their form on the day of the event. You assume the panel is substantially the same as last year’s panel.

You further assume there have been no glitches with scorecards, computing, counting, or sorting. Beyond this, you also assume that all the bottles sampled were both accurately representative of the wine and stored and served in such a way as to keep it so.

Some events are more transparent in this regard than others. The judges are announced with plenty of time, they are known quantities who themselves have credibility and expertise. Some events don’t bother or do a poor job of it. Your job is not to rely on any one award in your decision. I don’t state these things to slight these event or to impugn the judges thereat, jointly or severally. Just to say this: Don’t assume that what a group of people (about whom you likely know little to nothing) decided about a wine is an immutable fact.

The fact the 2007 Palookaville WineFest chose the Chateau Sauvage Pipi du Chevre as their number one wine doesn’t relieve you of the responsibility to weigh that against other opinions including, most importantly, your own. This entails cultivating a relationship with your wine retailer, by the way. Yes, I know they all dress in invariably unflattering “aloha” shirts and those knockoff Panama hats. You’re not there to take sartorial advice, but rather, avail yourself of their expertise. If he (or she, I don’t discriminate) gets a handle for what your tastes are, what sorts of food you enjoy, your general budget then you are in a far more advantageous position for getting wines which will please you than using any other means of oenophilic discernment yet devised.

Above and beyond this, you may look at specific wine reviewers as a secondary source of guidance. While these reviewers – myself included – all may suffer from manifold flaws, including an appalling subjectivity, they bring a consistency to the table that is useful. Don’t fixate on a wine that got 98 points from Mr. Wine Q. Reviewer, rather focus on the reviewer first. Why? Because if you find a reviewer whose tastes parallel your own, then you can use those reviews to whittle down the near-oceanic quantities of wine available into a smaller quantity from which to choose…bringing us back to Aloha Tom and his wine shop and his invaluable advice. If most of the stuff that Mr. Wine Q. Reviewer suggests tastes to you as if it had been fermented through a weasel, then snapping up one he rated at 98 only means you will have paid exorbitantly for the opportunity to drink something your tastebuds will compare unfavorably to the renal output of most burrowing mammals.

Finally. There really is no substitute for training your palate. When you taste a wine, try to “look” for things. I remember vividly the first time I tasted a wine that had a clear, unambiguous “blackberry note.” I skipped and hopped merrily until my wife threatened to have me carted off. Once you have a palate that can taste specific aspects of a wine, you’ll notice you have less and less need for wines with awards.

After all, maybe some judges think certain wines taste best when spat out.

-J.

All will be well.

2007-08-11T16:13:00.000-04:00

My bespokes from Alan Flusser will arrive shortly. The MTMs from Purple Label will follow.

You may all exhale.

-J.

Not new, but new to me.

2007-08-07T14:30:00.001-04:00

Something to seek out on my next trip to the UK:

http://www.apsleytailors.com

-J.

P.S. Sir Basil, do you know anything of this establishment?

Deluxe Cheapness

2007-08-03T13:19:00.000-04:00

If you are among the fortunates whose daily routine frequently finds you arrayed in suit and tie and also happen to be, er, frugal...I have good news.

Jos. A Bank's, an enterprise that for many years has been viewed as a Brooks Brothers manqué, has not only managed to find religion via pronouncedly upmarket offerings at suborbital prices, it has even managed to put some of these at super-duper clearance.

Uncle Joke wants you to pay particular attention to their "Signature Gold" line. Sure, the other stuff is nice, but Signature Gold is the money section. Normally this is retailed at up to $1300 and can be favorably compared to high-end off-the-rack suits weighing in around $3K, but for the next few days you can score them for $250. This means that you're getting $3K's worth of goodness for 90% off.

With the exception of reverse pleated trousers, there is really very little for even the most fastidious dresser to pick on. At $250, they are closer to free than they are to their real worth.

Oh, and shipping is free.

-J.

Boys will be boys.

2007-08-01T14:09:00.000-04:00

The estimable Mattis has written a great post on boyhood, spurred by the excellent "A Dangerous Book For Boys." I exhort you to read it.

-J.

What I've been up to.

2007-07-24T20:10:00.000-04:00

OK, my latest is up ovah at Vinapedia.net and I have been instructed to get my minions to issue proper clickage numbers.

http://blog.vinapedia.net/

-J.

P.S. I've sent in a few more pieces and these should be coming up soon, too. SO CLICK already, sheesh.

On the cheap.

2007-07-23T20:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Internet,

First, I want you to read this.

Second, pay veddy close attention to the price tag: $481K.

Third, look at the picture.Fourth, now look at this picture.

Intriguing similarities, yes?

Yes. Beyond the very similar bodywork, both are thoroughbred Italian sports cars, both came out in 1966 and both were designed by Battista Pininfarina. Both were made in limited quantities, both were meant for comfortable open-air sportiness and both were manufactured by legendary car companies with extensive pedigrees. But one runs in the half-mil range and another one will cost you $20K.

Good, class. There will be a quiz later.

-J.

P.S. The Ferrari is somewhat faster, but for $450,000 more, it bloody well ought to be.

Crazy from the heat.

2007-06-23T16:54:00.000-04:00

Summer, in this hemisphere, is officially upon us.

This means the attire, in general, is more casual and looser and lighter. It also means that, in the raiments below the equator, there is a silliness that is acceptable, seen as an expression of joyful release from the strictures of autumn and winter.

I mean, of course, the perfectly ridiculous shorts and trouserings which burst forth in harmony with the temperature. Oh, sure, there are some which are not perfectly ridiculous...in fact some are not ridiculous at all. Linen is pretty sober and seersucker -- more on this in a post or two -- only smiles benevolently at its spectators.

But we have such lives-of-the-party as Nantucket Reds and madras and "club" pants which simply beggar public notice.

The only caveat I offer along these lines are:

1- Make sure the Nantucket Reds are the real thing. Like "real" Brooks Bros. buttondowns, these cannot be faked. Approximated, sure; but not faked and not equaled.

2- Avoid "patchwork" madras. It's a bit too...too if y'know what I mean.

The idea is not only for the pants to be cooling, they must also be cool. But in a possibly goofy, self-mocking way. The tailoring may be serious, but the finished product needn't take itself that way.

It goes without saying these sorts of trousers and shorts are really the sort of sphere where the preppy markwelt really comes into play. This is the "play hard" side emerging and as such it mustn't be imbued with undue seriousness. After all, if you are somewhere where the heat and humidity are going to have such an effect on you, then you're probably not in an air-conditioned office toiling away.

Oh, one last thing. In these cases, flat-front pants & shorts are as worthy of your attention as their FORWARD pleated brethren.

...and keep it sockless.

-J.

I'm famous.

2007-05-30T14:40:00.001-04:00

http://vinapedia.net/International_Style.html

I rule,

-J.

For a limited time only

2007-05-19T08:22:00.000-04:00

The good people at Caswell-Massey are having a pretty serious "warehouse clarance sale" right now. I especially like their 1752 line's unscented shaving stuff. This is what I prefer whenever I might go traipsing about all fragranced and cologned, so as to not have any clash-of-scents happening upon me.

The prices are better than reasonable, so check it out now.

-J.

Cheating with impunity.

2007-05-18T13:26:00.000-04:00

You'll be pleased to know that my professional wardrobe is leavened with fraud.

Those who see me arrayed in said finery will say to themselves "My, Uncle Joke surely is wearing one of his stellar bespokes as he toils ceaselessly in the engine-room of capitalism." This, incidentally, is precisely the impression I wish to convey.

However, that impression is more often than not, incorrect. I cheat.

"How" I hear you moaning and whinging "could one possibly cheat in terms of one's wardrobe?" Very easily. You see, the vast majority of the time, captains of high finance such as I are not swanning about in a full suit; jacket, shirt, tie, trousers, etc. If you notice carefully, most of the time we, at the Plutocratic Captains of Finance Guild, are jacketless. What does this mean? It means that if one only dons the jacket upon emerging from one's vehicle only to doff it the picosecond one approaches one's desk and only dons it again to exit the office and walk to one's vehicle whereupon it is doffed one last time, then the majority of the time you needn't bother with a jacket.

So, if you needn't bother with a jacket X% of the time, you needn't clutter up your wardrobe with excess suitings. You can make do pretty nicely with 3-4 stellar suits, instead of the usual 10 (1-a-day x 2 weeks) suits of "merely-decent" quality.

So what do these faux-suited titans such as I do?

We buy trousers of unimpeachable quality in suiting-like fabrics, and wear them as if we had a suit and took off the jacket. Not too long ago, at a certain outpost of Mr. Lauren's, I managed to score EIGHT suiting-like trousers for an absolute pittance. Navy pinstripes, glen plaids, grey herringbones, charcoal houndstooths, etc. all for absurdly low sums. The tailoring is stellar and suit-like, with forward pleats, onseam pockets, suspender/brace buttons and the like. Even better these are cotton, so they stay cool and because I have them dry-cleaned instead of laundered, they stay looking sharp and wool-suit-like.

Your Uncle Joke is a very, very clevah lad.

-J.

Hi, society.

2007-05-06T19:58:00.001-04:00

Dear Internet,

I know what you're asking yourself as you read the manifest brilliance that is this blog: What sorts of wacky fun did Uncle Joke and TFBHM have on their first normal weekend together since 2006? Well, I'll tell ya.

As you know (or, by now, ought to) I am the social arbiter in these here fringes of Paradise and therefore it behooves me to get out and about to see what sorts of fun those who fancy themselves members of the better element are having. So, on that Friday, we went the opera to catch Samson et Dalila. The best way I can describe this succintly is to say it was a brilliant presentation of a mediocre opera. The sets were spectacular, the singers as good as can be imagined (if you can get past the less than Samson-esque build of Samson) and the orchestra (and the orchestral interludes) were undeniably brilliant. The only problem is the opera itself. I -- being an unrepentant Visigoth, apparently -- am of the opinion that French, regardless of its marvels* as a language, is simply too naso-labial for operatic expression. It just doesn't go. TFBIM, who speaks French pretty fluidly didn't catch on to the fact they were singing in French until 6 minutes into the damned thing.

So I give it a B- overall, seeing as how it didn't actually suck.

So now we move on to Saturday.

I'd been rather looking forward to Saturday, because we were scheduled to attend a benefit gala for a charity that's sort of affiliated with some of the things to which TFBIM volunteers her nonexistent free time. Last year's event was an outright smash (if you can discount the utterly forgettable "dance" music) with great food, great drink and terrific stuff up for silent auction.

This year? Not so much.

Prices for the gala were jacked up by $50, which brought them up to $275 (ouch!) per person. For this kind of coin, even if it's all going to a good cause and all that, you expect some measure of, well, swank. This is compounded when the crowd swells from last year's 500something to this year's capacity crowd of 750. You don't expect to stand in line 20 minutes to get each drink, you expect a proper dinner -- preferably something frou-frou -- not occasional appetizers on skewers passing by at random and you certainly don't expect the closest thing to dinner being @#$%ing burgers. (Memo to the organizers: sticking a tiny grape tomato on a skewer atop a burger does not make it the frou-frou edibles people expect for $275 a pop.)

The silent auction was filled with things that started at $700. People who've sunk just under six-large per couple and have spent their evening standing in line for 4 oz. of restorative fluids at a time are not likely to drop bank on original oils. This actually worked to my benefit, because there were a couple of things I got at a steal. One was a sterling silver/freshwater pearl rosary for TFBIM which I had been wanting since last year's silent auction, when it clocked in at $200. This year I got it for $70.

The real shame is that this worthy cause is now left with a bunch of donor-types who are feeling somewhat ripped off by the organizers' efforts to squeeze the last bloody penny out of the endeavor, and the result will be detrimental in the long haul. If this event tanks next year, they'll have nobody to blame but themselves, and they'll rue the day they decided to handle the greater influx of attendees by decreasing the number of bartenders (and the amount of limes, lemons, tonic water...) and eliminating all the dinner stations and the goody bags.

Not everyone will repeat the "it's for a good cause, it's for a good cause" mantra to themselves.

-J.

* Whatever those may be

Requiescat in Pace

2007-04-18T22:42:00.000-04:00

Kitty Carlisle Hart

1910-2007

Whatever happened to them?

2007-04-16T08:19:00.000-04:00

Levi's 501 jeans, I mean. The real ones. Furthemore, why do the Euro/Japan markets get the good stuff we don't and why is the good stuff $$$$$$$$$$$?

Bastids.

-J.

Fred Astaire.

2007-04-11T22:19:00.000-04:00

Whenever scribes specializing in dandyism set digit to keyboard, invariably they generate semi-turgid prose on some cravatted unfortunate who may or may not have fluttered witticisms at dinnah and/or some impecunious syphilitic Gaul who may have jotted down some impenetrable paragraphs on being a dandy.

