Color Code: Cracked

If the decision is between Beeswax and Tudor Cream, something has already gone dramatically wrong.

    Nothing turns me off discussions of clothes quite like color theory.  I do an about face the instant someone begins discussing shades in terms of families.  I’m far more interested in the imaginative names assigned colors than the colors themselves (which accounts for our second floor damask rose room).  The very worst, though, are those color enthusiasts who describe people in terms of season; telling someone he is a winter or a spring is an obvious invitation to tap the speaker for his bristling knowledge of the subject.  I’d rather be washed out in the wrong taupe than endure that sort of a lecture.  

    What chafes me is the quackery that seems to uphold most of these theories.  The main problem is the subject—my complexion—is a moving target.  I once had freckles, but now don’t.  Last year, following two weeks in or around salt water, what’s left of my hair became sort of reddish; it’s now flecked with silver and gray.  When it is very cold and dry, I suspend my shaving routine, and my beard grows in an alarmingly dark brown.  In the tropics I take sun easily, but lose it on the flight home.  In any event, I don’t wear my trousers tied around my head, so what does it matter if they aren’t the ideal shade of goldenrod for my eyebrows?  Also, even if teal is really my color according to one of these experts, I’m never going to have a shirt made in it.  

    And this is really the heart of the matter: regardless of what colors might or might not suit the individual, most shirts will remain white or blue and most suits grey, navy or perhaps brown.  Accessories might stray into more adventurous territory, but I often think the success or failure of a daring tie or sweater depends more upon the harmony of the composition than it does the shade of something as comparatively small as the iris.  

    That’s not to suggest color is not important.  It is, but the time thinking about color is better spent determining which ones don’t flatter as opposed to sifting through the much larger group of ones that either work reasonably well, or, because of tradition or professional expectation, are going to be worn anyway.  When confronted with vast choice, navigation is far more efficient when armed with trial-and-error proven guidelines than some shaky system that recommends flattering colors dependent upon a shifting complexion.  In short, it is easier to know what to avoid than to wonder if something is correct.  

    In an effort to sound authoritative but as unscientific as possible, I have listed as bullet points below my personal guidelines.

-Do not trust anyone who thinks brown and black don’t go well together.

-Dark green is incredibly handsome and remarkably underused.   

-Off-white is often better than stark white.*  Plus the names are better: cream, ivory, bone…

-Primary colors are forbidden, as are two shades in either direction of them.  

-Be careful with purple, orange and lighter greens.

-Gold rather than silver.

-When in doubt: Navy.

*The exception being more formal evening occasions when only a white shirt will do.

The Over-Under

    Prior to commercialized aviation, capacious tweed overcoats and flowing raglan-sleeved things were considered sensible items to wear for travel.  They acted as wearable blankets, I suppose, protecting the person (and his clothes) within from the blasts of cold air at each stop and the jostling of the platform.  A few months ago I was reminded why these otherwise handsome garments are no longer just the thing for today’s traveler: a tall fellow swept into the crowded cabin of our commuter jet, the folds of his caped balmacaan nearly collecting several pre-flight cocktails and a small child before he finally found his seat.  Once there, he and the crew puzzled over where to store the monstrosity.  It was unceremoniously folded and jammed beneath a seat.  He was silly for wearing it, but generally speaking, I can commiserate; travel today limits considerably good choices, and outerwear takes the greatest casualties.  

    Lightweight technical gear is one solution, but finding an example that covers the rear, let alone  extends several inches below a jacket line, is difficult.  The other problem with technical jackets is they derive warmth from some sort of filler—wadding, down or, I was amazed to recently discover, polystyrene beads.  While not as cumbersome as heavy wool, volume of any description is just unwelcome in a cramped cabin.  My solution is an exercise in true compromise: I travel most often with the original technical gear—the waxed cotton jacket.  A Barbour Beaufort, to be precise.  This model is raglan sleeved, unlined, water resistant and what it lacks in real warmth, it makes up for in its ability to easily layer over anything from heavy fisherman’s sweaters to tweed odd jackets.  Its most valuable property, however, is that it is unprecious, looking as good rumpled and battered as it does freshly reconditioned.  I wouldn’t flinch if a sullen flight attendant should screw it up into a ball and use it to mop up a spilled Bloody Mary, let alone cram it into an overhead bin.  

