The Sensible Wash Their Socks at Night

From left: cotton mesh, lightweight wool, silk, and heavy merino.  

    Socks are the single wrench in the workings of an otherwise good marriage.  I already handle my shirts—laundering, line-drying and hand-pressing—and what little dry-cleaning I do is accomplished a few times each year with the help of a very small business and a very large dose of faith.  I don’t believe in precious athletic clothes and underwear, so mine get heaped in with the general population.  This leaves socks, an innocent sounding statement that might as well read: this leaves air, or, this leaves purpose.  

    Why do socks inhabit so precious a place?  Imagine, for a moment, a young boy.  He is an active boy, but also an observant one.  One who climbs old fir trees and scraps with the neighborhood toughs, but also watches carefully as his father ties his tie and laces his shoes.  He can’t say why, but his clothes seem more important to him than they do for other boys his age.  He gets older and his interest in clothes strengthens.  Rather than suppressing his interest, he seeks edification; it comes disguised in books and movies.  He makes the expected mistakes of an amateur, lured astray by the siren call of fashion magazines, but returns loyally  to what he loves: classic clothing, as functional as it is handsome.  His preferences calcify.  He notices the small things—shirt collars that gap or pinch, trousers that bunch or bind.  One day, he turns his attention to socks.  He is dissatisfied with the wimpy, pooling mid-calf socks that are the department store standard.   His salvation comes as a gift; a pair of socks that, because of their length, he assumes are a mistake.  In a rush one day he slips them on.  It is a revelation; the socks stay up, held smartly above the bulge of his calf by a gently elasticized opening.  He seeks out several more pairs.  Soon, he turns his attention to his trousers; in order to maximize the comfort and style of his excellent new over-the-calf socks, he begins seeking trousers with fuller legs and more precisely hemmed bottoms.  The line of these trousers craves jackets with more nuance—a fuller chest, a nipped waist and a natural shoulder.  This elegant silhouette deserves only classic accessories; his shirts and ties are purchased with versatility in mind and his shoes are unimpeachably correct.  It is not long before his wardrobe has molded itself around his now considerable collection of quality socks.  

    So: it all begins with socks.  Some say the shoe is the foundation of a good wardrobe; these people have obviously never had cheap socks puddled like leg warmers below their calves.  It is impossible to feel stylish—let alone look it—if every few minutes attention is turned to adjusting socks.  A hairy and exposed shin, it should go without saying, is also a style killer.  Men used to solve this problem with garters; these held socks in place, but were fiddly and slightly too reminiscent of lingerie.  Happily, elastic and knitting technologies improved, and the modern over-the-calf sock was born.  The best examples today can be made of fine cotton, silk, wool and cashmere or blends in any combination.  They can have texture, like ribbing, and be woven with contrasting yarns to create any of the classic menswear patterns: chalk-stripes, pinstripes, checks, plaids, herringbone and dog-tooth.   Choosing correctly from this vast library deserves an essay of its own, but several pairs in a good pattern and color, say, ribbed flannel grey wool, are indispensable in dressing efficiently and, ultimately, well.

    The problem with good socks is they must be carefully laundered.  The danger of shrinking, running and losing is real.  And so I return to how I began: if good socks are going to be worn, their maintenance is the sole responsibility of the wearer.  Here is how:

Remove socks, fold together and hide from the person who ordinarily does the laundry.

Wait until 3AM; the washing machine will be vacant and the danger of someone interfering with the cycle, minimal.

Inventory your socks; a spreadsheet isn’t necessary but a pen and paper is helpful.

Verify that the machine is free of clothes; bright red shirts often lurk in its recesses, waiting to turn everything pink.

Add socks.  Select the coldest, gentlest setting and launder using premium, delicate-cycle washing powder.

The instant the cycle is finished, remove socks and take inventory.

Hang in pairs on shirt hangers in a cool and airy space.

When dry, immediately fold and return to sock drawer.

Obscura

    How refreshing it is to learn you know almost nothing!  I most recently had this sensation at a small restaurant where the wine list was devoid of my preferred Burgundies and bubblies.  What blinked back at me was, if not entirely foreign, unfamiliar enough that my finger reflexively ran itself beneath the names as I sounded them out.  Mos-chi-fil-ero, my lips forming the syllables while the patient waiter hovered with his pencil.  Ne-rell-o Mas-ca-les-e. Sure—a bottle of that one, please.  It was terrific: a Sicilian varietal high in acid, low in tannin, but with a layered wildness that might, in more familiar wines, have been considered a flaw.  This is precisely the problem with becoming too familiar with anything; at some stage the enjoyment is supplanted by a persistent desire to find fault.  The unfamiliar, however, can act as a tonic, rejiggering expectations.

    The bonus to lesser-known wines are the terrific names.  We have all likely heard of Gewürztraminer, which makes highly aromatic white wines in Alsace and Germany, but what about Grüner Veltliner, (Austrian) Chasselas (Swiss), Grk (Croatian), Xinomavro (Greek), or, my personal favorite, Zweigelt.  This Austrian grape is the product of hybridizing two other fairly obscure varietals (St. Laurant and Blaufränkisch) in 1922.  Zweigelt makes wines of extraordinary finesse, at once balanced and firm while still managing a wily character.  Smoked brisket on Royal Derby china, if you will.  Incidentally, the name, pronounced TSVY-gelt, is taken from the brainy fellow who created it, which wasn’t his choice.  Dr. Zweigelt wanted to name his new grape rotburger.  

    Strangely, a similarly jarring sensation emerges when confronted with an obscure clothing material.  Cloth enthusiasts know this well.  I have often been lulled into thinking I understand cloth, at least from a consumer’s perspective, simply because I recognize the great divide between smooth worsteds and fuzzy woolens and have a working knowledge of twill versus plain weave.  And then I behold some rare specimen—perhaps a sixteen ounce high-twist hopsack or ethereal jacketing that, impossibly, still has nap—which unhinges entirely whatever junior-league expertise I thought I had.  Tweed can be especially enlightening: I like fourteen ounce cheviot for general wear, but interest in heavier tweeds has recently exposed me to keeper’s tweed almost twice that weight.  And what about the luxury sector; cashmere is old-hat compared to vicuña, yak and cervelt (cloth woven from the downy undercoats of New Zealand Red Deer).

    Neither is the seemingly pedestrian button immune from delivering a humbling blow.  With the exception of a set of antiqued silver ones sewn on a blazer, my buttons are horn.  I always assumed these handsome articles were the last word in fastening elegance.  But all it takes is a curious perusal through a tailor’s back room, as I recently did with Chris Despos.  There I spied buttons of corozo nut, coconut shell, and mother-of-pearl—both natural and smoked—any of which would be ideal for a summer-weight navy jacket.  The most shocking of all, however, were leather buttons.  Despos’ were far from the chunky leather-wrapped domes intended to complement rustic outerwear of heavy tweed though.  Instead, these are slim four-hole buttons that, upon closer inspection, are clad in neatly pressed layers of leather.  The effect is simultaneously refined and untamed.

    But are rare cloths and difficult-to-pronounce varietals important beyond their novelty?  Does the  jacket with understated leather buttons and a glass of Zweigelt share more than a certain insider appeal?  I suggested earlier that the unusual and rare can have the tonic effect of resetting the senses, but I wonder if a deeper agency is at work.  For every appealing new wine, for every interesting fiber or button, a dozen others fall short of expectations, and even those that do appeal can have limited shelf-life.  In this sense, indulging the obscure is sometimes refreshing, but far more often, merely confirmation of a preference.

Using the Gourd

A gathering of winter squash.  Clockwise from lower left: Acorn, Delicata, Turban, Kuri, Butternut.  