However, to focus on these two types is equivalent of an art historian devoting his full attention to the first painter to use a paintbrush in lieu of digits or some impecunious syphilitic Gaul (now dead as a consequence of being too impoverished to lavish medical care on the crise au genitaux which vexed him) who wrote impenetrable essays on what it was like to be among the first painters to disdain the use of digits, opting instead for some pig hair on a stick.

If Beau Brummel is the James Watt of menswear, then Fred Astaire is, unarguably, its Enzo Ferrari. Many people will murmur that I am slighting the Prince of Wales/Edward VIII/Duke of Windsor in this regard. Well, maybe. But let's look at the thing more clearly. What DID Ed Windsor actually do? Popularized the glen plaid suit, paired off pretty much anything with chocolate brown suede brogues and...and...oh, yeah, that bulbuous tie knot.

The glen plaid was hardly his invention, and the chocolate brown suede brogues with EVERYTHING was an unfortunate styling tic of the 1930s, adopted not because it was revelatorily wonderful, but because it was official that the then-PoW was a trendsetter and if he showed up with these shoes in that suit, why, it must be teddibly smaht to do so. That bulbous tie knot was another fancy with less acceptance but greater longevity; not having as many initial adherents, it has taken longer to burn itself out. So, examined under the cold light of reason, Ed Windsor is hardly singular. It has been trumpeted that he was, but popular acceptance of a mythology is hardly truth, innit? After all, if he'd been Ed Windsor, heir to the largest chain of bangers & mash stands in London, he would have only been some rich guy in brown shoes and a tie knot that looked more like a silk fist throttling him than anything else.

Yes, he did open up men's eyes to the possibilities of menswear and gave "cover" to Apparel Arts and Esquire to cover the subject. He was also alegged to have been an Axis sympathizer; and there is no argument he abdicated the throne in order to -- get this -- marry Wallis Warfield Simpson. Given his free choice of helpmeet, one wonders at his judgment choice in tie knots and footwear.

Others may point out to Cary Grant as the original modern emblem of sophisticated menswear. Certainly a far stronger case could be made for him. After all, he married women whom one could tell were attractive -- several, in fact, as if to underscore the point -- and gave up nothing in the process, and he was English. He was also fastidious in his choice of apparel and was pretty much the only menswear icon to be unarguably handsome. But his sense of style was subtle, perhaps too subtle. He played with proportions, but his world was pretty monochromatic. This all served to minimize his (few) weaknesses and highlight his (manifold) strengths. Given that his weaknesses were few and his strenghts manifold, this doesn't leave much room for improvisation. However, I shan't quibble with you if your personal sartorial lodestar is Cary Grant.

This really leaves only Fred Astaire as the guy who took style and became an auteur. As the blurb in G. Bruce Boyer's very highly recommended tome Fred Astaire Style says, after the advent of Fred Astaire: "Nonchalance, natural charm and effortlessness would now replace the pomp and circumstance of men’s style that preceded it."

When you think about, say, Beau Brummel, your mind may wander back to episodes such as his taking hours to tie his cravatte, trying over and over again until he got the desired effect. This, people, ain't style. It's OCD. Fred Astaire had better things to do with his neckwear than tie it eleventy gazillion times...he wrapped it around his waist as a belt. It is a testament to his style that this was clearly admired but, while somewhat emulated, never became the fad that brown suede shoes would be.

In the popular imagination Fred Astaire is a guy in white or black tie. He is probably the first person who springs to mind when you say "white tie and tails." But he didn't wander around in formal raiments at all hours. He wore suits and sports jackets and odd trousers. He was able to harmonize stripes and plaids and dots, making them work. People didn't think that was "just the way Fred Astaire" dressed, they realized this looked good and also realized it wasn't easy to have come up with this look that, er, looked so good.

Like Cary Grant, Fred Astaire was very choosy about his apparel. Probably more so, since he had, um, less raw material to work with than Grant and was primarily a dancer. That is, his clothes didn't just have to look good on a handsome man standing still on his mark, they had to look good on a short, skinny guy with a funny hairline and a pointy face who jumped and twirled and stomped around a lot of the time. He was a loyal client of Anderson & Sheppard of Savile Row and would take dance steps during the fittings, to see where the collar or sleeve would wind up. And you thought you were quite the rake for getting a jacket cut to within 1/4".

One of my fave pictures of Fred Astaire underscores for me his exacting attitude about clothes, his "dandy street cred" if you will: He is in a dressing room, tying his tie and you can see his shirt's monogram. On his elbow. The pleasure of having "FA" wasn't in having it where people could see it -- only a rube puts a monogram on his shirt cuff -- because people already know who he was, but in having a manogram and only he knew he had one.

This, coupled with an elegance conjoined with peerless nonchalance, made him the real starting point for the modern man of apparel.

-J.

What I'm loving.

2007-04-10T07:57:00.000-04:00

A while back, my eye was arrested by the Sperry Top Sider Gold Medal collection. It was as if the TopSider had leapt up to a higher, better version of itself.

I nodded approvingly.

Now, while on a retail reconnaissance a few days back, I saw that the Spring (?) stuff was coming in and displacing the Winter (?) stuff, placing the latter in the perilous position of being what I consider a steal. Thus tempted, I succumbed, thinking in warped terms of the money I hadn't spent thereby assuaging my conscience.

Mind you, I haven't taken The Oath (or whatever the Hell it's called) of not buying anything new, or anything along the lines. My own philosophy is to buy the very best that I can afford (usually if the very best is priced somewhere along the bargain-to-a-steal spectrum) and if I have enough of something, to make room by giving away the excess. There are men who consider themselves dandies who have closets larger than their bedrooms.

When your stuff lives better than you, that's when you realize you need a mental health professional to sit on your head while your beloved takes the poultry shears to your plastic.

Anyway.

These shoes are great. They are regularly available in assorted widths, which is a huge plus for me, because most of the time I can't wear loafers given that an "E" foot in a "D" shoe (even if you size up) causes the sides to bow and gap in an unsightly way. So that was great right there. They are also very well made and the deerskin inside is very comfortable when talcum is your only sock.

However, what deserves a special mention, in my estimation, is the styling. It manages to straddle the boundary between dressy and casual in a way that is rarely seen. Usually something is "dressed up" or "dressed down" depending on the context. (Think of jeans with a navy blazer, for example.) However, in this case, there are touches properly belonging on dress shoe (the shaping of the vamp, say) and properly belonging on a casual shoe (the eyelets along the perimeter, for example).

With a wink and a nudge towards its more relaxed nautical brethren, this shoe manages to set off, for instance, chinos in Sea Island cotton or maybe nicely tailored linen trousers. It does so in a way that would be clumsy in a "straight" dress shoe and unsuccessful in a casual shoe. This line merits your consideration.

Especially on sale.

-J.

Things I miss.

2007-04-08T23:59:00.000-04:00

Of course, if I loved it, it stands to reason it couldn't possibly last. This magazine lasted about 10 years (ca. 1982-1992) and, natch, is deeply missed.

-J.

And now for something completely different?

2007-04-07T02:12:00.000-04:00

Did you miss me?

No matter.

Uncle Joke is back and come to address something that the more innocent and less nuanced among you will scarcely credit. That is, I do not spend every waking moment arrayed in bespoke finery. No, really. Now, just because I don't doesn't mean that on those occasions I dress like a blindfolded toddler on peyote in Robin Williams' closet. Nononono.

One of my current fixations for casual wear is the Nat Nast silk camp shirt. While there are several general sorts of style produced, I'm a particular fan of two: The "Block" shirt and the embroidered shirt.

It's a fun "retro" rockabilly sort of aura these shirts project. The workmanship is excellent and the shirts supremely comfortable. The block shirt is more directly retro. It has stripes of varying breadths -- ranging from very wide to extremely wide -- in complementary colors. The embroidered number is more (sorry) whimsical, and gets the greatest attention.

Invariably the latter style is a limited edition, and there is a tag on the interior placket describing, in brief, the "back story" of the shirt. It could range from the history of a cocktail, different places in the USA to surf, or SHAG-like stylized silhouettes of martini glasses.

It's ideal weekend wear for doing very little beyond loitering over interesting cocktails with friends.

And just think how much more you'll appreciate the bespokes when you return to them, refreshed and with renewed ardor.

-J.

Stop the insanity!

2007-03-31T03:29:00.000-04:00

Now, about cufflinks.

I've said it before and I'll say it until I'm blue* in the face: One needn't drop major bank on menswear and accessories in order to be well and civilizedly arrayed. An example would be the silk knot cufflink set. A pair might set you back $10 if you go all out and splurge ($25 if you get a stud/link set and splurge.) and often just half that, even at retail. You can find them here and here.

This ought prove once and for all that one is capable of cutting a dandy figure for a piddling sum. So we'll hear no more drivel along these lines, yes? Good.

Now, setting aside the problem of cufflinks of inherently tasteless design (I'll leave it to your lurid imagination what these might be like) and inferior materials, the one cardinal sin, linkwise, is the swivel-back or T-bar cufflink.

It is always and everywhere, invariably, inexcusably wrong. It is beyond redemption. It is what men with notch lapelled eveningwear use. In fact, there are few graver sins. This isn't a function of cost, because many of these are eyewateringly pricy. Right there, lads, Uncle Joke has saved you much coin. You're welcome.

Quite acceptable, of course are the cufflinks with some other sort of back, be it a solid sphere or disk. It doesn't look unfinished as does the infinitely more lumpenprole swively monstrosity above, and has some measure of visual interest for when the inside of your cuff is visible.

These are acceptable but not ideal.

What, Uncle Joke, is the ideal?

The double-back cufflink, kids, that's what. The link part could be a solid bar o' metal or a chain, and the inner face could also be a smaller variant of the outer face (as would likely be the case with metal "knot" cufflinks) but the symmetry thing is everpresent and speaks highly of the wearer's polished sense of style. The matter of design is fairly open, but I'd avoid anything too busy or bejeweled. Particularly natty are the plain gold or silver with a shallow monogram or signet, moreso if paired with plain disk studs for a formalwear situation. In general, these are not horrifyingly expensive either, although they can be if you go in for platinum, which has the added cultural component of being expensive but only you know the true cost. (Like sterling collar stays.)

There. Better?

-J.

*Thus flattering the new navy Purple Label blazer I had run up.

Stopped clocks, etc.

2007-03-28T22:42:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I socked it to Esquire. Today I come not to bury Esky, but to praise him.

In their $5000 wardrobe series they finally nailed something. The best $155 shirt. As I mentioned before, I am of the opinion Charles Tyrwhitt shirts are the best value going. All they lack is a gauntlet button, but that is just a couple of bucks away at any half-awake tailor.

Now, the thing is that one needn't plunk major coin on these shirts. CT has seasonal clearance sales (not like Jos. A. Bank, which has a sale a week) and you can score Sea Island cotton-or-better shirts for well less than half (the Sea Island cotton shirt above is on sale for only $55 and Super 180s can be had for $75) what they charged Esquire.

The fabric (even the "base" pinpoints and broadcloths) is cool and comfortably crisp, the workmanship excellent and the design dead-on (I can tell because the collar meets in a perfect /\, not the more proletarian / \ not that you can tell in the photo.)

Their neckties -- again if bought off the clearance section -- are also a steal.

Kudos, Esquire...now try to stay on the straight and narrow.

-J.

Setting the record straight. [sigh] Again.

2007-03-27T12:37:00.000-04:00

The good folk ovah at Esquire magazine have been running a series on the best wardrobe for (the very reasonable sum of) $5000.

As you might suspect of the prestige media, things don't quite square with reality. The most recent installment deals with the blazer. Now, I'm just old enough to remember the series Esquire ran in the early 1980s, penned by John Berendt. Yeah, THAT John Berendt. In that series was an excellent brief little something (I have a feeling JB suffered from draconian excisions to his output, with which I am in position to commiserate) on the blazer.

At any rate, the brief (and I mean brief) snippet currently up has this photo and says:

A wardrobe requires only two blazers. The navy two-button blazer is the most functional -- it can be dressed up with a tie or down with jeans. The lightweight tweed works for the weekend or any event at which there's a chance of having a conversation bout the cinematography of Wim Wenders. Keep in mind that each of these sport coats, like any suit jacket, should be impeccably tailored. Gray two-button wool jacket ($305) by Luigi Bianchi Mantova; blue two-button wool jacket ($550) by DKNY.

Now. First of all, there is the egregious conflating of "blazer" with "sports coat" or "sports jacket." You expect to see this sort of drivel on eBay auctions for Polo University Club jackets, not at such a once-mighty paragon of male apparel.

Second, the navy blazer chosen has a negative sort of synergy going on. It's single-breasted, and peak lapelled and has a ticket pocket; it is precisely the sort of garment which would cause my late accounting professor to exclaim: "Oy, it it busy here!" Because it is. These flourishes, which can stand up better in the overall monochrome monolith of a suit (i.e. there is a much better ratio of flourishes to sq. yd. of a given color) really are over the top with khakis or grey flannels. Even a double breasted variant would allow these features to be sufficiently diluted. Close your eyes and imagine it.