    The other, considerably more imaginative configuration poses a fundamental question: what is outerwear?  A tweed jacket was, and often still is, outerwear.  And what about sweaters, garments developed to be worn for outdoor pursuits?  Many might ordinarily pack both, but the smartest packers do so with an eye toward creating a traveling wardrobe that serves in lieu of proper outerwear.  A fourteen ounce tweed jacket worn over a shirt and knit serves well in temperatures down to freezing with scarf, gloves and hat added to the rig.  And as long as we are playing fast and loose with categories, another more progressive option lurks: the lightweight technical vest.  If it is slim enough and not too puffy it, too, can be worn beneath a tweed jacket.  I’ve done this; it is as warm as any proper outerwear.  

    I perhaps overstated the difficulty of traveling with an overcoat.  I have done it with a covert cloth coat.  It does require a certain amount of strategic folding and stashing, but it can be done.  Perhaps what is really needed is the right degree of carelessness; my covert coat is old and softly unstructured and I wouldn’t lose my cool if a gate agent ordered me to check it amongst the strollers and golf bags.  The real issue is convenience, though.  Travel is rarely what it once was, and the more the traveller can do to reduce friction, the better.  If this means going without a beloved overcoat for the duration, so be it.

Nuggets of Wisdom

    Carelessness is, or should be, unwelcome in any working kitchen.  There is safety to consider; illness originates more often with the careless cook than from the ingredients themselves.  But even when hands are washed and correct temperatures reached there is taste to consider.  Limp and anonymous salad greens might not make everyone ill, but neither will they charm, and why serve charmless food?  Happily, I haven’t eaten at a restaurant in recent memory that hasn’t stressed its use of peak local ingredients—farm-to-table—I believe, is the obsequious way most servers put it.  But while local seasonality is all very well, the idea does have one rather unhelpful side-effect: it gives the impression that time, place and ingredients are immutable factors in creating a good meal.

    So rigid an approach to food might be an attempt at authenticity.  The logic is quite simple, and makes for very good television.  A host—either an emissary from the place being tapped for the show or a crusty but trusted food personality, and often both—explores the place in question for the viewer.  This is done from a first person point of view, with fluid and lively camera work, clever editing and plenty of close-ups of food and drink.  The climax of the performance is when it is declared, usually during a dramatic sunset, that only in a place like this, with these humble local ingredients can meals be so perfect.  The viewer is left with the impression that outside of say, Tuscany, authenticity is myth.  I say that message is bogus.  

    I understand and appreciate the romantic allure of farm-to-table, hyper-local, and nose-to-tail food production, and I’m aware that many very fine restaurants have organized themselves (logistically as well as philosophically) around strict parameters of geography and season.  But what, really, is so new about far-ranging trade and the globalization of ingredients?   The Egyptians, Assyrians and Greeks each cultivated extensive trade networks.  The Romans organized entire meals around exotic rarities, the more difficult to attain, the better.  The Vikings took ample time off from marauding to sell their salted cod throughout Europe.  And what of the Silk Road or the westward pursuit of the New World?  In every instance, two things are exchanged: ingredients and knowledge.  While some ingredients might do very well in certain places, isn’t knowledge of preparation the more important exchange?  Put another way, I think eating locally is great; I just don’t assign the practice any metaphysical value beyond apparent freshness and taste.  

    More important to today’s home cook than historical food custom, however, is practicality, and it is here that too rigid an approach to ingredients is truly unhelpful.  Consider the gnocchi, an Italian potato dumpling made using leftover potato, flour and egg.  A very good gnocchi is tender and light rather than dense and gummy.  This is best achieved by limiting the amount of time kneading the raw dough.  Also: the russet potato is traditionally preferred to waxy varieties as the former has floury, drier flesh.  But what if boiled waxy potatoes are on hand?  Does gnocchi not get made?  Or, worse, do the potatoes go unused?  Do we forfeit technique for the sake of a single missing ingredient?