    Squash soup has a short window.  Strange, really, as winter squashes are available as early as September, and, if stored correctly, would last right through to spring.  But a piping bowl of golden soup seems irrelevant outside of, say, a six week period between October and November.  In the pro column: a short life span justifies overindulgence.  

    Choosing the correct squash for soup is critical.  I prefer squash from the cucurbita moschata genus, the hard and smooth skinned squash that include cheese pumpkins and butternuts.  These have sweet, dense flesh with little fiber or graining, few seeds and very good flavor.  Acorn squash (cucurbita pepo) is another good candidate, but others from that family are less desirable for soup: spaghetti gets is name from the stringy composition of its flesh; delicata, as its name suggests, is mild.  A good soup is both smooth and rich.

    Don’t trust those recipes that begin with chopping winter squashes.  Breaking a squash down into chunks is not just unnecessary; it’s downright dangerous.  A butternut squash is an awkwardly shaped, wobbly and heavy thing on which to be practicing knife skills.  Instead, just split it lengthwise.  This is done most effectively with the heaviest knife in the drawer and controlled thumps with the heel of the non-dominant hand.  Once split, scoop the seeds and strings, if any.  Slather on a stick or two of softened butter, wrap cut-side up in foil and roast.  Two hours in a three hundred degree oven should do it.  

    As much as I care for the safety of fingers, there is another reason I urge minimal processing of the squash.  The raw flesh itself is dense and unpalatable.  To coax from it deep, sweet and nutty flavors, the water content must slowly evaporate, leaving behind cooked sugar and starch.  A whole or split squash not only requires a long cooking time at a low temperature, it encourages greater concentration as less exposed surface area is available to immediate evaporation, and subsequent browning and, inevitably, drying.  I’m not interested in browned or caramelized squash; I want evenly cooked, concentrated and golden flesh. 

    Once cooked, the flesh should be scraped from its shell into a sieve and pushed through to remove any stringy fiber.  The result should be thick, evenly colored and fragrant.  This is a squash base, unseasoned, unadulterated and ready for any number of applications.  I must pause here to address this moment—one where squash preparations often go pear-shaped.  Perhaps because of the romantic, autumnal connotations, perhaps because of the flowing Gewürztraminer, perhaps, even, because of the exotic and voluptuous shapes—whatever the reason, the urge might strike to add a host of ingredients, from molasses to cinnamon.  I will counter with this more humble suggestion: try the cooked squash.  Determine the sweetness; look for the muted, savory vegetable character.  If, after a minute’s full consideration, the urge to unleash the full force of the spice rack is overwhelming, have at it.  I can only speak from experience; I want my squash soup to taste of squash.

Melt half a stick of unsalted butter in the bottom of a heavy stock pot.  Sprinkle in two tablespoons of flour, stirring until smooth.  Add more butter if the roux looks dry; it should flow.  Cook the roux, stirring continuously, for four minutes over medium heat, or until it just starts to brown and become fragrant.  Add two cups of finely cut mirepoix, a sprig of thyme and desired seasonings to the roux, cooking until softened.  Add the squash base, stirring until incorporated.  Continue cooking over medium heat for an additional five minutes, taking care not to burn the squash.  Add a half cup of dry white wine, stirring to incorporate.  Once evaporated, slowly add six cups of room temperature water or light, clear chicken stock, stirring continuously.  Bring up to boil, reduce to a simmer.  Simmer for an hour before blending—either in a blender or with an immersion blender.  Stir in a cup of lukewarm heavy cream.  Adjust seasoning.  Gently simmer for an additional five minutes.  Serve using garnishes judiciously (i.e., rendered bacon, soured cream, buttered croutons, toasted squash seeds, toasted pine nuts, chopped fresh herbs, etc).

Fine Tuning

Whipcord in brownish shades and beefy cavalry twill in an ideal gray.

    The warmest pair of trousers I’ve ever worn were corduroys—eighteen ounce wide-whale ones in an offensive yellow that was slyly advertised as goldenrod.  They had other problems: they bagged, were too warm indoors, disagreed with pleats and cuffs and were heavy around the waist.  Worst of all, they dressed neither up nor down, occupying a largely useless space between jeans and woolen flannels.  Despite a raised eyebrow, a second hand shop accepted them.  I sometimes wonder if they are making someone else unhappy.

    But does the trouser wardrobe really need anything other than a few pairs of flannels for cooler weather?  The other way of asking this is: what’s wrong with flannels?  The marled, unfocussed aesthetic of flannels is certainly very handsome, lending itself particularly well to shades of gray, a family that just happens to be the most useful for trousers.  Depending on the weight, flannels can be reasonably to unreasonably warm; between the extremes are thirteen ounce flannels that will insulate the legs from car to building without overheating the wearer once inside.  So if they look nice and perform well, what’s the issue?  

    For me it’s maintenance and durability.  I find myself pressing my flannel trousers more often than others, and I’m not the first to notice thinning and fuzzing at the knees of favorite pairs.  This isn’t an issue for flannel suits as occasions that call for a suit usually don’t involve much crouching or kneeling.  But odd trousers are for those more active occasions, so sometime last winter I made a note to seek out more durable, less fussy winter-weight cloth.  The results are in.

    I’m unsurprised that my search led me to a type of twill.  I’ve always been impressed with the performance of gaberdine trousers; they resist and shed wrinkles, drape well and show no wear after several years.  Gaberdine is a fine twill, though—unsuitable for the cold.  Enter whipcord and cavalry twill, densely woven, robust wool cloths with more pronounced diagonal ribbing, but all of the usual benefits of the twill family.  The whipcord I chose is fourteen ounces and the cavalry twill a stout eighteen ounces.  The idea was to provide some range in performance.  

    But range extends beyond trying to match trouser warmth to outside temperature.  Because of the pronounced diagonal rib, and mottled, tonal effect of the weaves, whipcord and cavalry twill  tread a careful line between cloth for dress and casual or active pursuits.  Perhaps this quality is what endeared this class of cloth to traditional military and sporting applications, where durability and propriety have historically carried equal importance.  Admittedly, some of these fine distinctions might seem arcane by today’s standards, especially given the availability of modern fabrics and lessoned expectations of formality.   I wonder though: what’s more current than carefully sifting through vast choice before landing on the right material for the application?

Taken by the Lapel

A carnation, surgically removed from its horrific bindings and unnecessary embellishments..  

    My wedding went off without so much as a hiccup—at least that is what the official line is.  Few know, however, that at the very precipice, as the last grains of bachelorhood tumbled through the narrows of the hourglass, a calamity loomed that might have been too omen-like to proceed with the ceremony had the groom been superstitious.  My boutonnière, despite exhortations and assurances to the contrary, arrived a large and unwieldy thing.  It had no chance of fitting its girth through the buttonhole of my tuxedo.  And with no time for last minute surgery to relieve the noble carnation at the center of all the ribbon and sprigs and tape, it was unceremoniously pinned to my lapel.  There it chafed the grosgrain facing; there it chafed my sensibility; there, in photographs, it chafes to this day.  

    I forgave my bride, but if I ever run across that florist he had better hope his pruning shears are well out of reach.  Why blame the florist?  Because it is this otherwise respected profession that is responsible for the perversion of the boutonnière.  Do a simple image search; the results will reveal lapels groaning under everything from seaweed to clouds of moss.  I don’t doubt the artistry involved in conceiving of and hand-making these displays, but I’m not interested in sacrificing my own understated style so a florist can look pleased with his work.  Also—and it really cannot be ignored—florists can charge a great deal more for these grandiose boutonnières than would be tolerated for the individual stem.