See?

The calling card of the blazer is its dressy flexibility. Furthermore, a blazer has some sort of distinguishing button thing going on. They needn't be monogrammed gilt beauties handed down from some illustrious ancestor -- they could be bone, for example -- but they must stand in some happy contrast. A navy jacket with navy buttons looks as though one had a navy suit once and ruined the trousers.

The grey jacket in the picture is more problematic. If one stretches the point, a grey blazer is a possibility. Maybe even a stylish possibility. But this would entail the fabric being a rich, dark charcoal with, say, matte sterling buttonry. The weave would ideally be a flannel but a micro-herringbone could also work well. Otherwise you wind up with what looks like (all together now!) as though one had a grey suit once and ruined the trousers.

The article is correct in asserting the importance of having whatever garment be impeccably tailored. Now, what seems likelier to afford you that opportunity? Some flavor-of-the-month garment or something a bit more timeless and classical?

Exactly.

-J.

P.S. Remember believe none of what you hear and only half of what you read.

Have the bugler start warming up to play Taps.

2007-03-26T13:34:00.000-04:00

Dammit.

Those of you who have been with me since the early days of my ceaseless efforts to bring civilized tastefulness and pleasant geniality to the world, will recall I had at one point touted the manifold wonders of Drinks Magazine.

The thrill is gone, baby.

I just got the most recent issue in my never-to-be-renewed subscription, and it's the latest in a series of ratcheting disappointments. I am, by nature a very conservative guy. If I like X, I want it to stay X. If I had wanted Y, dammit, I'd've gone looking for it.

Anyway. This magazine, as with all magazines which I love has devolved in an impressively rapid spiral. It used to be a magazine of impressive heft and content. It has now, in the throes of a prostitutive senescence, dwindled to a mere 35 pages from its more impressive 100something, perfect-bound purity of just a year ago. The paper is flimsier and less glossy, and the page could is barely half what it was 6 months ago, when the editorial rot had managed to set in. To add imprecative insult to grievous injury, it's now ~~shilling~~ passing as the house organ of a wine and cheese shop in Minnesota.

Other than the winters which recall the 1970s' scare du jour (global cooling, for the new kids) and the distressing lack of oceanfront property there is nothing wrong with Minnesota. many people live there and, except for being infested with fluffy-tailed tree rats squirrels, I have yet to hear complaints or mentioning of duress as a reason for convincing new residents to leave New York in favor of Minneapolis. But -- and follow me closely here -- I do not live in Minnesota. Rather, I live 82 states away from Minnesota. I live as far from Minnesota as is possible to reside and still dwell within one of the United States.

Yet chunks of the clumsily directed content has to do with all the great events and specials and sales and other bucolic endeavors at the XYZ Wine and Cheese Shop in Moose Teat, MN. A charming locale where, it bears repeating, I am not (nor am I likely to be) among the residents improbable as that may seem to the good people at XYZ Wine and Cheese, who doubtlessly ~~frittered away a huge chunk of their marketing budget~~ spent good money to get my name and that of my fellows appended to ~~walking the streets~~ the promotional-cooperative thing the magazine has been reduced to doing for pocket change.

You will also be shocked -- shocked, I tell you -- to know there has been no (zip, zilch, nada, zero) explanation for this impressive downmarket drift which began, if memory serves, around August 2006. Almost all of the columnists which gave the magazine it's editorial vibrancy have long since fled to greener pastures. Or maybe just for the tall grass. Anthony Dias Blue and the very estimable David Wondrich are the only recognizable "names." Wondrich has been reduced to a mere half page. This means the poor bastard cranks out two pages a year.

So, why this magazine has been co-opted by a particularly vulgar strain of commercialism is beyond me. I don't mind commercialism, vulgar or otherwise, I do mind being conscripted in showering my pennies thereon. It's like going to sleep with Bo Derek and waking up with Bo Diddley.

But not to take this vile abuse ~~lying down~~ uh ~~laying down~~ flat on my back, I will do something about it, and the repercussions of my choosing to stand up and strike a few impassioned blows on behalf of civilization will reverberate, even unto the walls of the prefabricated corporate offices of the XYZ Wine and Cheese Shop in Moose Teat, MN.

-J.

The pleat thing. (Photos to ensue.)

2007-03-25T10:46:00.000-04:00

There is one thing in the matter of apparel for the civilized man which often gets overlooked. The humble trouser pleat.

In trousers, especially suit trousers or dressier "odd" trousers (we'll set aside the issue of chinos and their cousins), the matter of pleats is of prime importance. The main reason is that pleats supply a much needed "give" in the frontal hip area. But which pleats? There is only one answer: forward pleats.

Reverse pleats, as testified by their depressing ubiquity, are the cheaper option, not the preferable one. You will invariably find these pleats in the upper slopes of Mt. Menswear. Alan Flusser, Purple Label and all of Savile Row (as well as their acolytes and fellow travelers throughout the Happy and Magical Land of Sartoria) all construct the trouserings thus. Why?

Because forward pleats counter the movement of the leg better, can be made deeper (requiring more of that expensive fabric) and elongate the crease of the trouser. Reverse pleats, offer the precise opposite AND also make you look rather broad abeam. If you are 6'7" and about 145 lb., perhaps you might consider this desirable, but with the possible exception of the pituitarily gifted, no man really should give these a thought.

Flat-front trousers, whatever their glorious attributes in the matter of chinos, etc. simply do not provide any fluidity of movement to the leg. Recently (Nov.-Dec. 2006?) the menswear buyer for Neiman-Marcus was touting the wonders of cuffless, plain front suit trousers. Which are fine if you want to affect a snappy midcentury swingin' hipster vibe, but under no other condition ought these be considered by any man with a civilized sartorial sense of self. Any expert touting such excresences is really out to validate the gazillion units purchased by the parent retailer and, as such, is considering all of your individual requirements, such as the length, width and drap of his year-end bonus.

It's the apparel equivalent to the nehru jacket or Rage Aganist The Machine: a pitiful, aberrant, future footnote. No need to disburse funds in that direction.

I trust I have made myself clear.

-J.

Curiosity.

2007-03-23T13:54:00.000-04:00

If you want to know what happened -- and if you haven't the foggiest about what I am discussing, the you most certainly don't -- feel free to contact me privately.

-J.

The Emperor's Newest Set of Clothes

2007-03-21T10:15:00.000-04:00

It has been said -- and I snottily add "not unreasonably so" -- that an intellectual is defined as a person educated well above his or her intelligence.

Within that body of persons, many (well, several) have taken it to dissect the "dandy" in order to come up with...well, I am not entirely sure with what. It takes all my willpower to read these treatises and not slump into a life-threatening narcoleptic episode.

Setting aside the obvious question of why anybody would want to perform said dissection nor what there is to be gained by it, it's interesting and, if you're of a mind like mine, amusing to traipse trippingly through the treatises, noting and gathering terms which certainly have been overlaid upon reality by academia.
One such treatise recently brought to my considerable attention was this one. To be perfectly honest, I don't view these sorts of theses maliciously. I view them in a similar light to a four year old's explanation of whence babies come: unwittingly amusing and with the barest resemblance to reality.

In reading these, the circuit-breaker in my brain is the word "semiotics" or derivations thereof. If I see the word crop up in a serious tone, I know I am in for an interlude of jollity and mirth even if it will take some effort to consider the usually ponderously impenetrable prose. In fact, the sooner the word "semiotics" makes its grand entrance, the more delight I am likely to derive from the author's output. If it appears, brazenly, in the title...why, I may need powerful orthodontic machinery to excise my smile.

The work in question by the improbably christened Olga Vainshte.in, is among these sorts of published items. There are many, within the broad spectrum of civilizedly arrayed men, who look upon these sorts of things with some degree of seriousness. They will scour the text and look for flaws -- real and imagined -- and seek to prove or disprove some point or other. This is, clearly, equivalent to being present at a real-life version of the Emperor's New Clothes and discussing whether that line below the small of the back is, in fact, a vent.

At the core, is an unfortunate attempt to dismantle an ostensible archetype and see what makes it tick, almost implicitly to see if it's reproducible. Much like gathering up X amount of water, carbon, iron, calcium and trying to construct a human therewith. The synergy of all the constituent parts is so great, that merely examining them dooms the whole enterprise to failure.
Let's then, look carefully at one such enterprise.

It starts, as often these things do, with a mostly nebulous quote by a long-dead Gallic expert on the matter. Almost always it's Baudelaire, since opium-addled syphilis is generally seen by all experts on the subj. as being precisely the sort of thing to lend one's writing veracity, gayety, je ne sais quoi and "snap." After all, when one sees a beloved segment of anatomy remain behind upon exiting an opium den, it cannot but propel one to write things such as:

"Dandyism resembles the setting sun: like the dying luminary, it is magnificent, devoid of warmth, and full of melancholy."

Ironically enough, this not only applies to dandyism, but also to what remained of Baudelaire's prepuce at the time.

At any rate, Vains.htein gets off the mark in very impressive form:

"[Dandyism] can be manifested in a person’s overall appearance, and in the ability to furnish a home, and in deliberate camp manoeuvres, and in the art of the complete makeover, although for the majority the most stable criterion traditionally remains the way one dresses. This was the dominant approach in the twentieth century, which made clothing the principal source of semiotic information. It is probably better to begin not by extrapolating from individuals, but by taking a close look at the ranks of the pretenders."

You will note that she uses "semiotic" right at the start (this quote is from the 2nd paragraph), promising us an interesting ride, beckoning us to ponder the drape and hand of the emperor's new apparel. No half-measures here. Of course, she threatened to get the point right and we all collectively held our breath, exhaling in relief when "semiotic" rode to the rescue and slew the dragon, or what may have been either a dragon or an extremely intemperate lizard.

With such a start, a gallop's pace cannot be too far behind. And, at such a pace, getting thrown off the saddle and into culverts, ravines and/or ditches for our delight cannot lag far behind.

"For a long time in England Quentin Crisp (1908-1999) was considered the number one dandy. Aesthete, writer, and journalist, he was incredibly popular, and there is a wax figure of him at Madame Tussaud’s."

Note, gentle reader, the descriptors of the late Mr. Crisp do not include the previously stated "the most stable criterion traditionally remains the way one dresses." Which is yet another of the unfortunate instances of conflating aesthetes with dandies. After all, one sees tomes upon tomes, article after article on such personages as the Prince of Wales/Edward VIII/Duke o' Windsor, Fred Astaire, Cary Grant or Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. precisely because "the most stable criterion traditionally remains the way one dresses." This is also why one is not likely to run across tomes such as Quentin Crisp Style, the marketability of violet hair being far more limited than is supposed by those whose life aspirations include the words "semiotics," "tenure" and "sherry." The number of sentient humans -- Dame Edna impersonators aside -- who could benefit from such an ouvre are as close to zero as time spent working it out via assymptotical mathematics will allow.

Unfortunately, whenever you read such an opening salvo you know the rollercoaster is about to propel you. Vainshte.in, having enjoyed the stretching of the definition, finds the experience both exhilirating and addictive, like a sorority pledge would a bottle butterscotch schnapps. This leads to a fusillade (or binge, if you prefer your pettiness judgmental) of distorted statements based on the originally mangled definition. Catch hold of this breathless gem:

"Based on the very approximate criterion [!] of cool, dandies of recent decades would include people of such disparate styles as the photographer Cecil Beaton, the dramatist Noel Coward, the writer Tom Wolfe, the musician Eric Clapton, Prince Charles, the singer Ann Lennox, David Bowie… the list goes on and on."

Contrast the above with this:

"Based on the very approximate criterion of steering wheels, sports cars of recent decades would include automobiles of such disparate styles as the German VW, the Serbo-Croatian Yugo, the Italian Lancia, the American Mustang, Ferrari, the Swedish Volvo, Porsche… the list goes on and on."

This, of course, is the siren song leading us down the path that, at its inevitable end, stops at the cliff's edge of "dandy means just what you say it means." Many poor deluded bastards, enchanted by the sing-song message keep skipping and hopping as the road falls away and wind up in the briny deep, bobbing up wearing Dress Campbell suitings and vermilion footwear, possibly a lady's vintage purse for a hat.

She continues:

"Contemporary dandies, if they are seriously to claim the title, need above all to recognize that genuine dandyism is a lifestyle. The dandy is a master at completely shaping his own life. Appreciation of this shape, however, requires a mature society; for otherwise its aesthetic potential will not be interpreted adequately."

It is here the academically popular fallacy begins to twinkle in the moonlight. I cannot imagine any dandy, nor anyone save the basest pretender to such a label, wanting to "seriously claim the title." Put another way, a real dandy is someone who is who he is, not someone who woke up one morning and decided to start an exciting career in the burgeoning field of danditry. Say what you will about dandies, the truest and best examples of the breed are refreshingly unconcerned with ticking categories in some scorecard.