    Certainly not in my kitchen.  That’s because gnocchi is less a recipe than an efficient way to stretch some scant leftover.  Done enough times and with a wide variety of potatoes, the technique self-adjusts to accommodate higher or lower moisture content, more or less starch, stronger or milder flavor.   Where recipes are blind lists of requirements with little regard for variance, proper technique permits the flexibility that is necessary when dealing with something so fickle as an ingredient.  In this sense, technique is both the opposite of rote cooking and the voice of reason as concerns ingredients.

Gnocchi

Skin leftover potatoes and mash to a semi-even paste.  Add an equal quantity of flour and a few pinches of salt.  Dump onto a clean countertop and make a well in the center of the mass.  Add an egg or two (or three or more, depending on the volume of flour and potato) and, using a fork, begin incorporating the egg, flour and potato.  Mix to the constancy of dry bread dough, kneading only enough to incorporate all ingredients.  Let rest for a few minutes.  Cut the mass into several equal pieces.  Roll these pieces into one-inch diameter logs.  Chop half inch pieces from each log.  Flick each piece off the tines of a fork to score one side (if desired) and store dusted with fresh flour until ready to boil.  Boil: depending on size, gnocchis are usually ready one minute after floating to the top.

Enrobed

    I always had a robe going, despite having no discernible need of one.  In college, a cotton flannel robe hung sullenly from a nail knocked into the bathroom door.  A girlfriend might have worn it once.  In my early working life I was given a plush robe by a different girlfriend.  This one had my initials embroidered into the chest, which must have seemed like a good gift for someone with a surfacing interest in classic clothing.  But it was artifice—a cheaply made polyester thing from an airline order catalogue.  I’m not embarrassed to admit its gimmicky presence in my bathroom became daily confirmation that we should part ways.  I’m equally unashamed to admit the gift of a finely made Turkish toweling robe was a not insignificant indicator that I should take seriously the person who gave it to me.  My wife remains very good at discerning these things.

    That last one is my current robe, but not until we had children did it see any real action.  Before kids I jumped from bed to shower to being dressed with not so much as thirty-seconds between stations.  As any parent knows, though, kids need things at inhuman hours, and one’s own routine quickly loses precedence to bottles and midnight hunts for misplaced stuffed animals.  A robe, then, becomes the essential covering of the twilight hours—the utilitarian and familiar uniform of early parenthood.  This sudden and continuous use has its effect though; a soft, broken-in character has given way to a creaking threadbareness that threatened disintegration as of late.  Diving for a teetering vase the other day I ripped the back wide open, from blade to blade.  It is beyond repair, I’m afraid.  

    But in every calamity exists opportunity, and in the passing of that first quality robe comes the prospect of a new one—this one optimized for its duty.  But does such an article exist?  The chief qualities of my sadly passed toweling robe were, in descending order of importance: unpreciousness, launderability, absorbency, comfort, style.  The problem, if it can be called one, is the necessary time spent in robes has developed in me the taste for lounging about in them too.  Sundays, when little more fills the agenda than watching an egg poach (or the home team lay one) a robe of some more dignified ingredients and construction seems a nice idea.  Perhaps something more than a man-shaped towel?  Something I might even wear in the evening once the kids are soundly asleep?  So—does such an article exist?

    Having given extensive thought to the matter, I have decided that no, a robe cannot both weather the assaults of people under four and appear elegantly off-duty at home.  Two articles are required.  At first this realization concerned me; what should a wife think of a husband who not so long ago couldn’t fathom more than a towel, but who now ponders the robe wardrobe?  But then I discovered her own cache—five in total, ranging from vintage silk (given her by my mother) to some sort of billowing Grecian sacrificial vestment, complete with hood.  A modest requirement of two should hardly raise eyebrows.  Plus, I understand they make good gifts.  