    This leaves a single way to ensure the boutonnière is correct: walk into a florist, request one flower, pay for it, and then, as if the thought has just occurred to you, snap off all but two inches of the stem, slipping the remainder through your lapel’s buttonhole.  Do not, whatever happens, hand the flower back to the florist to cut it; I guarantee it will return wrapped in tape with some cheap ribbon or forlorn spray flowers.  The problem with this scenario is because they are inexpensive, rare is the florist who has a fresh stock of carnations for individual sale, let alone in suitable colors.

    The complications so far outlined will inevitably lead the flower-less man to what seems like a sensible and permanent solution: the watered silk boutonnière.  I don’t disagree that high quality silk flowers make very convincing facsimiles.  The efficiency of the guise also appeals.  I’m nevertheless unconvinced.  It seems too slippery a slope; first false flowers and then, what, those T-shirts printed to look like tuxedoes?  If I’m going to wear a flower, I want it to visibly wilt as the evening progresses, until, in a dramatic signal that the party is over, it can be pulled from the lapel and flung.  

    Why wear a flower in the first?  Actually, I rarely do.  I used to wear them for other people’s weddings, which is technically correct, but gave the practice up after one too many sidelong looks from relatives of the bride and groom which seemed to say: who the blazes are you?  But for daytime events, like christenings, or non-ceremonial evening events, like galas or the opera, few other accessories have quite the same effect.  A single flower in the lapel is grand, pushing the man’s suit to the precipice of elegance.  But do remember: even the slightest further embellishment will send you hurtling over the edge. 

Incorruptible

    Arguments against innovation always lose.  One might, if a good orator, make a case for romance, but challenging expediency or questioning the value of change—these points are futile.  No one likes a cornered luddite, anyway.  There is, however, a single exception: two parts onion, one part carrot, one part celery.  This is the noble ratio of mirepoix, and it shoos away trifling attempts to innovate like fruit flies drunk on house wine.  

    The ratio, 2:1:1, is crucial to maintaining balance.  Each component contributes something specific: onions, the familiar and rounded savory character; carrots, sweetness and body; celery, a dry vegetal note.  But the ratio alone won't guard against imbalance; one must also choose wisely within each component.  The onions should be medium white ones.  Yellow onions are too sweet, purple ones turn things pink.  The carrots should be mature; baby carrots are best appreciated raw.  The celery should be mature as well, but the outermost stalks must be peeled of strings.  Strict? Yes.  But that’s how it goes when in pursuit of consistent harmony.

    Size must be carefully controlled.  Intended cooking time determines how large or small the mirepoix should be chopped.  Quick broths, for poaching, say, a few pieces of salmon, need as fine a dice as possible so as to maximize extraction.  Sauces, if they are to cook for more than forty minutes, need a medium dice.  Soups and braises require a dice large enough to resist disintegration during the long stretches of simmering.  Stocks, which can cook for several hours, call for no more preparation than splitting the onions, carrots and celery stalks lengthwise.  Those large pieces, by the way, are the prize for the cook who has spent all day making stock; eaten with rock salt and butter, they are delicious.  

    Making mirepoix (and peeling potatoes) is how the youngest apprentices earn their daily meals in the traditional French brigade system.  It's not a task soon forgotten.  In part, this is because making mounds of mirepoix is labor intensive.  To the kitchen hand, it is an involved, back breaking, finger-nicking method for creating flavor.  By the time those novices begin using the fruits of their labor, a reverential respect has grown.  The home cook might not have this advantage, so it is understandable that mirepoix might be viewed with skepticism.  This is perhaps where innovation creeps in: why chop all those boring vegetables when this sexy new seasoning exists?   The answer, of course, is because mirepoix is the very matter on which most of western cookery is based.  It is the universal taste of savory.  It is the incorruptible holder of all culinary debt.

A bowl of medium-dice mirepoix, ready for anything.

For Keeps

    I am not sure I could put a hard percentage to it, but there is little doubt: much of my interest in men’s clothing originates in the names.  Some are obvious portmanteaus; thornproof achieves what it claims because, as tweeds go, it is exceptionally densely woven.  There’s the vaguely French: covert cloth, where the “t” is silent, began life as riding and hunting cloth, but, with its marled two-tone effect, proved too handsome not to be fashioned into polished topcoats.  What about cavalry twill, which suggest mounted charges and smoke-filled officer’s quarters, or whipcord, which sounds as durable as it proves to be.  In among these I have long admired a cloth with a more complex suggestion: keeper’s tweed.  

    This is the original working tweed—the heavy and muted cloth reserved for a country estate’s gamekeeper and his staff.  There is no regulated weight range, although I would argue anything under seventeen ounces a yard, while durable and heavier than much of the ready-to-wear market, is just tweed.  Twenty ounces is a good starting point; twenty-four, better.  But weight alone does not make a keeper’s tweed.  The patterns tend to be far less elaborate as well, and the colors, while remarkably rich up close, resolve almost universally to either lovat, dark green or olive.  The lack of exuberance of a classic keeper’s tweed is a matter of camouflage.  But is blending into the fields and fens just as important as standing out from the shooting party itself?  Put another way, lilac overchecks and royal blue plaids might look dashing on the backs of those wielding the guns, but the serious business of managing land has only ever called for subtly and performance.  

    Of course few today seriously require either.  But the spirit of this historical cloth remains in books like W. Bill’s Keeper’s Collection.  I do not have a driven hunt in my future (as either a beater or a shooter).  I do, however, have dogs to walk and outdoor sports events to attend.  I also have a beloved pea coat that, after fifteen years of hard wear, has packed it in.  I suspect that with a few tweaks in design—perhaps a throat latch, slightly longer skirt and an action back—a sports jacket made of keeper’s tweed would be a sensible replacement.  This is a critical point; many fear heavy tweed for its heft and warmth.  But we do not similarly condemn our ordinary outerwear, and what is keeper’s tweed other than cloth for wearing outdoors?

On Braces

    Let’s dispatch with the nomenclature.  Braces is British English for the adjustable straps that hold up trousers; suspenders is American English for the same, or, and this where some confusion ensues, British English for small garters that hold up unelasticized hose; garter belts are largely unworn undergarments used as justification for the ownership of beautiful lingerie towers (we can cover the shapeless flannel pajamas that have supplanted their original appeal in another essay).  For the sake of clarity and historical accuracy then: braces.  

    I have a good friend, a stylish fellow in his fashion-forward way, who was surprised to learn that braces are worn outside of formal wear.  He seemed impressed when I unbuttoned the jacket of a fairly informal hopsack suit and revealed my own pair of Champagne colored barathea braces buttoned into my trousers.  I think this illustrates the problem: given the choices available for resisting gravity, braces have somehow shed their association with everyday utility while retaining a degree of special event magnificence.  That the newest iteration of James Bond has proudly displayed his white moiré braces on a number of tuxedoed occasions affirms the misapprehension for many.  

    This is strange; to my mind, braces are, if anything, the utilitarian choice.  If I had to dig a ditch, I would want to do it in a roomy pair of trousers that hung from my shoulders.  I’m in good company.  It was Ben Franklin who first stipulated the fire department’s on-duty kit in Philadelphia, the lynchpin of which were sturdy, red braces.   And notable men’s clothing writer and designer, Alan Flusser, traces braces to active duty uniforms of the French Revolution.  For every image of an elegantly dressed man wearing braces that I run across, there are at least two of a laborer catching his breath beneath a more modest pair.  If there is a common theme, I suppose it is this: on those occasions when trousers absolutely must stay up, men turn to braces.  