Further illustration that Vainshte.in is off and running in an uncertain direction over difficult terrain is the endearingly haute naive claim that "Appreciation of [the shape a dandy has given his life], however, requires a mature society; for otherwise its aesthetic potential will not be interpreted adequately."

This of course, is the dirty little secret of the members of the Guild. All of them, to a man, pretend to flit from tailor to cobbler. They act as if the most important task is to find a new crepe wool for a suit, or a better last for the footwear. In fact, they are all quivering inwardly, worried this society might not be mature enough. Petrified the aesthetic potential of their lives will not be interpreted adequately, if at all. You can just imagine the market in self-help literature for dandies, actual and potential. How To Have The Aesthetic Potential of Your Self-Shaped Life Intepreted Adequately And Influence People by Quentin Crisp, Jr. smells of NYT bestsellerness and is accompanied by the sounds of shekels and ducats raining down gratefully from relieved dandies.

That Robbins guy (not Harold, the other one) could don a pocket square and slightly less flourescent dental veneers and hold seminars and sell audiobooks that prove helpful and lucrative on the topic of Awakening The Purple Coiffed Master Aesthetic Life Shaper Within!

In the interest of frisson, to tease and tantalize, we are treated to this:

"In the nineteenth century dandyism originally implied a kind of leisure; the dandy, after all, embodies idle elegance. Most dandies, therefore, were aristocrats and wealthy gentlemen or representatives of the artistic professions. As it evolved in the nineteenth century, the dandy’s lifestyle demanded constant training in the art of spending free time. The dandy’s code of behaviour was difficult but absolutely mandatory, prescribing cold politeness and outbursts of irony, imperturbability – nil admirari: be surprised at nothing, – the art of frustrating expectations and instantly creating an impression, measured épatage, leisureliness as a style of strolling, dancing, and dressing."

Perilously skirting a correct impression and flirting dangerously with reality, Vainshte.in, pirouettes gracefully around the main criteria scholars are convinced True Dandies must satisfy always and everywhere: Slinging around words and phrases in French. A little Latin is nice, but as the canon is curiously absent of Romans discussing witty aesthetes saying clever things from under a mop of heliotrope tresses, Latin only serves to denote a half-decent education. French is the thing, which proves convenient for overanalytical Gauls, who needn't take time out from inhaling opium vapors with the remainder of their nostril, seeing as how they have been speaking the language with noted fluidity.

Peppering one's floridly vague observations with naso-labially guttural phrases is practically the equivalent of one's Social Security number in dandy circles. Say something in Italian or, Beau forbid, German -- schadenfreude excepted -- and you might as well steep some vile part of your physiognomy in the Duchess' finger bowl between the fish and the sorbet courses.

Of course, there must be more to the whole dandy thing than possibly, maybe, perhaps dressing well and being witty and having amethyst locks which you toss as you, er, toss off a "preux chevalier."

Continues Vainshte.in:

"The ideology of the dandyist make-over is based on a very essential principle of nineteenth-century dandyism, namely complete chameleonism. The chameleonic dandy transforms his life into a self-fashioning workshop, designing not only his outer appearance and roles, but also his scenarios, situations, and material surroundings. The dandy’s chameleonic transformations are implemented through the principle of artificiality that is so characteristic of European decadence."

We're talking, basically, of a self-imposed and ceaselessly operating Zelig effect. How this squares with the previously stated quality of "idle elegance" will take far more porphyrious heads than mine to ascertain. It's not so much the artificiality -- and this is the point where the True Believers drag out Wilde and one of his glib remarks as some sort of irrefutable, scientific, academic-journal, peer-reviewed proof -- but the sheer unrewarded effort of it all that staggers the mind. To behave as if one were a certain sort of man, when one isn't and isn't likely of becoming, is patently absurd. It's like wearing uncomfortable and disliked undergarments when nobody is around.

Unless this is the dandiacal equivalent of mortifying the flesh (as undandy a concept as can be imagined) the whole argument collapses like a syphilitic Gaul overdosing on opium.

In order to save Blogspot some bandwidth, I'll skip to the end of the piece:

"So where are these modern-day dandies?, the weary reader is entitled to ask here toward the end. As we can see, in reality it is not so simple to find genuine dandies. Yet in virtual space, where there are far more opportunities for constructing an image of one’s own, the task is feasible. Partisans of both the theory and the practice of dandyism can easily find kindred spirits on the net, for there are quite a few sites which endlessly refine definitions, analyze canonical texts, and discuss the latest novelties of style."

Translation: "Lots of people can fake being a dandy on the Internet, much like lots of people can fake being a beautiful 22 year old nymphomaniac. You can find lots of people on the Internet who dressed like Adam Ant when they were, like you, confused loners in suburbia back in the mid 1980s. When you find them, you can all have a splendid time molding the definition of 'dandy' to cover wearing 20 year old Mani by Armani suits, spats, celluloid dickeys and pomegranate ascots. Then they all talk about how crimson brocade gambler's vests and a belt of field mice is what Beau Brummel would have worn had he been prescient enough. You mention detachable-collar envy. The End."

What I find most telling is that for all the perambulations, dissection, research, entreaties and effort, a scholarly exercise into the nature and causes of the dandy invariably (and I mean invariably) manages to miss the point in such a spectacular way as to be breathtaking. It is akin to gazing levelly at a giraffe and labeling it a middle-aged Filipino lesbian with rheumatism.

Most, if not all, of the men that we hold to be dandies would have just blinked dumbly had you read this to them and expected it to resonate within their bosom.

Much like they would politely decline to don the Emperor's New Clothes.

-J.

Why?

2007-03-20T10:51:00.000-04:00

Someone recently posed this question to me.

Why? Why make something of an effort in the selection of your raiments?

This is one of those questions that are like a patch of quicksand. They seem but a step and a hop to cross but, actually, will leave you mired and sinking fast.

But, being the sort of romantic sort I am at heart, I'll take a crack at it anyway.

There are various reasons "why." None, perhaps, strong enough on their own to prompt me towards arraying the outer man in a civilized way, but in aggregate they prove to be a juggernaut of reasonableness.

1- The Bible. It say it, like, right there, that man was created in God's own image. Therefore, this compels me as a man of sound theology to not put Von Dutch or Gaultier or Versace upon something created in the image of the Almighty, because the clash will bring about the Apocalypse and there are a few things I'd like to wrap up prior to that. Because of my view of man in terms of Creation, it seems sound and logical to dress in a manner congruent therewith.

2- Respect. It helps to have a respect for the people you'll see and places you'll go. I recall an interview with legendary coachbuilder Sergio Pininfarina. He said that his firm designed automobiles (Alfa Romeos, Lancias, Ferraris, etc.) not only to be pleasing to the car owners, but also to provide beauty to those who would see these on the street. I'll go with that.

3- Enlightened self-interest. It puts Mrs. Joke in a more amenable frame of mind (i.e. it reminds her why she thought, at one point in her dim past, that being married to me would be a viable proposition). It also gives people with whom I associate (professionally, socially) the idea I just might know what the Hell I'm talking about. Which I do, it's just that sometimes the human race needs some prodding to realize this.

4- Mental agility. It takes exactly zero effort to throw on clothes. It takes a good deal more to do so with flair and wit and in accordance to the circumstances. (Dressing well is more than wearing excellent suitings.) Where's the challenge in merely donning the minimum required by an implicit/explicit dress code?

5- The Secret Code. Every once in a while you will run into someone who is a fellow traveler. You will, invariably, realize that you have infinitely more in common than just trousers cut to within 1/8" or an uncanny ability to create a sophisticated relationship between your pocket square and your silk knot cufflinks. Anyone capable of such feats also knows wines, cars, pens, cigars and what an abysmal waste of time critical theory is.

6- Courage. Most men out there think pocket squares, or double breasted jackets or suspenders/braces are "stupid." Many of those who don't, shy away from donning them out of fear of looking out of place or different. It is a good thing to properly* exercise and flex your individuality/independence muscles.

There you have it.

-J.

* Tartan suits needn't apply.

A little shopping is a good thing.

2007-03-01T07:53:00.000-05:00

A couple of weekends ago, I took the lads up to Boston for a pleasant and instructive couple of days.

Sure, we saw all the usual things: Freedom Trail, North End, USS Constitution, etc. I mean, yes, of course, that was all very nice. (Ridiculously cold, as well, as noted by the frozen sheet of newsprint.)

But there are far more important things than statues, buildings and musea. There are destinations, pilgrimages, even. And one such pilgrimage was to the only Stateside outpost of Aquascutum.

The fact Aquascutum has an outlet here and, quite pointedly in my opinion, not in NYC, Chicago or L.A., speaks to the quiet Anglophilia of the city. Which suited me fine.

Naturally, a civilized man cannot step into such an inner sanctum without making some sacrificial offering from his wallet. Purely for the edification of his lads, of course.

The first, and most important, part of this educational process is vital: Score something for the maternal unit, as insulation against any reproaches as re. extravagance. Very, very important.

What first arrested my attention was a tote bag sort of purse thing in a very tactile-ecstasy sort of black leather with the Aquascutum house check lining.

However, I realized I was about to do some damage to the household account and therefore a stronger palliative was required. The ideal thing suggested itself in the form of a red merino/cashmere (there may be some angora therein, I haven't the time or inclination to separate the sheep from goats) coat, cut and styled like one of the very famous Aquascutum trenchcoats.

Which reminded me, that I ought get myself a trenchcoat. None of the typical tan/beige stuff. Something with a bit more, Oh-I-Dunno, intrigue thereto.

So this black beauty leapt at me. At first I was worried about the fabric content (I am somewhat legendary for my disdain of artificial fibers) but then I saw it was--whoa!--silk. You'd think a silk trenchcoat would be the hallmark of an International Man of Pimpitude...to say nothing of UNwaterproof, but you'd be wrong on both counts.

Speaking of hallmarks, I wanted to round things out with some quiet sterling silver stuff. The collar stiffeners suit my sense of, we, something. The idea of having something of luxury that is thoroughly hidden to all and sundry just appeals to me...probably for the same perverse reasons that I enjoy having my monograms placed in very hidden places.

And, because the staff had been very tolerant of both my clumsy photography (on evidence here) and my children--whose enthusiasm was flagging badly, quite possibly as a direct consequence of my total lack of photographic skill-- I decided on a pair of cufflinks to round out the afternoon. Simple, classic and double-sided. (The less said of swivel-y cufflinks, the better.)

And there you have it.

-J.

Style on wheels.

2007-02-19T11:26:00.000-05:00

Those who know me best are often ~~subjected~~ treated to my views on automobiles. The way I look at it, my automobiles are, in a sense, an extension of my wardrobe. Given that I suffer from a pathological classicism, sartorially speaking, it oughtn't come as any surprise that I extend that pathology to automobiles.

To me, that means that an automobile must fulfill "the beauty function" perfectly before I consider its other attributes. Said another way, if a car is not beautiful, I don't care how wonderful it may be otherwise. Fast, economical, safe, etc. mean nothing to me if the car isn't attractive. This leaves off my list the overwhelming majority of electromobiles, SUVs, vand/minivans/pickups, hybrids and microcars. In fact, it leaves off most cars; certainly most cars designed in the last decade or so.

It does, however, focus light on certain machines. Generally these are sporting vehicles. Some are American, some Japanese, a goodly number of them German or British...but mostly Italian. Let's be honest. With the carrozzerie system -- the automotive equivalent to Savile Row -- the Italians have cornered the market on automotive elegance. Not that all things Italian are invariably beautiful, but the odds that one of the beautifuls would emerge from Italy are ridiculously high.

Naturally, when the discussion turns to beautiful automobiles from Italy, one's mind races into the gigabuck territory of exotics. Which is both good and bad. Good if you own one of these Italian gems, because you'll see a mighty halo effect. Bad because it puts many of the lesser-informed off of these cars. The fact is that for Camry coin, you could be driving something far more elegant (and more enjoyable). Of course, this means you have to do some research. But do you also go to the nearest tailor and ask for a suit? No, you look into things, you discuss, you amass a body of knowledge and then you proceed.

Same here.

The fact is that regardless of budget, you can have an elegant mode of transport. For example, a 1972-74 Alfa Romeo Spider is 90% of the goodness of the pricy and rarefied "Duetto" at 30% of the price. A fully restored example ma-a-a-a-aybe will set you back US$12K, assuming the restorer was meticulous and the materials (Connolly leather, Wilton carpeting) were the finest available. That your car gets parked up front with the gigabuck exotics (ask me how I know) by the valet guys is a bonus. As is excellent mileage and all the driving fun your system can endure.