    The first should be relatively similar to the now deceased: Turkey toweling, in white or navy, as beefy as it comes.  It will be laundered to death, so nothing too extravagant.  The other, however, might conceivably possess some swagger.  Woolen flannel appeals, particularly when made to measure and finished with subtly contrasting piping.  The one gripe there is seasonality; what does one do in the summer?  A third robe is, even for this newfound robe enthusiast, one too many.  Linen is out for the same reason.  This leaves the obvious: silk.  Of course with that revelation comes as many questions as answers.  Chief among them: is such a thing no longer a robe, but a dressing gown?

All Together Now

    Unlike the pushup, or the familiar act of walking, jumping jacks are resistant to a romanticized treatment.  Flailing one’s arms and legs is just too juvenile—too third grade physical education class—to be recast as a plausible adult exercise.  And yet, my experience tells me otherwise.  Fifty jumping jacks, executed at a proper clip, raises the heart rate and taxes the arms and legs.  I’ve also witnessed otherwise decent youth athletes incapable of correctly doing even a few jumping jacks.  It’s a matter of coordination, I’ve noticed.  

    Even without that obnoxious word’s most common compound qualifier—hand-eye—many of us are sent reeling back to adolescent gym class upon hearing it, and, depending on our experiences while there, either delighted to be free of math and spelling or nauseated with terror.  Unlike later athletics, gym class was never a proving ground for real competition; it is instead a laboratory where natural facility is laid bare, and where the first glimpses of future ability are revealed.  Some children naturally move their appendages through space, finding fluidity and rhythm once a ball is introduced.  But it is here too that a less welcome discovery is made.  For every natural, three others struggle against the very framework of our reality.  Gravity becomes a demon, and space and time bedevil all effort.  Discouraged in youth, many have grown to adulthood quite happy to be free of the burden, and while enough coordination naturally manifests to get most of us through an ordinary day without calamity, I often wonder what a more developed sense of coordination could do for even the most two-left-footed amongst us.  Anyway, whoever said old dogs can’t learn new tricks?  

    Done correctly, jumping jacks require balance, timing, rhythm and effort—the sum of which is coordination.  The familiar movement is as follows:  Beginning with feet together and arms at the sides (also know as standing), jump.  While airborne, laterally open legs greater than shoulder width.  Simultaneously, and with minimal bending of elbows, raise arms from side in a sweeping arch above the head.  They should graze at the apex.  Land in this open position.  Jump once more, this time returning legs and arms to starting position.  Repeat.  

    What makes the movement challenging for some is timing.  An errant arm or a leg out of syncopation throws off balance in an instant, which, once  lost, is difficult to regain.  As the benefit of the exercise occurs only after fifty or so are done at a good pace, establishing a rhythm is essential.  This takes physical effort, but a surprising degree of concentration as well.  I’m not sure if jumping jacks sharpen the mind as well as they tone the calves, but effort no less.  I suppose if the advanced among us wish to increase the mental strain they might try counting in prime numbers (one through two hundred twenty-seven would be fifty).  

    Skeptics—which advocating jumping jacks always seems to attract—are usually mollified when challenged to do ten jumping jacks with one arm secured behind the back.  Actually this is an interesting variant for those who master the basic jumping jack as removing a limb from the equation requires additional balance and unusual effort from the trunk.  So unusual, in fact, I’d wager even polished athletes might be reminded of their less auspicious beginnings in third grade gym class.  For if there is one aspect unique to coordination, it is that it can always be sharpened.

Core Competency

    In the wrong hands, sweater vests happily fail.  During the last primaries, Rick Santorum, US presidential hopeful and vest enthusiast, demonstrated this principle masterfully, even hocking a limpid version embroidered with his campaign logo in a late effort to raise critical funds.  It, and he, failed; irony is just not the stuff from which presidents are made.  I must confess that this particular stunt offended far more than the typical ribbing that ordinarily clings to sweater vests and their advocates.  I often wear them and have grown accustomed to the occasional gibe, but any attempt at marginalizing this practical garment as mere costume cuts too deeply.  

    Sleevlessness alone isn’t the problem: down vests, waistcoats from three-piece suits, flak jackets—these don’t attract ridicule like their knit cousins.  In truth, the opposite is true as the above examples are the stuff of adventurers, power brokers and soldiers.  At best a sweater vest is tidy, at worst, a signifier of a stock nerd—an instant Steve Urkel or Rick Moranis.  This isn’t accidental though.  Nerds are nothing if not practical, and the sweater vest really is a remarkably practical thing.  