    In addition to stability, there is comfort to consider.  Belts and side straps depend upon cinching the waistband above or below the hips—a sensation that can vary from tolerable to torture.  Braces evenly distribute the weight of trousers over the shoulders, which even in the case of eighteen ounce whipcord, is barely noticeable.  There is an additional benefit to the setup: because the waistband isn’t doing the lifting it can be left comfortably larger than the waist.  The wearer moves freely, within rather than against his trousers.  And then there is the meta-style aspect; once adjusted to the correct length, braced trousers are maintenance free, and the less time a man spends fiddling with his clothing, the better.

    When braces do go wrong, it seems to be the fault of the trousers.  Namely, too low a rise.  I’m not persuaded trousers need to be explicitly cut to accommodate braces, but they do need a rise that brings the waistband up to the, well, waist.  Worn with hip-hugging pants, braces acquire the look of costume, on par with those obsolete armbands used to gather excess shirt sleeve length.  I’d go so far as to say, if braces are being worn for fashion rather than comfort, the effect instantly becomes disingenuous.  The wearer might as well grow a handle bar mustache.  I’m rarely surprised, then, that the latter often accompanies the former by those followers of niche fashion.  

The Fifth Season

Mums on the cusp of exploding.

    The gardens in which I have spent time have distinct peaks.  In maritime climates it is surely mid summer—the warmest months during which the days are long but not terribly hot and everything gently blooms.  Winter in the tropics has the consistent charm of fooling the senses, although I find palms melancholic on those days when a cold front nudges perilously near.  It is the continental climate, however, which has the most dramatic time of year.  There are five or six weeks shared between September and October when summer barrels into autumn and neither gives an inch of ground.  And while this fifth season might make dressing difficult, it does produce some of the better moments in the garden.

    This is the best time for produce.  Tomatoes are associated with high summer, but the best I’ve had hung heavily on the vine through September.  Tender zucchinis and cucumbers give way to hardier winter squashes, although both seem to fight for room in the farmer’s bins at market.  Robust greens begin appearing, many as tender, immature versions ideal for raw salads.  My herb garden goes wild; tarragon becomes leggy, thyme ranges about desultorily, rosemary, after politely occupying a modest corner of the planter, doubles itself in a macho display of preparedness for the cold.  Basil is the best though.  It has flowered and grown woody, a wild and weed-like shadow of its lush, midsummer self.  Many people pull their basil out after it bolts; I still eat it though, its sweet, herbaceous profile having turned metallic and almost curry-like.

    The official flower of the fifth season is the hardy mum, a cold-resistant and late-blooming cultivar of the Chrysanthemum.  These fly from the shelves of garden centers like pumpkin-spice lattes the weekend following the first cool-snap.  I adore mums, but I am an inveterate cynic—the sort who grumbles beneath his breath at the sight of apple orchards that sell pre-picked bags of apples alongside carnival rides and artificially-flavored apple donuts.  Autumn can’t be commodified!  It would be sad to cheapen the mum into little more than a brief, autumnally colored caprice.   I prefer to plant mums early in spring in a sunny but protected spot with good drainage.  They will remain green and uninteresting until fall, when the shorter days and longer nights lights some deeply encoded chemical fuse that explodes in burgundy and amber come October.  To maximize the effect, new growth should be regularly pruned through spring and summer, encouraging a denser plant with more buds.

Patient tinder.  

    Speaking of pruning, the fifth season is ideal for lazily wandering between plants snipping here, trimming there.  I’m not suggesting serious work though; real pruning is best done to shrubs in the spring so as to encourage compact and even growth.  Actually pruning isn’t even the right word.  Most of what gets removed is already dead, like fully spent blooms, wind-snapped stalks or annuals that have punched themselves out.  I don’t work up a sweat, and if I feel one coming on I go back to the house for a refill.  But it isn’t all pastoral bliss; sometimes a tough decision needs to be made.  Annuals that straggle despite facing certain death deserve a quick and dignified end.  A sharp spade to the root ball should do it.

    The exclamation point at the end of all this sputtering life and solemn decay is the bonfire.  I collect a season’s worth of trimmings and scraps, and despite late-summer’s frequent squalls, the mound is brittle tinder come the end of the fifth season.  A good bonfire will burn evenly and predictably if care is taken in its construction.  The foundation must be the lightest and driest material, followed by increasingly substantial layers of sticks, branches, scrap wood and logs, all steepled and interlocked so air may pass through and feed the boiling center.  But the vital ingredient is patience; igniting the pyre on an evening when summer still hovers on the air has the syrupy effect of Auld Lang Syne a month too early.  Resist the first few cool evenings until certain autumn has firmly taken root; the reward is the fifth season’s last and most magnificent bloom.

All the Moving Parts

What's this flap all about?  

    I can trace my appreciation of menswear to a specific encounter I had around age five.  Though a fragment, the memory is clear: an older man—perhaps an uncle—witnessing my protests and discomfort at being wrestled into jacket and tie for some function, pulled me aside and explained that men wore jackets because of the secret pockets.  These pockets, he explained while pointing out my blazer’s own interior, were for carrying the gadgets required of men: pens, pocket knives, handkerchieves and matches.  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, now you know.  Thirty years later, the lesson is still with me: clothes aren’t costumes—they are functional garments designed to adapt to a given environment without sacrificing utility or style.

    I no longer carry all the mischievous appurtenances of adolescence.   That learned pleasure in utility has survived, however, in the appreciation of a garment’s useful and functioning details.  The most common example, but one that nevertheless still makes me smile, is the standard flapped pocket.  Most ready-to-wear suits and jackets have flap pockets, likely because they strike the most agreeable balance between the casual patch pocket and the formal flap-less slit pocket found on tuxedoes.  Patch pockets are great sporting details, but why choose between flaps and flap-less for suits?  I always have ordinary flapped pockets; should the urge to give the suit a slightly more formal appearance strike, I neatly tuck the flap.  This seems obvious, silly even, but the effect is not just instantaneous but rather less subtle than it sounds.  With correspondingly formal accessories, tucking flaps really does convert a standard business suit into something special.

    A more rugged detail has long haunted me, falling in and out of favor on roughly imagined future jackets: the throat latch.  I know of two versions.  The first is a detachable, gently curved piece of cloth that buttons out of sight behind the collar and lapel.  When needed, the collar and lapel flip up and the cloth strap is brought across the throat where it buttons to an otherwise hidden button on the underside of the opposite collar.  The other type is more honest: the strap is a permanent and plainly seen extension of the collar that indicates the wearer’s ability to transform his jacket into bonafide outerwear should an unexpected and chilly wind come up.  I prefer the latter; not only is it less fiddly, it gives a jacket so equipped an obvious sporting élan that makes wearing it casually feel so natural.  

Swing low.  

    The subtlest expression of functional adjustment results from a double breasted made with a soft enough lapel.  The most familiar double breasted jacket front has six buttons that show, but only two of them—namely the right-hand lower two—that button.  A man in a double breasted has options.  He can button both middle and lower right-hand buttons or he can leave the bottom undone.  If feeling particularly louche, however, he can button just the bottom-most.  The lapels will roll open to this lowest point, not just exposing more shirt, but creating a long and dramatic sweep, from left shoulder to right hip.  It is a vintage look, and probably better reserved for after-hours.  And while it might seem too deep in the domain of the dedicated clothing enthusiast to be related to that long-ago memory of function, the premise remains: clothing should adapt to the wearer and not the other way around.

    But why does function appeal?  In a basic sense, it multiplies the usefulness of any given garment—more looks for the price of one.  Patterned and textured three piece suits operate on this principle, affording three separates or one very coordinated application.  But I think there is a deeper appeal: when a garment can be operated beyond ordinary wear, it gains a sort of permanence in contradistinction to fashion, which often just impersonates utility.  How many designers have sewn on useless straps, pockets and zippers in the name of lending their clothes authenticity?  The technique never works; a false pocket is false from a thousand yards.  But when all the details found on a garment not just function but provide real utility, the effect is universally handsome.  Surely if form must follow function, so too must fashion.