There are myriad options beyond Alfa Romeos; such Dinos (a Ferrari/Fiat joint venture with typically Italian twists) and Lancias. If your heart leans in more Teutonic or Anglo-Saxon directions there are MBs, Jaguars, BMWs, Triumphs and Porsches available for your taste and budget.

Do not give up.

-J.

Self-examination.

2007-02-15T12:35:00.000-05:00

I cannot say that I'm one of those guys who spends his time seeking out the consensus of the moment on matters of civilized men's apparel. (Or any thing else for that matter, but stay with me.)

However, this thread was brought to my attention and several things struck me in that "it's funny because it's true" sort of way, even if they aren't exactly, y'know, hilarious or anything.

Still, some ring true and, therefore, I share them with you:

You might be a dandy when...

...you have more shoes than your signifacant [sic] other!
...you favor a particular last at Edward Green
...you have more than one book from either Alan Flusser or G. Bruce Boyer
...you cross potential employers off your list if the interviewer lacks pocket linen
...you can tell the difference between a fused jacket and a canvassed [sic] jacket
...you snicker when people talk about Prada, Gucci, Kenneth Cole as quality clothes [I'd add Armani to this list.]
...the top button on your 3B jackets has never seen more than occasional use
...you have a reasonable expectation that your footwear will outlast your vehicle
...you add in extra time to your business trips in order to do some shopping at fine merchants, even if it means an inconvenient departure or arrival
...you live in fear that your wife might actually discover what your Ebay name is, so she can read your feedback and see the Lobb, Oxxford and Kiton you've been buying while she's clipping coupons
...when an event it "black-tie optional" your only options are satin/grosgrain, peak/shawl, pique/pleated.
...[if] your feedback on eBay is four digits and you've never sold anything.
...your friends say "$80 for a shirt!!!" and you say "$80 for a shirt!" and you both mean the exact opposite by your reaction.

and my favorite

...you practically get misty-eyed thinking about past Ebay auction goldmines where the seller misspelled the label's name as "Paul Stewart" or "Oxford" or "Briani" [too true, that]

-J.

Hell bent for leather.

2007-01-10T22:30:00.000-05:00

I have a leather jacket I love.

I bought it AGES ago at the old Cockpit flagship in LA. It's a plain vanilla, undistressed, brown goatskin A-2 jacket. These jackets wear like iron, and mine is no exception. Going on 20 years, it still looks new.

The problem is that these days it looks too...um...affected. It doesn't really, y'know, go with much. If you wear it with khakis and so forth, you really look like a you're in full-on Hollywood Canteen flyboy mode.

So, now that it's winter and I may have to schlep northwards I'm looking for something.

Stay tuned.

-J.

New Year, clean start

2007-01-10T08:41:00.000-05:00

There is an insidious little something I have noticed as I age. This is a very unique-to-me manifestation of a universal phenomenon. Given my work/SAHD schedule I had always put on a few pounds and then shed them.

Well.

Going through my closet, inventorying the place, I noticed that over the last 6-7 years the gain/loss thing has shifted, slowly but inexorably, towards the gain side. I'd started at X, reached Y and then went back to X. But at some point, I never quite reached X again. Since X.1 was close enough to X, I paid it no mind. Then I reached Y.2 and figuring that wasn't materially worse than Y, I--you guessed it!--paid it no mind.

The enemy, in my case, is snacking. For 2007, snacking has got to go, evicted like a dissolute brother-in-law. This is something I have to monitor SAHDly. This year I was rather diligent and after I lost the previous season's weight (mind you, we're not talking about drastic amounts here) I was careful to not exceed the peak.

The goal, boldly enough, is to get to see my abdominals again. The plan is to really make a dent in this regard and then (the brain-surgery-is-easier part) to keep the momentum going as I hit my heavy season.

The upside to all this is that this will afford me a focus point during my SAHD time. With both kids in school and, um, less of a penchant for ::cough, cough:: over-volunteering, I'll have no excuse. I'm just on the wrong side of 40, so I'm getting that now or never feeling.

The nice thing about being a SAHD is that all the moms never ask you to head up this committee or help out with that event. They figure a Y chromosome renders you hopeless and they rarely ask. If they do ask, and if it's an absolute nightmare, the Y chromosome allows me to say "Um, no, thanks." and then not brood or feel guilty. After all, I have books to read. Even better is that when the inevitable bake sales arrive, I get to show off my plumage amid the stacks of brownies and bales of chocolate-chip cookies.*

I might make it to a few meetings of a few things, but I have heard through the grapevine** that I ran afoul of some of the Mom Mafia*** with some of my "impertinent questions" **** and this has freed up more time.

Mind you, I still have to make periodic appearances at the office, return calls, etc. but it's a very impressive thing to behold how much lighter my schedule is today than it was the last working Wednesday of 2006. As in "several standard deviations" less.

And now, to run errands.

-J.

* Honestly, is that ALL people can think of?
** The moms with the cell phones surgically attached to their heads.
*** The moms with two minivans, who name their children Jared and Madison and have them doing 6 extra curricular activities...none of them well.
**** The event that likely caused me to be labled--quite correctly--as impertinent;
Mom-in-chief: I think we should go with the children and help build the playground for [school in Little Haiti].
Me: Um, how is our collective Creole French?
Mom-in-chief: Um...a little rusty.
Me: And our construction skills?
Mom-in-chief: I'm guessing we don't have any.
Me: So basically we'd only go there for the purposes of getting a sunburn and be extra mouths to feed?

"I endeavour to give satisfaction."

2006-11-20T16:58:00.000-05:00

Which Wooster and Jeeves Character Are You?

You are JEEVES! You are to be treasured and rewarded. You are the Renaissance Man: knowledgeable, effectual, and smooooth! May you shimmer forever.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla
Join

Make A Quiz More Quizzes Grab Code

One day, perhaps.

2006-11-16T09:34:00.000-05:00

Those unfortunate to know me best will acknowledge my inexplicable fondness for black tie. That said, I have always wanted to host a black tie party in my very own house.

It'll never happen, natch.

But I want to, if only because I have a smashing smoking jacket I want to don, and now I have finally found the shoes to complete the look.

-J.

Timeliness.

2006-11-02T10:50:00.000-05:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: It's possible to be supremely elegant with minimal expenditures.

In our previous installment, I railed against wristwatches equivalent in size to a doorknob and scrofulous with precious stones. I also suggested a few options for those who want to array the manly wrist in an impeccable manner without doing violence to the manly wallet. Before I expend on this theme, I wish to caution you against the "reverse psychology" approach so prevalent in those who, like Don Quixote, have read too many books (in our example by Paul Fussell) and have gone slightly off-plumb. The rule is simple: if the price of something is immediately apparent (either too high or too low) then it's simply NQOKD, end of discussion.

To show you're so above it all that you wear an old Bulova with a mismatched Speidel Twist-O-Flex band is indicating, in pellucidly clear terms, that you're emulating the archetypes in Fussell's books assiduously. Such affectations, frankly, are unmanly and inelegant. The elegant man wears what he likes and doesn't give a damn who else likes it...not that he likes it because others may sneer at it. That's just as toadying as wearing something because others may fawn at it. The idea is to take the "others" out of the decisionmaking equation.

The best all around choice, in my considered opinion, is the Gruen Curvex. On eBay they can be found (in the plated/quartz variants) for well under $100 and often less. A spare black leather band and you're good to go from tennis shirts and chino shorts to bespoke suit. It's also ridiculously comfortable to wear and, if you feel exceedingly Trad, you may even pair it up with grosgrain ribbon watchbands from Brooks Bros.

If you feel somewhat more flush you may get the solid rose gold antique variants and still enjoy the frisson of elegant anonymity. You needn't fret (unless of course, you want to and your bank account can withstand it) about the jewels and the movements and serial numbers. It stands to reason that eBay is the place to go if you're patient, diligent and are free from an ideé fixeé about what you'd like. That is to say if you're open to, f'rinstance, a tonneau shape instead of only a tank...you may be able to scoop up a steal.

My only additional suggestions are to:

1- Look for lesser-known high-end brands (many people have NO IDEA what a Blancpain is, for example) because you just might get lucky.
2- Avoid steel-and-gold watches. This is even worse than a solid gold Tony Soprano special.
3- If you simply must have arabic numerals, try for them to be discreet and not too "foofy."
4- Learn the technical names of the various shapes and features you prefer.

Now, go wait for some charming lass to ask you for the correct time.

-J.

A huff and a puff and the land is ours

2006-10-24T22:35:00.000-04:00

(A special prize to whoever can figure out what I'm riffing on as re. the title.)

I come to speak of cigars.

As always, I started out easy. With cigarettes. My habit consisted of a semester of Dunhills (cigarettes) as I was, um, seeing a rather sophisticated sophomore girl during my freshman year of college (she was very partial to Gitanes). But after a broken heart, I moved up to the hard stuff: pipes and eventually strung out on cigars.

When I drink Scotch* (straight up with the merest sprinkle of mineral water) I feel my marrow ACHE for a cigar. For a while I was fortunate to have a cigar client and I managed to score The Really Good Stuff. (I once remember forwarding the catalog to a friend who said "Dude, cocaine doesn't cost this much." Little did he know he was looking at wholesale prices.) So I got used to filling my pockets with it and firing up on my back deck. FREAKIN' bliss. But then again, when you're incinerating $20's worth of leaves and converting it into an aromatic haze, it damned well oughta be. But then the situation with the cigar client dropped into the 87th circle of Hell and I was out. I did have enough sense to hoard as much as I could** prior to my bailing out. I won't tell you the names of those cigars, but I'll clue you in to the best*** you can find these days:

1- Oliva (Cameroons)
2- Gispert (Maduros)

I swear I am/was funnier and more charming with a cigar in my hand.

There is a ritual (and for good reason) to the whole cigar experience. First you clip the end with a double-guillotine cutter (I like Davidoff's but I am eager to try the new ceramic blade models). You do this by placing the cutter flat against the table, opening up the blades, positioning the cigar "cap" against the tabletop (within the opening of the blades) and shutting quickly, for a clean cut.

Next, you "toast" the end. You take a lighter and just run the flame quickly to blacken slightly the WHOLE area of the end. Then you place in your mouth, applying flame to cigar as you puff and spin the cigar. You do not want to leave any of the end's surface unlit. A proper cigar will not require you to constantly puff to remain lit. A puff every 30-60 sec. ought be fine.

Now you know!

-J.

* THE best Scotch for drinking with a terrific cigar is Aberlour 10 year old Single Malt. It's not the best Scotch overall, but its flavor profile does the slap 'n' tickle with a cigar better than anything else.
** Being shafted on my final invoice, I felt no compunction about making off with several boxes with street values--back in 1997, mark you--in the $300-$500 range. This was the best of the best stuff...nothing rated under 90 points by Cigar Aficionado or Cigar Aficionado's Insider. I then went out and splurged on a burled walnut humidor where these beauties have been aging patiently. I had one a couple of weeks ago and time stood still. The sad part is that the client sold out, the new management changed the blends/discontinued the brands and it has been HELL getting replacements. That's why I won't tell you what these are. Sorry.
*** Cuban cigars just ain't all that. The tobacco is still the best, but as one of the few sources of hard currency for the [spit]Communist gummint[/spit] the emphasis is on maximum output, not quality control. 20%-25% of the cigars in any given box will be total losses.

It's all in the details, really.

2006-10-23T09:57:00.000-04:00

[If you are reading this post on a site other than Basic Civilization, or reading this with Bitacle.org in the address, you are reading scraped and stolen content.]

If you look carefully, you will see that current thought on matters of menswear is pendulating* back in the direction of unaffected elegance. Mark you, this doesn't mean men are dressing that way in appreciably greater numbers, but it's a twinkle of optimism which bodes well for the very long term. At dead worst, it can't hurt.

When discussing the matter of unaffected elegance, what we really mean is the conjunction of simplicity and perfection (of fit, construction, etc.) and suitability (flattering color or cut, and so forth). Of course, the more simply elegant things get, the more scope there is for the man whose mind can work in subtle ways to express himself.

As I march inexorably towards senescence, I am beginning to look at different things when glancing at the pages of (what passes for) fashion magazines or noticing the aspect of my fellow man. 10 years ago I would have focused on his lapel or the cut of his trouser cuff. Today I notice things like the jetting of the pockets and the shape and finish of the buttonholes.

Which brings us to the topic of today lads (and those unfortunate lasses stuck with lads who ought be absorbing evcery word on this blog but aren't) which is the matter of bringing a subtle frisson of elegance to your array. Part of the "subtle" thing is to make sure that a) all the elements are individually subtle, and b) the aggregate of all these subtle elements is likewise subtle. That is to say, if you wear a discreet pair of cufflinks, with a discreet pocket watch chain and discreet fob, and a discreet collar pin, and a discreet signet ring, and a discreet tie clip/bar...well, a metric ton o' subtle is hardly subtle, is it?

The goal is for those who know to notice, and those who don't to not notice.