    The reasons why are both demonstrable and metaphysical.  Layered dressing works well because each successive layer of clothing multiplies the air pockets that aid in insulating the body.  Unlike one heavy layer, several lighter layers can be shed or added as need arises.  The problem is wearing several layers can feel restrictive, especially though the shoulders and arms.  By eliminating sleeves, a sweater vest can comfortably reside between shirt and jacket, insulating the torso while leaving the major joints free to comfortably operate.

    But there is more to a sweater vest than common sense.  A day spent in one provides a difficult to categorize experiential aspect.  Freedom of movement is important, as is insulation of the core, but the sum is somehow greater than the parts.  I suspect it makes the wearer feel clever for having been practical.  This is especially the case when it comes to travel.  Here sweater vests really shine, from the dramatic temperature differences between cabs, terminals and cabins to the greatly reduced space they seem to require in a case.  When packing room is limited, a sweater vest also seems to multiply looks; a navy blazer or tweed coat gains new life once a characterful sweater vest is slipped beneath.

    As is so often, the intersection of practicality and versatility is also the entry point for style.  The wearer is inevitably a thinking man, but not one so fastidious as to be concerned with the potential of looking a tad square.  He instead dabbles equally in fair isle and argyle, camel hair and cashmere, unconcerned that one or the other might disrupt some meta-harmony of an otherwise restrained composition.  He might even be considered louche.  But, importantly, he's also warm around the middle.

Simmer Down

The prize at the end of the ordeal.

Part two of two.

    The critical first step to a quality braise is a deep browning of the meat.  This might seem a strange starting point considering the slow, long cooking time ahead, but braising properly depends as much upon the first few minutes as it does on the passive stretches to come.  And to that end, I must first broach a prickly subject: the much loved, but irreconcilably unnecessary electric slow cooker.  These devices have gained popularity as the ultimate expediency—a sort of force-multiplier for the harried professional.  Whether enthusiastic but talentless or just the latter, anyone can plug one in, plonk in a hunk of tough meat, a few other questionable ingredients, and disappear for a day.  Upon returning, the slow cooker will have filled the home with homey aromas, a quart or two of mediocre stew and the false impression that cooking has taken place.  That the result is better than takeout is its validation for consuming three square feet of storage space.  

    A meal cooked in a slow cooker is no more a proper braise than a cheap Caravaggio print is a masterpiece.  True—a braise requires low heat and time, both of which the slow cooker can muster, but the delivery is without the complexity and nuance of a proper foundation.  To build that foundation, what’s needed is an enameled cast iron dutch oven, the heavier, the better.  I have a twelve-quart oval beast, blue on the outside, black as coal within.  It performs consistently a dozen times each month.  It will outlive me.  Find me an electrical appliance that can boast the same.

      Browning the meat for a braise requires more time than one might think.  I allow at least fifteen minutes.  Begin by heating the dutch oven on medium high until a drop of neutral oil gently smokes (if it furiously smokes and runs, allow the pot to cool for a minute).  I find it’s best to brown the fattiest side first; not only is this the likely presentation side, but much of the fat will render, aiding the browning of the other surfaces of the joint.  Brown until uniformly and deeply brown—more mahogany than oak in color.  Repeat for each side, until all surfaces, including the narrow ends—which will require active holding with tongs—have achieved the same rich hue.  Remove to a platter and prepare for the fast-paced critical building of the braise.