Using the Noodle: Part Two

Onion and radicchio frying in pork fat rendered from mortadella.  The mortadella gets added at the end to preserve its crispness.

    My preferred brand of pasta has the following note on the package: “It as difficult to extimate an exacte cooking time for the artigianal pasta. We suggests that you cook until al dente—7-10 minuti.”   What does it say about correctly cooking pasta when its manufacturer won’t commit to anything more concrete than a figurative expression and a thirty percent margin for error?  As far as I am aware, there is no standardized scale for toothsomeness; besides, I have never met two cooks who can agree on what constitutes al dente.  However, pasta must retain some of the body that has been hard-won in Gragnano.  It shouldn’t be crisp, but it should provide resistance enough to require real chewing.  This is because dry pasta is a meagre product of a historically hard-scrabble region; that eating it should mimic some of the pleasant resistance one would encounter from something substantive and expensive, like a piece of meat, makes sense.  Properly cooked pasta should slow the eater down, forcing both consideration of the flavor and the satisfaction that comes with purposeful eating.  

    So these mystical few lines are at the heart of pasta cookery.  But that’s not to say there aren’t preferences.  My suggestion is to cook enough pasta until you have developed one, and then learn to consistently arrive at it.  This is best achieved by treating dry pasta as you would a visiting royal;  water, sauces, additional dressings, utensils, table settings, wine and guests must all be ready and waiting.  Once the pasta arrives, all must fall into strict attendance to its tight schedule.

Liquid gold.  Starchy water should be added to almost every type of sauce or dressing for pasta.  It is the glue that holds all the magic together.

    When all is ready, it is time to “drop the pasta.”  Except don’t drop it; ease it in.  The next few moments are critical.  First, season the water with quite a bit of salt—say two tablespoons for a pound of pasta.  This will have the dramatic effect of bringing the water, temporarily brought off the boil by the introduction of cool pasta, back to a rolling and fizzing boil.  The initial starchy coating will begin to dissolve; this is a good sign, but also fraught with hazard.  Starch acts like glue, and in the first three minutes of boiling, will encourage your pasta to stick to the pot.  You must stir, easing any adhered pieces from the bottom, but with a gentle hand so as not to break the still-brittle pasta.  Once the water is opaque, most of the immediately  available starch has dissolved, and there opens a small window to further attend to the other components.  Do not stray far though; a watched pot may seem not to cook, but a neglected one will turn out inedible mush in no time at all.  Out of respect, I usually just silently observe.

    Once the pasta has reached a level of doneness slightly less than your pre-determined ideal, you must burst into action.  Begin by reserving two cups of starchy water.  Next, drain the pot slowly over a colander securely placed within a clean sink.  I will pause here to address the matters of rinsing, and by extension, starch.  Some people are under the false impression that  running cold water over the hot pasta will lock in the correct level of doneness.  This is catastrophic for two reasons.  Firstly, whatever carefully attained level of doneness you have achieved will be ruined when trying to reheat the now chilled pasta in your sauce.  Secondly, the running water will rinse away crucial surface starch—the adherent that encourages the magical binding of dressing and pasta.

Spaghetti with shredded mortadella, onion and radicchio.  A very good way to make room in the icebox.

    The assembly of pasta and dressing will require the marshaling of all your culinary abilities.  Here is how I do it.  Once the pasta is safely transferred to the colander, immediately pour it into the vessel in which the sauce or dressing has cooked.  Begin mixing with tongs.  If the result seems dry, loosen with the reserved, starchy cooking water.  This is also the point at which other components, like cheese, parsley, olive oil or butter should be added.  Adjust seasoning if necessary, and serve.  All of the above, however, must be executed in under a minute.  If done correctly, the pasta will have reached its toothsome ideal just as the sauce and other components have correctly adhered, evenly coating, but not overwhelming, each strand.  The other sign that things have gone well is ten minutes of silent eating.

Using the Noodle: Part One

A kilo of the good stuff.

   Poor pasta.  It suffers gravely in the hands of home cooks.  It is simmered in tepid water until mush.  It is rinsed.  It is drowned in sweet sauces and buried in pre-ground cheese.  The result is ignominious fodder, no more important to a buffet than the iceberg lettuce used to feebly decorate the borders.  It is a sad fate considering a spaghetto's potential.  In that single, brittle strand are only two ingredients—water and wheat—but vast application.  Let’s disembarrass ourselves of poor technique, and get at it.  

    In theory, quality dry pasta can come from anywhere.  In reality, the best comes from Gragnano in Campania, Italy.  This is my least favorite aspect of pasta; I prefer the accessible and familiar to the rare and mythical.  But I won’t begrudge those artisanal pastificios their monopoly; they just make better dry pasta than anyone else, anywhere.  They do so with durum wheat, a high-protein cultivar, and low-calcium mountain spring water.  The dough is slowly extruded through bronze dies, which roughens the surface of the shapes, and then dried at low temperatures.  The results are as yellow as country butter but with a powdery, textured appearance that transforms a pot of boiling water into the crucial, starchy nectar required for later assembly.

Three ingredients.  

    If an average home cook is under the impression boiling pasta is easy, then something, or more likely, several things are wrong.  The most difficult aspect of making a pasta meal well is the boiling.  I begin by determining dinner time.  An hour or more before the appointed time I fill my largest stock pot, an unwieldy and battered thing that holds eighteen quarts, with about ten or twelve quarts of water drawn from a tap that has been permitted to first run for at least a minute.  I wrestle the pot to my most dependable hob, put a lid on it, and blast it with the highest heat my stove can manage.  This is a good time to get cleaned up and changed for dinner.  When the water is rapidly boiling… give some thought to what you’d like to dress the pasta with.

    I have made or had made for me enough plates of pasta to feel comfortable in saying the most successful combinations feature no more than three or possibly four ingredients.  For example: chili flakes, garlic and cherry tomatoes.  Or: pecorino, black pepper and parsley.  Complex tomato-based sauces that have been cooking for impossibly long periods of time, while rarely offensive, are almost universally muted.  Besides, the best rich and long-cooked pasta sauce is the cooking liquor from a braised piece of meat.  No—in my experience, dry pasta is an exercise in minimalism and economy.  Have some mortadella that needs to be used?  A radichio?  An onion?  Perfect.  Thinly slice all three, and beginning with the meat, fry in olive oil.  Is it a sauce?  No: it is a dressing—an austere enhancement to the magnificence of the pasta.  You wouldn’t try and improve upon the beauty of a Vermeer by submerging it in a gaudy frame, would you?

Part two will deal with boiling, draining, the theory of doneness and the heart-stopping few moments of marrying pasta and dressing.  

Volume Control

Something frightening lurks.

    I adore loud patterns; I can’t afford them though.  Let me explain.  Regardless of fiber, quality cloth is never inexpensive, and regardless of the source (ready-to-wear through bespoke), quality clothing made from quality cloth is an expensive proposition.  To squeeze the most value from the resulting garment the owner would hope for durability, an acceptable range of performance, and, most importantly, an appearance not so distinctive as to become familiar to those who regularly witness its use.  Put another way, a loud garment is a poor investment if worn sparingly, and embarrassing if worn too regularly.