Here are some of my favorite gentlemanly fillips, fortunately in broader availability** these days:

1- Silk knot cufflinks. You may wear them in your school colors, to match your tie or pocket square, etc. It fairly elevated the wearer to the ionosphere of cognoscenti.

2- A proper timepiece. It takes nothing--beyond a net worth which outstrips one's sense of taste--to wear a diamond-encrusted Rolex. If one is keen to wear the cost-equivalent of a midsize sedan on one's wrist, one could choose from umpteen elegant Patek Philippe or Breguet or Blancpain watches. But even that is unnecessary. Just avoid too much gold (solid gold bracelets ought be approached with the greatest caution, as they can very easily fall into pimp or The Sopranos territory) and all precious stones except a cabochon at the crown. Leather straps are preferable with suits and sports jackets, steel bracelets are acceptable with more sporting apparel or any time your wrist is likely to get all perspirant. Oh, and avoid the modern tendency for watches with cases the size of bagels. Lastly, one needn't spend beyond the mid 100s for an elegant, quality timepiece. Brands such as Tourneau (although those can get very pricy very fast) and Tissot and Frederique Constant are quite reasonably priced, excellent quality and more often than not, supremely elegant. The less said about replicas, the better.

3- Collar pins. I know, I know...it screams "1980s." The trick is to find the plain barbell (where one ball unscrews) and, ideally, a shirt with the proper pinholes sewn in. If you cannot find such a shirt, find an old one destined to polish furniture and practice affixing the bar without scarring the collar. If push came to shove, tab collars are also natty and very understressed these days.

4- Monk strap shoes. A touch of glint around your Antarctic circle is a good idea. Also, their construction, unencumbered by broguing or caps is sleek and cool. (The buckle only being revealed when you walk; in the above picture the trousers are hiked up a scoche to show off the whole shoe.)

And there you have it. Go perform a benefit for the eyeballs of the human race.

-J.

* If that's not a word, it damned well ought to be.
** Make hay while the sun shines, says I.

Thievery!

2006-10-17T09:20:00.000-04:00

[If you are reading this post on a site other than Basic Civilization or with Bitacle.org in the address, you are reading scraped and stolen content.]

As I was reading one of my favorite blogs I ran across this little lovebomb: some imbeciles at bitacle.org are STEALING various blogs' contents and posting them on their own site and appending advertising thereto and--surprise--not compensating the bloggers whose contents they steal/stole. As it is, it seems my blog is not yet caught in their machinery, but that could change at any moment.

Oh, and they utterly ignore any and all copyright* notices.

To see if your blog (they seem to prey on blogs which have feeds**) has been one that has been pillaged, read this article. So far, nothing's been done to me or my blog...but I feel soiled and violated anyway.

-J.

* Unfortunately, I'm too dense to append such a copyright to my blog.
** Fortunately, I am too dense to know HTF the whole "feeds" thing works.

Might as well do the thing properly.

2006-09-29T10:29:00.000-04:00

If people (as opposed to commercial enterprises who refrain from overwhelming me with torrents of well-deserved ducats) are going to Steal My Damned Look, the least they could do is do it right, dammit.

This brings us to the (after the ridiculous objections made against the pocket square) second "most objected to" of the well dressed man's dicta. Suspenders (or braces for our UK contingent). They are supremely desirable on anyone, but they are practically mandatory on a gentleman whose height doesn't quite get to the 5'11" (or 175cm) mark. Why?

1- They give a cleaner line to the trousers, because a belt, in order to function properly, must cinch the waistband to the...um...waist.
2- They add a vertical element, which is both elongating and slimming and as someone whose matabolism went for a nap around 1996 this is key.
3- They do not crowd or bulge underneath a vest (waistcoat) should you be unfortunate enough to reside where these are a prime element of elegant insulation.
4- Since trousers hang freely, they drape better.
5- Gives an additional element of interplay regarding color, pattern and texture which allows the elegant man to subtly highlight his pocket square, or socks, etc.

That said, we must now consider the matter of what sorts of suspenders one ought have in one's arsenal. For me one name stands alone: Trafalgar. You want the fabric to be silk faille or grosgrain. To my mind, the woven (nevah printed) designs are the ne plus ultra but I can see why some gentlemen might prefer the more quiet designs such as the "Chase" line of stripes, or even plain colors; the "Fairfield" line. With some casual summer trousers, the braided leather models are acceptable and a bit insouciant.

The design above is called Venezia and, like most of the truly snazzy designs, is a limited edition collector's blah-blah-blah. I got it because I am raving Italophile and because the lovely, gracious and clevah Poppy has as her favorite, a lovely Hermes scarf entitled Fetes Venitiennes and one must always opt for stylistic synergy with one's pals. The choice of snazzy design is entirely up to you, with the sole proviso there is no jarring, discordant note with the rest of your ensemble.

Besides the aforementioned Venezia, I have about 9 others in the "design" category (we'll set aside the plain and the striped) including a couple of patriotic ones and two for the more festive sorts of black tie events.

Now, if you're rummaging through eBay you're in fairly safe waters with the woven-design models. It's the plainer brethren which prove easy to counterfeit. Look for the word "Trafalgar" engraved on the top edge of the levers, the fabric will NOT be in the same sort of silk as a regular necktie, and the juncture at the back will be in suede. Caveat emptor.

Now, off you go.

-J.

P.S. This is not to say I abjure all belting. I reserve my beltedness for "odd trousers" (usually grey flannels) or chinos or jeans or the dressier sorts of shorts.

"The effrontery, sir, the damnably impudent cheek of it all."

2006-09-23T11:55:00.000-04:00

Many of you, no doubt, are familiar with the "Steal This Look" concept as championed by what passes these days for fashion magazines.

Well, it's one thing when you're the one exhorted to do the stealing. Quite another when it's your look which is the subject of larcenous suggestions. Exhibit A (photo) is a from a certain high-end menswear purveyor with retail locations scattered in the Best Places.

As Poppy will readily testify, the look encapsulated (minus coat, as I have enough sense to reside where coats are superfluous) by said photo is pure, unadulterated Joke. Besides the fact all individual components are truly snazzy, you'll note the subtle, sophisticated interplay of patterns and textures. The damn-near-imperceptible nailhead pattern of the suit against the subtle blue-on-blue check of the shirt, highlighted by the grape/navy regimental necktie...are all part of my sartorial Gospel. The working sleeve buttonholes? The 4-in-hand knot? The dimple to the necktie?

That's "me!"

Why are these people doing pilfering my look for profit? Especially when I see not a cent of that profit. God knows I'm as big a fan of profit as can be found, but one must be fair and share said profit with me. Especially since I had to ride out those hideous years when high-gorge near-Edwardian suits, and monochromatic shirt-and-tie combinations were all the rage. Wasn't I steadfastly at the helm of the SS Timeless? Didn't I help navigate between the Scylla of Stodginess and Charybdis of Trendiness?

Isn't that worth a few ducats flung my way?

The prosecution rests.

-J.

The basics of basic civilization

2006-09-21T08:51:00.000-04:00

Gentle Reader,

Those among you who've assiduously followed my career, know I am verging on mania or disorder when it comes to appropriate menswear. As -- apologies to Jimmy Buffett -- the son of a son of a tailor, these are occupational hazards, you understand. Still, often enough, men (or those women in their lives who shop for them) will ask me for my views on how to enhance the level of startorial splendor exhibited, without going utterly nuts and getting custom Trafalgar suspenders or something equally deranged. I say my bit and they are invariably disappointed.

"If you wish to be considered a stylishly dressed man," I intone "you simply, absolutely MUST wear a pocket square."

You could make weathervanes spin from the dejected sighs which accompany that innocent, pleasant statement. For those of us with a Jesuit education (or its equivalent), it's just like that bit from Scripture that went something like this: "But when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful." It is not as if I have advocated Mr. X saunter about in a celluloid dickey or Mr. Y wear a snood and multicolored crinolines. It's a square of fabric! This was a pretty hopeless, lonely road to travel. Until this last year. My long-suffering wife and I had gone up from our for-all-intents-and-purposes-tropical home into the teeth of the vaunted Chicago tundra to attend a gala hosted by Poppy*. While decanted at Mme. Poppy's table, I noticed several--a minority to be sure, but still in appreciable numbers--of the gentlemen within eyeballing distance had pocket squares! Progress! Emerald City, at last at last!

And not just a thin white stripe of linen peeking out, either. While nobody had the diablerie to disport with a hand-rolled Irish linen in the intricate-yet-dashing four-point fold, some had puffs of white cotton, and there was one veritable plume of silk issuing from a certain gentleman's upper pocket. Color me impressed. In fact, at our (i.e. Poppy's) table, the pocket squared outnumbered the squareless by something like 4:2. Poppy's (and now, my) pal FiddleDD was clearly enraptured by the insouciant way in which I wore mine and beheld me in conversation to the exclusion of all else, including nourishment.

Here are my favorites:

The 4-point fold, preferable with linen.

The "TV fold," preferable with cotton.

Therefore, young man**, should you want to make a hit with the better element of the distaff side of the species...you must wear that poquet square, but hold yon plume.

* I must reiterate that as Mistress of the Revels, Poppy is a peerless wonder.

** Young ladies might wish to use this as a litmus test, although I recognize this is a very controversial thing.

Aw, shirt!

2006-09-09T10:15:00.000-04:00

Dear Internet,

You may recall that I have--as is my wont being a Goldwater-type guy--often whined and moaned about things which have been changed. These changes, frequently without my approval, have almost invariably made things worse. We've discussed Brooks Brothers buttondowns and Izod Lacoste tennis shirts.

At the risk of seeming to heap abuse upon the Lands' End crowd, today I bring you an autumnal classic. This classic only staves off extinction on the pages of eBay, for Lands' End no longer carries these and I know not of a current-day equivalent. I speak, natch, of the rugby shirt.

You'll scarcely credit it, Internet, but there was once a time when you could get a for-real rugby shirt with a mere phone call to Lands' End. The fabric was plush, but hefty and tearproof. The construction was impeccable and likewise tearproof. It laundered beatifully and you've seen anvils which wear out more quickly. It was flattering, comfortable and a bargain. Not surprisingly, it couldn't last.

So, having yoinked more than enough on eBay to last me a lifetime, I bring you the dirty little secret on how to score the real deal, for Lands' End still sells ::cough, cough:: "rugby" shirts; in reality "rugby shirt-like" garments resembling the original the way a Miata resembles a sports car.

As usual, the trick is the label. As you will see from the above, the magical words are "Authentic Rugby" but also a label reading "Tough As The Game" will be accurate. Oh, and ask for measurements, because the XL of 1986 is the medium-to-large of 2006, given the American fetish for fast food.

Good luck!

-J.

Topless in PJs

2006-09-07T15:25:00.000-04:00

I had a mission. I needed new PJ bottoms. A lo-o-o-o-o-ong time ago (pre-buyout) I used to get them through Lands' End. Unfortunately, LE was bought out by Sears and suckitude ensued. I'm not assigning blame, mind, I'm just sayin'. Having to fork over sales tax was no prize, either.

Here's what I wanted: PJ bottoms, in a shirting-like* 100% cotton fabric (no flannel, no knit jersey, etc.) UNDER $20 a pair. 'S it.

Those of you who've followed the saga of my search for proper bespoke stuff will know I don't mind dropping bank on something particularly nice, but nobody will see me in PJs.

Oh, I didn't need full-on PJs.

I just wear the bottoms with regular white Nordstrom undershirts (one size larger) which are THE finest, regardless of price. In the past I have bought 'em from Polo, but the quality was merely a'ight...and even the sizing is off. I mean, I'm a shade under 5'10" w. a 34" waist and even the size small has me swimming in fabric.

So, all of a sudden someone suggested Old Navy PJ bottoms, which retail for $14.50 (exclusive of gummint extortion) or even less if you've an O.N. outlet nearby, and they have been declared exquisite and a complete and utter bargain. The other suggestion I got were for Swiss voile bottoms from Zimmerli that clocked in at TEN TIMES the price. An order was placed, one in each color.

-J.

* Pinpoint, broadcloth, cambric, batiste, voile, royal oxford...that sorta thing

I'm pitiful.

2006-08-16T23:09:00.000-04:00

Here are the Cliffs Notes.

I had to go on business to the Gulf coast of FL, to look over a project for work. During said jaunt, I stopped for a peek-in at the RL store. Long story short, I have a RLPL blazer (with--discreetly--monogrammed buttons...the shame!) coming my way soon.

This time I opted for single-breasted. I like the flexibility of shirt options and I need something to show off some snazz-o-rama buttondowns. So I got another one. This one, to add a bit of texture to the thing, is made from a teeeeeeeeeeny li'l herringbone wool/cashmere blend. Feels very nice. We'll see how it looks once it's finished.

-J.

Not like it was before.

2006-08-13T07:39:00.000-04:00

There are some things available now that, frankly, suck. Some don't actually suck qua suck, but have taken a definite nosedive in quality. To counter these nasty effects of "progress" we have eBay.

The three things currently on my radar that need to be eBayed because the retail version is unacceptable are:

1- Izod Lacoste tennis shirts, because the new Chemise Lacoste shirts are cut differently and overpriced and made from a different fabric than the classic.

2- Levi's shrink-to-fit (STF) 501 jeans, because the cut has been altered and the quality of the manufacture has slipped after the shifted production from their Cone Mills facility to the 3rd World. Sure, you can get what you need from Levi's in Europe or Japan (where our good stuff goes) but it seems deranged to pay $175 for a pair of basic f'ing jeans that used to cost $20 not 5 years ago.

3- Brooks Brothers oxford cloth buttondown (OCBD) shirts. Since the eleventy gazillion buyouts BB has suffered, the fabric and quality have taken a hit and the price spiraled. The best modern alternative is Mercer & Sons, but even at the introductory price you're still staring at $70/shirt.

And that's all the hints I'm a-give you for now.

One of the problems I've run into before is raving about something on eBay and then watching demand spike and prices go crazy. For example, the old Gillette adjustable razors I prefer could be found, mint-in-package, for $5, then my pal Corey got on TV and kickstarted that whole old school shaving trend. Good luck finding a trashed one for under $30. So, I like being able to score the "right" shirt for $5 and until I have stocked up I shan't release further details on how to tell good from bad from ideal. I'm not getting hosed again.

-J.

High Society

2006-08-11T22:55:00.000-04:00

No, not the film...no, not the porn mag.

I was in the library when I stumbled upon The Social Register (TSR) summer edition. I had a hunch the selection committee* may have been less than impressed with my status as one of America's preeminent lunchbox collectors. But, on the off-chance they were able to peer into my deeper, spiritual qualities, I decided to thumb through it in a (futile) search for self. This left me to muse what it would take to be among the listed, since all the coolness on permanent display in this blog and ovah at Dandyism.net is clearly insufficient, and having had ancestors in the hemisphere since 1565 and a baronet are as nothing.

Snubbing one's betters seems to me to be an enterprise fraught with cheek, so I decided to delve.

While the whole getting-in process is gilded with a glittering lack of specifics, it is a very safe wager this is one of those invitation-only things. As near as I can figure, it would seem anyone eager to get listed therein must be sponsored (and seconded and all that) by four to five people already listed therein. If time is of the essence you may, of course, marry a listee. This seems to work for far better for women marrying a listee; men who marry a listee usually see their listee metamorphose into a former listee. Why the Y chromosome is a more reliable indicator of NOKDness is something that has yet to be clarified, but we must accept it as some fact of science. Regardless of your marriage(s), you are not guaranteed squat, listing-wise. Pretty much the only guarantee of list-worthiness is winning a Presidential election. It used to be that Presidents used to--coincidentally and conveniently--be among the listed even before getting elected dogcatcher, but that changed with Harry Truman. I may be said without the slightest fear of contradiction that President Truman, on his own merits, was not really the sort of man one readily associates with TSR. Afterwards, all Presidents get themselves listed.

If you're obnoxious and impertinent as I am, you'd notice there are aspects of the Social Register which seem riddled with special sort of irony. Ponder, for example, this little factoid: There are about 25,000 families in the Republic who delight themselves on (among other things) TSR's exclusivity BUT somehow freely consent to have their addresses and phone numbers in a book available in every public library from Salmon Dick, Alaska to Palm Teat, Florida and all points in between.

Still, we live in a time of posers and arrivistes and the Social Register method, while flawed, provides something of an acid-test for separating uncouth, lottery-winnin' yokels from people of breeding and standing. The doubtlessly stringent (and almost certainly Byzantine) screening process leaves the reader confident those allowed to grace the Social Register pages aren't just wealthy, they're OKD. There isn't much carved in marble about these people except they are ostensibly tasteful, probably affluent and presumably discreet. Any other desirable (charity, kindness) or deplorable (rancor, vapidity) attribute beyond these may readily find refuge among the listees, seemingly at random.

As you will certainly not be surprised to note, The Social Register derives enormous delight in not answering to (or even just answering) anyone. This much we know to be true:

It started in 1887 in New York City**
There were separate editions for major metropolitan areas (sometimes whole regions).
In 1977 the whole shootin' match was squished into one national book. Two editions are each year (the winter one rolls out in November, the summer edition in May)
Past that, you must don a deerstalker cap and grab a magnifying glass. Oh, and drag Dr. Watson along, also, because it gets pretty complicated. The listings seem to have been composed on a diesel powered typewriter which last saw service during the Coolidge years.

Let's go to the 2000 edition and look up the entry for Thurston Zachary Howell III (names changed to protect the innocent and all that), which yields the following gems: "Bbc.Prs.Jib.CtB.Dvg.Lyf.Qt.Ww." At first you think the information was gleaned in conversation with a man talking with his mouth full. However, further investigation (i.e. at the front of the book) is repaid with the knowledge that "Bbc" is Boston's Banker's Club, "Prs" is the Prescott Reading Society, and "Jib" is one of two things:

1- An egregious misspelling (possibly a typo) or
2- A club so exclusive -- some clubs are so exclusive, they have no members -- that to ask about them serves as further evidence (as if any were needed) the reader belongs anywhere but there
Mr. Howell is absent from the 2001 (and all subsequent volumes) book. One can readily speculate, but my assumption is he is Stf.Asa.Fing.Brd.

Like any other self-respecting phonebook, this one has listings beyond the main one, including such sections as Births, Deaths, & Marriages. (The only times a private citizen, if he is to be truly well-evolved, ought appear in print.) My favorite section is called "Dilatory Domiciles." I love it partly because in a momentary twinge of dyslexia I misread it as "Depilatory Domiciles" which I understood to be houses where the Better Element goes for a full Brazilian.***

According to Dictionary.com, Dilatory means "1- Intended to delay. 2- Tending to postpone or delay," which is perfectly useless for the purposes of deciphering the riddle contained in TSR. The idea is to convey "seasonal homes" without actually using such a vulgar term. It is noteworthy most of thse Dilatory Domiciles have names. Nothing as evocative as "Tara" or "Monticello" but not anything to be ashamed of, with names such as "The Oaks" or "Walnut Crest." Still, even with misreading, this section has not as gleeful a title as the "Married Maidens" one. After you make up your own puerile jokes, you realize it's a concordance of women's married and maiden names.

This summer's edition, features listings of Yachts (and owners) "for the convenience of subscribers." Because, y'know, it'd be damned inconvenient to go around wondering how broad abeam is Mr. Jonas S. Grumby's "Minnow" (home port, Marblehead, MA) to say nothing of how many tons it displaces. "Ahoy Polloi!"

I got home, filled with naive curiosity and began to peruse the web. In delving into the details of the matter, it will be an underwhelming shock to realize TSR is pretty Northeast-heavy and (naturally) a haven for old money. The New England and Mid-Atlantic sections of the Eastern seaboard providing about 65% of the listees. Hell, 30% of the listees are located in New York (4,362) and Pennsylvania (3,138) alone. New money is clearly (and almost thoroughly) shunned. California has far fewer than Massachusetts, despite having six times the number of people. Florida doesn't fare too badly, leading the non-Northeast contingent, on the strength of sufficient numbers of people deciding, in their senescence, they were good and sick of both winter and taxes. The least represented state is North Dakota with a whopping ONE entry, denoting what simply must be, unarguably, the glittering social vortex of Bismarck.

As you would expect of such a delightfully archaic thing as TSR, the web offers precious little meaningful suggestions for getting thereinto. However, my ::cough, cough:: research clearly indicates that it's supremely easy to get kicked out. Just as easily as a you got in by virtue of some distant marriage into a Mayflower**** family you can get chucked because you married someone on whom one of the less savory characters on The Sopranos was based. Check this out: In 1984 there were 38,000 listings in TSR, but by 2004 the powers that be had effected a purgative cleansing to the tune of about 13,000 and had therefore trimmed the roster down to +/- 25,000. One can only imagine the disgrace of being excised from the listings, and the subsequent need to move, to start over, to flee the shame of it all.*****

-J.

* I'm guessing this is an anonymous bunch, and rather star-chamberish at that.

** Apparently arrivistes were a threat even then.

*** The irony being that there are damned few Brazilians in this book, AFAICT

**** Quite lenient to allow boat people. I sense a progressive spirit moving, weaving through TSR.

***** In fact, one can imagine the long lines of Volvo and MB station wagons, winding their way south out of Darien, CT and Wellesley, MA and King of Prussia, PA like a sad, preppy Grapes of Wrath.

2006-08-11T13:21:00.000-04:00

Tea Partay

Enjoy. (See if you can spot the flaws in attire...)

-J.

Sartorial overachiever, Pt. 1

2006-08-10T21:46:00.000-04:00

The assiduous reader will recall I had made a heartfelt plea for suggestions regarding PJ bottoms.

While suggestions blackened the sky, usually in the gigabuck range, one of my Usenet pals suggested Old Navy PJ bottoms, which retail for $14.50 (exclusive of gummint extortion) and they have been declared exquisite and a complete and utter bargain. The next best suggestion I got were for Swiss voile bottoms from Zimmerli that clocked in at TEN TIMES the price.

These are so good I am amazed they are Old Navy. My fear is the goofballs who run Gap Inc. (parent company of Old Navy) will realize how good they are and shift 'em over to Banana Republic (another division of Gap Inc.) for three times the ducats.

An order was placed, one in each color. You should yoink some your own bad self. Hurry.

-J.

It was Helan my face.

2006-08-05T18:48:00.000-04:00

As the diligent among you might recall, I have been on a grooming kick of late. In specific, I've been working on my shave technique and my shave tools. The easiest item in a shaver's inventory with which to tinker is, of course, the shave cream.

Anyway, I had gotten an email from Caswell-Massey to the effect a major sale was going on their website. Being a cheapskate, I immediately clicked in that direction. My efforts were repaid with two things:

1- C-M's own 1752 brand shave cream in "unscented," which I purchased for those times when I'll be wearing fragrance and I don't want to crowd it with a cream's lingering scent. Down from $10 to $6.

2- Helan's Vetiver & Rum shave cream down from $13 to $5

Of the 1752 I will say it is a perfectly adequate cream. It lathers pretty well, gives a decent slickness to the shave and doesn't irritate. Also, it doesn't linger, being unscented.

However.

The Helan was completely useless. The texture straight out of the tube was runnier than, say, Proraso. Regardless of the quantity used or the water:cream ratio, I found it impossible to get a decent lather going no matter what I tried. The best I could do was a sort of Pilsner-like froth that dissipated on my face almost on contact and provided none of the lubricity you want when dragging a bit of surgical steel across your face. By none, I mean exactly that...none. I nicked myself like a muhfuh.

The smell was/is quite pleasant, though. This is why I have resisted the impulse to let my kids use it as bubble bath.

Verdict: The 1752 is a good deal on sale (keep an eye out for their sandalwood, a fave scent of mine) but the Helan rates a big fat "avoid."

-J.

Attention fellow tribespersons

2006-08-04T17:08:00.000-04:00

Those of you for whom madras has always been a given, or who use the Social Register as a kinder, gentler White Pages...click on the links below:

http://tinyurl.com/p4f5c

and

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTU2He2BIc0

Tip of the borsalino to Christian at www.Dandyism.net

-J.

Jermyn Street Fightin' Man

2006-08-02T18:03:00.000-04:00

A while back, during an e-meeting of dandyism.net's Ruling Junta, the following comment about one of the Chosen Four wafted across the summer breezes:

“He [some unnamed member] would seem to be, based on the website, someone upon whose shoes I would gladly vomit, preferably after having drunk very, very cheap vodka.”

As both a shoe fetishist and vodka-absorption mechanism (i.e. former professional magazine writer), Mattis was hurt, wounded, appalled and offended. His succinct riposte: “After which he would find said shoes lodged between his teeth.” While his (Mattis’) heart is in the right place, whether he is correct is not so simple a matter to determine, as we’ll examine shortly. However, he is correct in his general outlook on the matter.

As the dandy saunters insouciantly through life, he often exacerbates the baser passions of his fellows and his lessers, and this—particularly in the case of the latter group, as evidenced by the comment above—often manifests itself in the form of belligerent provocation. The stereotype of a dandy is such that it assumes dandies are a diffident lot, shrinking back in cowardice because a bloodstained shirt would unflatteringly wash out his skin tones. Which isn’t true. Dandies may not be men of violence, but we are men of action.