    The obviously sensible approach, then, is to build a wardrobe comprised of tastefully restrained quality garments.  This is a well understood principle in classic menswear writing.  I can also personally attest to the satisfaction felt in slowly accumulating clothes expertly made of high-quality ingredients.  Importantly, satisfaction in a restrained wardrobe is derived from two sources.  There is the austere beauty of neatly hung garments in harmonizing shades, a result that appears functional and efficient.  But there is also the sense of security that originates from being prepared; nothing rattles the owner of this wardrobe, from unexpected business functions to splashy social occasions.  This is a mature wardrobe, but one built upon propriety rather than desire, and perhaps even fear rather than confidence.

A conservative (but vibrant!) blue tropical worsted.  

    I’m starting to wonder if the rubric has changed.  I have a friend who works in a conservative field, but not one that requires the daily wearing of a suit.  In fact, he is explicitly encouraged to wear nothing more exciting than chinos or slacks and tie-less button-front shirts.  He is a repressed soul while on the clock; once released, however, he blossoms in lilac checks and grass-green socks, tan brogues and electric plaids.  His tastes are far more adventurous than my own, but his comfort with color and pattern is obvious.  Most notably, though, he enjoys his clothes immensely, and because they are worn exclusively for social occasions, he is unconcerned with colleagues who might snipe at seeing some bold jacket for the third time.

    What he is, it should be clear, is a weekend dandy.  But I suspect not one of his own making.  He is, instead, a product of his environment—an American phenomenon that has concentrated propriety down to a rigidly anonymous and yet still casual uniform.  Of course some professions still expect conservative suits and accessories, but they are few, and fewer still are individual holdouts from previous generations who wouldn’t dream of relaxing their habit.  But generally the level of professional formality is greatly reduced in the US, while expectations of dress for social occasions have all but disappeared.  I suspect these are precisely the conditions that have given rise to a new breed of clothing enthusiast.  This new man might be somewhat repressed for much of the week, but the weekend unveils a wardrobe conceived in contradistinction to propriety: his is a collection grounded in confidence, exuberance and self-gratification.

Check please.

    Have garment makers responded?  Paging through some of the season’s better look-books reveals a steady diet of bold color and loud pattern, elements of costume and precious styling.  Some men may wear these things to work, but I suspect most wouldn’t dare in the combinations suggested.  And most retailers would rather oblige than force fashion; these bolder expressions, then, are surely reflections of where tastes are headed, one oversized plaid at a time.  Further up the chain, mills do seem to produce more exuberant cloths today than in recent memory.   Mills are an ideal advance indicator; quality cloth is not just expensive to buy but to produce, so if they are willing to bet on bold, then surely change is in the air.  As I glance at my own modest collection of semi-solids, the real question becomes: am I?

A Thrashing

I wonder what the neighbors think.

    I believe in the malleable and evolving habit of trends.  I also believe real labor is excellent exercise.  If the former belief is applied to the latter, I reckon it won’t be too long before those fitness enthusiasts who have embraced activities like swinging sledge hammers and hauling masonry will take notice of my interest in beating rugs.  I realize the optics are more domestic than woodsman, but I challenge any who scoff at the practice to beat a large Persian.  I do all six of mine twice each year (Fall and Spring).  It takes a full Saturday and when finished, my hands are blistered and my shoulders, abdomen, legs and arms are spent.  The rugs, however, emerge refreshed.

    The chore begins with the removal of furniture.  Once clear, the rug must be rolled, folded and hauled outside.  I use a combination of deck railings and outdoor furniture to suspend the rugs, but the ideal is a very stout rope between sturdy trees.  A large rug will tear a clothes line from its moorings faster than you can say Turkmen.  I prefer to do one at a time; this approach mimics the sets from a traditional workout, and when combined with all the furniture moving, hauling, unfurling, beating and replacing, the procedure takes on the effect of a circuit.  Additionally, if you try to beat several rugs in a row, you will punch yourself out by the second rug.

Cushions also benefit from a beating.

    The actual beating needs a few words.  The perfect instrument for the task is a men’s lacrosse stick.  I once chaperoned a class of third-graders on a field trip to one of those colonial villages.  There a woman in a convincing costume gave a rug-beating demonstration with a delicate little wire racket.  This was obviously a prop; it wouldn’t have lasted half-a-dozen real swings.  The beater must have some heft, but also some sort of flared, racket-like end so as to maximize the impact area.  I have never converted on the idea, but I have always thought a cricket bat with several large holes drilled into it would be a good instrument for beating a rug.  You might have to get creative here; as it happens I no longer play much lacrosse, though my stick is still perfectly capable of clobbering things.  

    The dust that explodes in plumes with each strike is astounding.  For this reason, you might consider a disposable particulate mask.  You should wear unprecious work clothes and probably bathe shortly after finishing as the loosed wool fibers can irritate.  People with allergies should probably stick to pushups etc.  Consult the weather forecast; unexpected rain would be a disaster.  A cool, windy day will not only be comfortable, but will help manage the dust.  The rugs will also seem particularly fresh.

    I don’t know if it is possible to accurately calculate, but I wonder how many calories are really expended in several hours spent as described above.  Doing multiple large rugs is a grueling physical challenge.  Unlike splitting wood, however, there is no neatly stacked evidence of labor. You will have to draw a sense of accomplishment from all that dust carried away on the breeze.

Taking Stock

    Anthropologists might describe my restlessness as a stifled urge to prepare for harvest and winter.  The industrious ant at ethical odds with the singing grasshopper, etc.  I blame the dying cicadas.  Or the calvados at lunch.  Either way, these undecided weeks between summer and the cooler seasons ahead always nudge me into reflection and, eventually, action.  I beat carpets and rearrange furniture.  I turn a melancholic eye to the garden; should I provide a quick and compassionate end for my flagging annuals?  Wood is split and things get painted.

    When attention falls to clothing and accessories, however, a gentler touch is required.  Consider the collar: what is the invisible threshold between charming fraying and the need to have a new one made?  Maybe it is time to replace the warped scales of an old straight-razor, or give up on an ancient crocodile belt whose own scales hang perilously.  Old boots are always evocative.  But mink oil and elbow grease must be used judiciously—too heavy a hand can dull their beauty.

   What about the intangible evidence of age?  Jackets with canvass chests mold to the figure.  Shoulders in stout tweed don’t so much collapse as they do settle.  Worsteds indescribably soften and linen trades some of its famous crispness for a fuller hand.  My favorite is the cotton shirt; somewhere beyond twenty launderings even ordinary cloth takes on a satisfying plushness.  But these desirable effects aren’t just invisible; they are temporary.  A soft and full hand is only the initial sign of a less welcome realization—that of decay.  But I’m not the first to consider the tension between labor and the inevitability of deterioration.  Robert Frost managed a few excellent lines on the topic:

…I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.  (34-40,The Wood-Pile,1912)

Oh Snap!

Scarf, à la modal.

    Are there places on our planet that enjoy luxurious, gentle transitions between the seasons?  Does any wardrobe rotate in steady lockstep with the ripening leaves, frosts, thaws and heat?  I ask for more than rhetorical effect; I would be envious of a place where linen, gaberdine, flannel and tweed can be predictably selected without fear of getting it terribly wrong.  Anywhere I have lived, it is summer one day, and the next it has already been fall for a week.  That it then reverses back just as I’ve slipped into warmer clothing—the dreaded Indian summer—is cruel.  And so we formulate ways to weather unseasonable seasons.  I find the following three items indispensable.  

    The fourteen ounce tweed jacket is ideal.  True, this conclusion is based on experience rather than science, and I realize tolerances vary greatly.  But I also challenge those skeptics to find this versatile weight far too hot or cold on those unpredictable inter-seasonal days.  I have worn one of mine between forty and seventy degrees fahrenheit without any major problems.  The trick, if it can be called that, is to mentally recategorize the jacket as a sweater or cardigan, which one wouldn’t think twice about slinging over an arm or wearing with a scarf as needed.