Here is where Mattis’ answer becomes a springboard for discussion. A dandy intent on placing, with great celerity and no little force, his footwear against the teeth of his foe must be particularly mindful that not all shoes are ideal for this task. Spectators between the teeth? Sure. But captoes? The captoe is more of a groin-kicking shoe, whereas the brogue is better suited to cracking a couple of slats on a supine--or possibly prone--opponent. The monkstrap, of course, is the ideal footwear to lodge up someone's lower digestive tract, since the buckle rewards the user with additional bit of frisson. The penny-loafer is singularly useless for any pugilistic endeavor, as any kicking motion will surely launch them. Yes, of course, these would seem to have merit as projectiles, but the bitter truth is these shoes are inadequate, lacking both distance and accuracy.

If the aggressor seems the type who is easily suffused with blood, a dandy would be wise to avoid footwear made (wholly or partly) of suede, “reverse calf” or buckskin. Shell cordovan is the ideal leather, but simple calf will suffice. These along with the slightly pedestrian cowhide will prove more resilient against the hematological onslaught of any lout in the process of being taught simple etiquette. A dandy must equally beware of the shape of the toe of a given shoe. Too rounded and one’s kicks are likely to glance off ineffectually, too chiseled and one misses the mark in a most awkward fashion. Tassels and “kilties” only complicate matters.

A dandy will not speak of square toed shoes in mixed company.

There is much debate among scholars as to whether the matter ought rest here, with shoes, or proceed onwards. As the official arbiters of all that is best and finest, it behooves us to showcase all possibilities, allowing the reader to decide on his own. Following is a brief overview, with apologies to those among the readership who have already applied forcible physical correction to unprovoked antagonism.

One’s hosiery should provide cushioning for the foot inside the shoe, as it will be subjected to no small amount of force as it metes out Dandy Justice. It should also allow the shod foot to move, fully and without undue friction, throughout all its planes of motion. If a dandy wishes to attempt the Penny Loafer Launcher gambit, he should array himself with the finest cotton lisle socks, in a delicate interlock knit such as Pantherella's, as this will provide for the best possible trajectory. (So-called "experts" on this technique assure the Junta the most advisable thing is to launch the LEFT shoe—if one is right-footed—to test for windage, aim, etc. prior to launching one’s “prime” shoe.)

Trousers ought have a gentle taper from knee to ankle. If the taper is too severe or “pegged” it could restrict the full extension of the leg and inhibit hip flexion. This, needless to say, would greatly nullify the benefits of any footwear in the course of addressing aggression against one’s person or any provocation to same. Well, possibly not in the case of cap-toes, as its signature move (i.e., The Nut Cracker Sweet) is optimally suited for a lower target. In the case of a man whose physical defense plan hinges on the already risky Penny Loafer Launch, he is almost certainly doomed to meet a grave humiliation at the hands of a drinker of cheap vodka. Therefore, a man who is attired in such trousers is almost certain to be confined to stamping his feet at one’s foe and, if he is of Mediterranean extraction, being mistaken for a flamenco dancer.

However, trousers of insufficient taper are aerodynamically inefficient. These suffer from unacceptable drag coefficients and may be readily seized by the great unwashed with whom one is altercating. The result? Being upended in an unseemly way and additional cleaning bills. The trousers ought be inward-pleated, as well. This maximizes torso rotation and hip flexion and is, quite literally, the master pivot point for a dandy man of action. There is some controversy on this, but onseam pockets seem to help.

Shirts should be cut full—but not voluminous—again, for the sake of torso rotation. The shirting ought be a tight, solid weave such as cambric or pinpoint. These offer near-frictionless movement inside a jacket, always an important consideration. The choice of shoulder pleats or a central box pleat is up to the individual dandy, depending on his propensity for jabs (box pleats) or uppercuts (shoulder pleats). Pockets are to be eschewed as too easy to grasp by an opponent, especially one saturated by very, very cheap vodka. As a point of personal preference, I will interject my predilection for buttondown collars, also to minimize the opportunity for said opponent to seize any part of my person. I believe a great deal of merit has also been ascribed to the cutaway in this regard.

The necktie ought be secured to the placket via a strong tie bar and, if one can pull off the look, a bow tie is ideal.

The jacket is a source of much misinformation for the dandy compelled by circumstances to engage in a combative redress of grievances. Many dandies, once it becomes apparent that provocation or aggression must be repulsed, jettison the jacket. This is unwise because the jacket may suffer some damage while comeuppance is being administered to the layabout in question, and also because the jacket provides a measure of protection against both the drunken flailing of the impudent vodka-swiller, as well as against any debris such as E-Z Pour Shatterproof vodka bottles, screw caps, swivel-backed cufflinks or teeth. The mistaken notion is that whatever function as armor a jacket may provide, is outweighed by its cumbersome nature, which restricts movement and unnecessarily protracts the proceedings.

This needn’t be so. A jacket featuring a “blade cut” or a “drape cut” and egg-shaped scyes will astound users with its functionality and, if one is of a mind to wear sports jackets, a bi-swing back may be added to further enhance movement even beyond the capability of its wearer. If such a back is not compatible with a man’s physique, he may opt for a double-breasted model, making sure he buttons it at the bottom row of buttons. This will loose the torso from any restrictions while still keeping one’s necktie and waistband out of reach. In any case, side vents are to be avoided, as they are easily grasped.

Lastly, a signet ring on the dominant hand is strongly suggested. If a man prefers a “karate chop,” as do most adherents of Issey Mikaye and of Hong Kong tailors, the rign ought be on the pinky. Men who prefer a more Queensberry-ish blow (with apologies to Oscar Wilde) which is especially the case with those who go in for natural shoulder stuff, really should have it in the ring finger.

We trust this primer has been of use to our readers who are compelled by circumstances to sharply correct the lesser, coarser elements of society.

-J.

Not starring Gary Cooper

2006-07-22T00:27:00.000-04:00

(The following is my most recent piece for Dandyism.net. This is the unedited version.)
***********************************
There you are. Having flown as far across the world as geography permits –in fact, if you tried to go further, you would only be getting closer— you stand at a lectern, ready for the formalities to begin, not entirely surrounded by the slavish and fawning. However, you are arrayed in finery that bespeaks your sense of self, your sense of station and sense of occasion. A shot rings out. A man in the crowd charges towards you and, just feet away, another shot rises over the din of the assembled. Your would-be assailant is wrestled to the ground but a yard away from you. Your reaction? Adjusting your cuffs in a state of pure sangfroid.

Before you scoff, I hasten to remind you “the story is true” and this actually happened to Charles, Prince of Wales while visiting Australia in 1994. Pressed for comment on the matter, he simply stated security was "well handled" by Australian police and his calm demeanor was merely "the result of a thousand years of breeding." In an impossible situation, he exhibited self-possession and grace under pressure.

The plumage or colorings found in wildlife are often dismissed as mere decoration designed to attract a mate. Naturally, this is the narrow view of things. Beyond the aesthetic value of these characteristics, are the functional attributes which follow such forms. For example, the wingspan of a Harpy Eagle exists not only attract potential Mrs. Harpy Eagles, but also to allow this apex predator to better to strike at prey. The same sort of principle applies to the dandy. The aesthetic features of the dandy bespeak much about —and much beyond the mere aesthetics of— the pinnacle of civilized masculinity.

The one thing allowing the dandy to transcend being a dapper bon vivant it is the Beau Geste, the beautiful gesture. Whether it manifests itself as an act of chivalry or wit it is always grounded in a man’s unshakeable faith in his own true nature. The reason why this is so should be scrutinized in depth; that is to say, the dandy —at least the popular conception thereof— begs to be reexamined in this light if he is to be better understood as a fully actualized man and not a foppish caricature who ceaselessly touts his own dandyness by quoting his own platitudes while arrayed in a celluloid dickey, a snood and spectator espadrilles.

A dandy arrays the outer male the way he does because the outer male is merely the topmost layer of an internalized worldview made solid and incarnate. The dandy, rightly, sees himself in a certain light and all else springs therefrom; apparel is merely the easiest aspect for the casual observer to, er, observe casually.

However, this is merely the most readily discernible tip of a colossal iceberg. The zenith is the “beautiful gesture,” where civilized elegance has one man’s spirit breathed upon it and it takes life. The most famous and poignant example is that of Benjamin Guggenheim. As the Titanic began to sink, Guggenheim gave up his place aboard a lifeboat and then proceeded to his stateroom, where he changed into his white tie and tails so he “might perish dressed like a gentleman.” The beau geste distills all that is best and finest in a given civilized gentleman and crystallizes it in the crucible of a moment of trial or a moment of triumph over ordeal. It demands self-awareness, self-possession and clarity of personality (and a worthy personality, at that).

Previously in this column we alluded to the young Count Marzotto, pausing on his way to the victory podium after winning the grueling Mille Miglia road race in an impeccable Caraceni suit, to purchase a bouquet of flowers, affix one to his jacket’s lapel, and then give the rest to a lissome young lady saying (if the accounts are to be credited) something along the lines of “Stamina merits but one, beauty eleven.”

The estimable Lucius Beebe recorded many such gestures. One of the more interesting of these gestures took place in, of all places, the rough-and-tumble Wild West burg of Bodie, California. You would expect, instead, Beebe to write of a salon of the Continent or the haunts of café society of which he was a habitué, but no, this tale concerns a banker whom Beebe immortalized specifically due to his beau geste. The town of Bodie was in its sunset years, and few mourned this slow demise. Nonetheless, one James Cain, president of the Bank of Bodie, still saw fit to navigate according to his own inner compass.

According to Beebe, “every morning at nine, in a well-brushed silk top hat and the frock coat of his calling, Banker Cain unlocked the front door, swung wide the vault,” and sauntered to his desk and proceeded with the day. One day, in 1897, would prove different. An abandoned building nearby caught fire and flames spread with amazing celerity. The adjacent post office became an inferno and the bank’s roof caught fire immediately, almost explosively so.

Continues Beebe: “The last First Citizen of Bodie was not found wanting in the emergency. He had just time to replace his ledgers in the vault and swing shut, and secure the great door with its painting of the Lakes of Killarney. The affairs of his depositors were safe. Only then did he reach for his venerable hat, adjust it at a decorous angle that might not be confused with the attire of gambler or confidence man, and emerge for the last time from the portals of the Bank of Bodie, closing and locking the doors behind him as he had done since the days of McKinley.”

As we have seen in the example of Prince Charles, and was alluded by Beebe, the true dandy is a man never found wanting in moments of trial. There is an indefinable something which allows the dandy to meet these situations with a purely reflexive grace. In other words, the beau geste is the natural instinct of the dandy, his behavioral domain. This is often manifested in a light vein as well.

An example of this sort of light coolness is brilliant (possibly apocryphal) little gem concerning a 19th century French dandy, Philippe Cadet. One particularly sweltering July afternoon, Monsieur Cadet decided “so as to prevent lacing [his] garments with perspiration” to bathe in a river, thereby freshening himself. While in the cooling stream, a carriage on the road above became disengaged from its team of horses, crashed and turned over. Without a second thought, Monsieur Cadet sprinted — absolutely nude — to check on the safety of the passengers. Upon arriving at the wreckage, he discovered the only passenger was a beautiful young lady whom he immediately extricated from the crashed carriage. Stunned, the young lady was not even capable of issuing thanks to Cadet, since she was fixated on his state of extreme undress. Suddenly realizing this, he explained "Pardon me, mademoiselle," he apologized, "for I have forgotten my gloves."

The preceding example (which I believe is one of Fearless Leader’s favorites), points out the dandy’s ineffable capacity of self-mastery by using the more commonly held dandy attributes of wit, observance of the niceties of civilized behavior, and supposedly exaggerated attention to detail, as foils to highlight said self-mastery. It is this capacity to be exquisitely attuned to detail which often seems the hallmark of the dandy, but in reality this is merely the byproduct of the self- and worldview to which he adheres.

In a similar vein, Fred Astaire (the prototype American dandy) was rehearsing Royal Wedding’s “dancing on the ceiling” scene for the first time inside the rotating room which allowed him to seemingly dance on the walls and the ceiling. The whole process was quite new and the wrinkles were still not quite ironed out. As it turns out, Astaire either misjudged his step or, more likely given the newness of it all, the mechanism which rotated the room moved unexpectedly and Astaire took a fairly nasty tumble. Stanley Donen, the alarmed director, shouted “Oh, God! I hope he didn’t break anything!” To which Astaire replied, from under the pile of props: “Only my tailor’s heart.”

One can readily imagine the relief of the director and crew at hearing these words. While any other film star might have merely shouted he was not gravely hurt, only a dandy could summon an instant witticism, assuaging the worry while simultaneously relieving the pent-up tension with a chuckle borne of a self-effacing remark that spoke volumes about said dandy’s intimate knowledge of self. Only a dandy knows the true reverence he owes his tailor.

-J.

Attention dapper cheapskates...

2006-07-12T23:40:00.000-04:00

Alan Flusser Custom now has a MTM option for civilized gentlemen not willing (or able) to drop massive coin on something custom. 90% of the goodness for a fraction of the cost.

Check it out.

-J.