    Conversely, cotton socks present somewhat of a versatility challenge.  They don’t really insulate well while managing to wear too warmly in the real heat.  Quality versions are no less expensive than woolen socks and I have even struggled to launder them with consistent results.  But they are the only sock for unpredictable weather; not because they adjust, but because they will not cause too much discomfort if the temperature veers in either direction.  I realize this wisdom is less an endorsement for the cotton sock than a recommendation based upon its shortcomings.  But isn’t all versatility grounded in some form of compromise?

Cotton socks, languishing in mediocrity.

    Finally, the seemingly least practical tip.  For years I assumed the lightweight scarf was one of those silly accessories favored by stylists for their warm-weather clients who yearn for cold-weather style (these people live in Los Angeles, by the way).  But then I was given one made of modal (reconstituted cellulose spun to incredible fineness).  It is softer than cashmere, and, like a scrap of urban rubbish, could easily float around the city on a stiff enough updraft.  Despite these qualities it also insulates exceedingly well when worn beneath a jacket or casually over a lightweight knit.  I am a convert—with the sincerest apologies to stylists everywhere.

    There is one slight problem though.  A gauzy (polka-dotted) scarf will not go unnoticed, and tweed, while widely worn, has strong enough fall and winter connotations to elicit snarky comments if worn too early in the season.  These items are only as good as one’s likelihood of wearing them, and for one reason or another, most of my preferred inter-seasonal stuff is fairly conspicuous.   I wonder if this is why many men resort to technical gear—the sort of athletic stuff that is said to breathe and wick.  But I ask: what’s more alarming, a man warding off an unseasonal cold snap in tweed or the site of a mountaineer hailing a cab?

What the Fricassee?

Classic chicken fricassee made with all white meat.  The flavor will be deeper and richer if made with whole chicken parts, but the boneless skinless version is not without charm.  

    Everyone knows what a fricassee is; most just don’t realize it.  Ready?  The chicken filling in pot pie is a fricassee.  A white stew—nice in pastry, but just as good without.  Funnily, even the strictest version of the technique can be understood in three steps—sauté, deglaze, simmer—and yet the French name and confounding array of descriptions for what the procedure entails is, if not an immediate turn off, an eventual deterrent.  Why frica—whatever, when we can make a casserole?  Why indeed!  Because the fricassee is a noble preparation found in fourteenth century recorded cooking guides, and, it should not be overlooked, an easy way to elevate a busy weeknight.  Casseroles are neither.

    I usually like to singe away the colorful comparisons and romantic allusions that grow like lichen and describe cooking techniques in clear, declarative statements.  But the fricassee lends itself to a particularly helpful parallel—that of a brief braise.  The steps between techniques are identical:  Sauté meat in fat.  Remove to plate.  Add aromatic vegetables and herbs and sauté until wilting.  Deglaze with wine/water/broth.  Bring up to boil, reduce to simmer.  Return meat and collected juices, cover and simmer.  Those could be instructions for both a fricassee or a braise, the differences being the simmering time—twenty minutes for the former, three hours for the latter—and the amount of color on the meat in the initial step.  These are important differences though; a braise is dark and deeply flavored, a fricassee is both lighter in color and flavor, a dish for intermediary seasons rather than the depths of winter.  And it is the initial choice of meat that dictates the technique.

    Because they are white, quick cooking and mild, chicken and veal are the classic meats for a fricassee, but not all are ideal.  Save the older stewing birds for a dark braise; instead have a small fryer cut into eight pieces by the butcher.  I don’t ordinarily suggest boneless, skinless chicken breast, but alongside the paillard, fricassee makes another good use of an otherwise unexciting cut.  Veal is slightly more complicated.  Traditionalists might disagree with me here, but a fricassee is a quick cooking dish, so tender, quick-cooking pieces of veal, like cutlets, filets and loin are the only real candidates.  If you must use tougher pieces of stew meat they should be first simmered for an hour in seasoned water.  Actually this isn’t such an imposition; the resulting veal broth is perfect for the fricassee.

    Finally, a fricassee is significantly thickened—the aspect of the dish that seems to stumble most home cooks.  I have seen recipes calling for egg and cream liaisons where yolks are first tempered and then carefully incorporated into the final stew, but the results I achieve with flour are satisfying.  I begin by dusting the raw chicken, raw veal or simmered veal pieces in flour and sautéing in butter, careful not to brown.  Some of the flour will come off in the hot fat, making the beginning of that most dependable thickening agent—a roux.  Once the meat is removed, and if necessary (it usually is) I add more flour and butter, taking a minute or two to make a smooth paste.  Then proceed as above: aromatics, liquid, return meat and simmer.  This two-stage method all but guarantees a correctly thickened result.  Serve over noodles, potatoes or in the cooking pan alongside crusty bread.

    I took a swipe at casseroles earlier and I meant it.  The problem isn’t the technique; casseroling is really just baking pre-prepared components in a serving vessel.  Shepard’s pie is a casserole, and I would never put that classic down.  The problem is with the genre, which values assembly over technique and cleverness of theme over good taste.  While fricassees and casseroles don’t really share DNA, they seem to occupy the same compartment of the home cook’s brain, namely, an easy and comforting solution for  a hurried weeknight meal.  The difference is a fricassee doesn’t rely upon a layer of molten cheese and a snappy name; its good taste is derived from seven centuries of satisfied diners.

A Brushing Up

Garment brushes relaxing between shifts.  The one of the right is rimmed in soft white bristles for more delicate clothes of cashmere, flannel and lambswool.

    I sometimes wonder if brushing a suit is really just an arcane performance, long surpassed by evolved technology or shifting cultural practice.  Like shaving with a straight razor, more efficient means exist for the job, and if a man really can’t be bothered he can display facial hair without fear of raised eyebrows.  Curiously, while five days growth might not attract much attention, dusty lapels and shoulders do get noticed.  Something to do with a cultural repulsion to dandruff, I suspect.  So what is the correct tool for combat?  

    The most widely used is surely the adhesive roller.  These work, but have two problems.  The first can be ascribed to Murphy: if in a rush for some important appointment, the roller will have a single used sheet remaining.  The other problem is that a roller only grabs surface dust and hair, leaving other matter embedded in the cloth.  Those velvet pads are unhelpful for the same reason, and anything battery-operated is obviously out, if not for the potential of failure (batteries are a famous entry point for Murphy) then for the control one gives up in pressure and vigor.  I have heard accounts of mangled pic-stitching and premature threadbareness while in the hands of dry-cleaners and their exotic devices.  

    I still say the traditional brush is best.  What it gives up in immediate gratification it makes up for by never running out, and while removing hairs and dust might take a more diligent session than the ten seconds previously spent with a roller, the results over time are clearly superior.  You would’t take a few hasty swipes with a straight razor, lop an ear off, and decide the blade’s sharpness was the problem, would you?  No—like any manual solution the results are in the persistence of correct technique.  Here is what works for me:  

Have one stiff and one soft brush.  Use the former for hard worsteds, dense tweed, crisp linen and cotton, the latter for flannel, cashmere, lambswool and anything that seems delicate.

Angle the brush down in the direction of the pass to avoid the bristles biting into the cloth.

Several long, gentle passes are preferable to short, brisk ones.  The danger of raising an undesirable nap is real, even on seemingly robust tweed.

Use the free hand to gently pull taught the cloth being brushed.  Alternatively, support the cloth from inside, running the free hand in tandem with the brush.

Pay particular attention to the shoulders and lapels.  Not only are these the most noticeable portions of a suit, they also collect the most debris.  

Avoid brushing too heavily the sleevehead.  Cloth and shaping can show wear here more readily.  

Set aside half an hour to brush a full suit.  A two minute job achieves virtually nothing.

Sewing Envy

The (stylish) man thinketh.

    Autumn’s vanguard arrives annually the week following Labor Day in the form of meticulously contrived and photographed look books.  I receive scads of the things, always feigning annoyance as I pry them from my mail slot.  The mail lady sees through my charade though; I forgo the wastepaper bin, tuck the goods and stiff-arm my way to the elevator bank.  When I find the time, I indulge freely.  It was Somerset Maugham who put it best: “I have not been afraid of excess: excess on occasion is exhilarating.  It prevents moderation from acquiring the deadening effect of a habit.”  An hour later, the effect is that of too much clotted cream.  Except tweed and suede.  For all the preaching classic menswear enthusiasts do concerning restraint and moderation, it is satisfying to swim in the exuberant arranging, layering and posing of the expert stylist gone wild with quality menswear. 

    The unrivaled champion of the look book is Paul Stuart, the American clothier and haberdasher founded in New York in the late 30s.  This will not be so surprising for anyone who has visited the shops; they are monuments to Anglo-American style groaning with ancient madder, cashmere and tweed.  This year’s look book collects the finest examples in the Smithsonian Institution where forlorn and bearded models contemplate the John Singer Sargent exhibition.  What Paul Stuart does so well is make the implausible feel natural.  An olive cashmere flannel suit with double breasted waistcoat is impossible, until one sees it worn by a man deep in thought over an American masterpiece.  The piece-de-resistance, however, is a vicuña topcoat in an exploded glen plaid with velvet collar.  The model is accessorized with peccary gloves, whangee umbrella and a velour fedora.  You know what they say about nothing exceeds etc.   Incidentally, the setting isn’t random; Paul Stuart is currently building a store in DC—not far from the Smithsonian.  

    Further South, in Charleston South Carolina, is the home of a menswear brand that I have never fully understood: Ben Silver.  I can’t speak to the quality of the ready-to-wear offerings, but I assume it is well enough if men still patronize.  It is the styling I struggle with.  On the Anglo-American spectrum, Ben Silver caroms wildly, from a vast selection of actual regimental ties (that might cause offense if worn by a civilian) to ties with embroidered jockeys—the sort of thing one might imagine Rodney Dangerfield wearing after hitting it big on race seven.  Their Autumn look book is soulless, or, more accurately, headless: the models are photographed from the neck down which displays the clothes nicely, but removes the moody human element that makes paging though Paul Stuart’s effort so rewarding.  The compositions are nice though, and bravo for the double breasted tweed on page ten.  

    Finally, Bloomingdales.  I admit some of the pleasure derived from these look books stems not from admiration, but from that baser quality of the clothes enthusiast: smugness.  For those readers who might not be aware, it is currently said that we are experiencing a renaissance in menswear—that the self-conscious drabness that some say marked the first decade of this millennium is giving way to a happier, classic aesthetic.  This sounds terrific, but the execution is often questionable.  In many instances, this rediscovery of masculinity boils down to a single stroke: the use of glen plaid.  That the trousers are skin tight, or the jackets cropped higher than my wife’s matters little; the visual reference of the pattern is what counts.  The other tool in the marketing arsenal is narrative.  Models appear as athletes, eco-warriors and, my personal favorite, off-the-grid woodsmen.  This last trope has a fashionably attired model traipsing through the forest in trousers that would split within the first few minutes of a proper hike and conspicuous work boots with electric blue lug soles.  His companion is a white wolf; not to worry, the model hasn’t enough flesh on him.

    The fundamental principle behind all look books is this: ready-to-wear clothing requires fantasy.  A photograph of a blazer leaves most men cold.  Worn by a handsome model paddling his date around in a skiff, Champagne picnic awaiting in the near distance, the blazer enters some other part of the brain, namely that ruled by desire.  Whether I care for the clothes or not is irrelevant; I appreciate the fun stylists are having with the narrative, however silly some of the results are.  In an attempt to gain more control, I have moved away from ready-to-wear in recent years.   While acting as one’s own designer can be very satisfying, it can also be a lonely hobby.  Perhaps the look book is less a guilty pleasure then; maybe my attraction is just that old sentiment envy, urging me to wonder whether the cashmere is really softer on the other side.

Child's Play

Don't let the innocent faces fool you; I'm fairly certain a few cherry bombs had just been lit in the bathroom.

    I recently discovered a cache of photographs dating from the mid eighties.  They are of me and friends or family, and because film still had the aspect of being finite, the settings are limited to special occasions—weddings, birthdays, graduations.  I was an active young boy; things like tablets having not yet been invented, I instead played in the woods and grappled with friends.  Dressing for special occasions did not prevent me from these pursuits, however, and I recall a persistent tension between being in good clothes and wanting to, say, organize a bonfire.  Precisely because of that tension these photographs are a source of inspiration, and in studying three in particular, an enviable authenticity reveals itself.

    The first photograph finds me and a friend on a boat in the Hudson River.  It is a wedding and I am appropriate in a navy suit.  A red and gold foulard is snugly cinched into the collar of a white shirt, but otherwise left askew and flapping.  A lapel folds and hair is anything but smoothed.   My friend, a more adventurous spirit than me, stares into the camera, challenging the viewer to say something about his choice of odd jacket and navy trousers for so formal an occasion.  That the jacket is double breasted and carries a jaunty check reinforces his cocktail-wielding swagger.  The lesson couldn’t be plainer: actual dishevelment is superior to artful dishevelment.  Only the most tedious dresser would intentionally cause a tie to flap or permit a little thing like propriety to ruin his evening.

Lock up your daughters.

    I am maybe a year older in the second photo, and, perhaps influenced by the Welsh countryside that is the setting, more casually turned out.  My cousin and I are on our way to an outdoor school function—an ideal setting to this day for the dependable navy blazer and tan trouser combinations we both have chosen.  A closer inspection reveals rich detail.  My jacket is a low-slung four-on-one double breasted, a style named after the man who popularized it—The Duke of Kent.  I wear it brazenly unbuttoned.  My cousin tucks his tie into his pants.  My boutonniere is set at a rakish angle.  A penny-loafered foot juts out beneath rumpled chinos revealing white socks.  Refusing to fuss over one’s clothes takes real restraint, or, as is the case when eleven, truly not giving a whiff.  Sadly, today I do care; I actively resist smoothing lapels and adjusting ties.  If I could only have retained the nonchalance of my youth.  

    The third and last photograph is the most causal look, and I will begin with the obvious lesson therein: active wear should be made of rougher materials and with durability in mind, but no less coordinated than more formal clothes.  Casualness is not an opportunity for slovenliness, or, as is often the case, colorblindness.  To wit: blue-on-ivory check flannel shirt, navy cable-knit sweater vest, regimental ribbon belt, pale blue needle cords.  Ideal clothes for whatever mischief the weekend promises.

Who are you calling matchy-matchy?

    To be truly inspirational, the confluence of dress and activity must be genuine.  I see too many kids parading around in carefully conceived “outfits” today, playing the part but ultimately too concerned with scuffing their special edition athletic shoes.  Ask yourself—what’s cooler:  a kid dressed as a skater skating, or that same kid, following some event, hitting a rail in chinos, blazer, tie and penny loafers?  This is, of course, well understood in cinema.  The same principle has Cary Grant in a suit dodging a crop duster, or any number of Bonds actively ruining a dinner jacket.  There is style in treating one’s clothes as clothes rather than rare possessions, but we adults can only hope to do it with the abandon of a child.