    In the dutch oven is now the beginning of the braise’s foundation—what the French fondly refer to as fond.  These browned bits of meat—some stuck to the bottom, others suspended in fat—will contribute concentrated flavor once they have dissolved into the cooking liquid.  But before liquid, crucially, comes aromatics and thickeners.  Begin with the former—several cups of medium sized mirepoix, a few sprigs of thyme and salt and pepper.  Add it all directly to the fond, scraping and and loosening any stuck pieces.  As the mirepoix cooks, it will begin releasing moisture, which, in turn, will aid in dissolving the fond.  Next up is a thickener in the form of concentrated tomato paste; add three or four tablespoons directly to the mirepoix, stirring until evenly distributed.  Tomato paste is high in sugar, and a minute or so after being added those sugars will begin to caramelize.  This is ideal; the paste will go from red to rusty orange, then brown, and eventually deep mahogany.  Do be careful not to burn it though.  Finally, liquid.  Red wine is all but mandatory—a bottle of Beaujolais is ideal.  Stir for a minute or so until all the tomato paste and fond has dissolved in the wine.  Stock isn’t mandatory, but welcome.  Either way, one or two additional cups of liquid might be necessary, and stock, more wine or water will do.   The final step is to return the pork shoulder and the collected juices that have leached from the joint while it rested.  If the braising liquid in the dutch oven comes about halfway up the side of the shoulder, bravo.  Cover and put in an oven not hotter than two hundred and fifty degrees.  

A shoulder browning in a dutch oven.

    There is an arc to braising that begins with a docile slab of pork on the counter and ends with a quietly aromatic pot in the oven.  The half hour in-between can be frenetic—something best countered by being organized.  I line all the ingredients up in order of use: pork, mirepoix (and other seasonings), tomato paste, wine.  Concentrate on each step, and the pot will be in the oven making the neighbors jealous in no time at all.  Three hours later, and a pork shoulder has been braised.  

    Once braised, there is one last decision to be made, however.  French or Italian?  Most likely, the French would carefully remove the braised shoulder to a sheet pan or oven-safe platter to be roasted at a higher heat.  In the interim, the sauce would be degreased, reduced further, strained and possibly butter-enriched.  Once crisp, the braised shoulder would be sliced and served anointed with the sauce alongside some perfectly boiled potatoes.  The Italians, who I find more sensible in these matters, would remove the shoulder to a platter, and add a kilo of freshly boiled pasta to the braising liquid, instantly creating two courses: primi (the pasta) and secondi (the pork).  There are no wrong decisions though; done properly, a pork shoulder is failsafe.  Just no appliances, please.

Missing Link

The gold standard.

    It pains me to admit this, but precious cufflinks really do reek of overindulgence.  I realize needs differ amongst men, but if I wear a French cuff, it is only with a suit, and really only a more formal suit for those important, non-business occasions like weddings and charity events.  This is a narrow window, which perhaps explains the economic side of why I favor silk knots—the aesthetic one being that silk knots provide that soupçon of modesty that can bring a good composition into harmony.  Inexpensive or mildly decrepit accessories often have this effect, but I digress.  Precious cufflinks are difficult to justify.  

    This realization came particularly into focus a few weeks ago a when a good friend, who is getting married in May, asked me to help him navigate the vast market of cufflinks and/or dress sets.  Being a particular fellow himself, he had some ideas, but wanted a broader sense of what is appropriate and worthwhile.  I began compiling a list of links (the internet sort) to links (the cuff sort) that I thought worked, but quickly realized the results should be fractured in two—the merely correct and the truly fabulous.  The former featured links and studs made from gold, silver, onyx and pearl in masculine shapes and modest sizes.  Oh, but the other list!  It began innocently enough: agate, carnelian, jade—but very quickly spiraled out of control: white gold studded with sapphire, ruby cabochons, diamond encrusted rhodium.  It was not long before the twinkle of these rarities had mesmerized my own restrained senses.  My mother just happened to phone and I explained what I was up to, proposing that I wondered whether my friend ought not really splurge on something fabulous.  Her response: “You can’t show him those—he’ll look like a bloody riverboat gambler!”  I decided not to mention that the New Orleans wedding would be taking place a few steps from both river boats and casinos.  

Mother of Pearl studs complemented by sterling links.   

    The lesson is clear: extravagance won’t be ignored.  Not earth shattering, I realize, but certainly a significant maxim when considered within the context of classic menswear—a niche that usually rejects flash in favor of understatement.  But where is the line?  Onyx and mother of pearl are traditional and unimpeachable choices for formalwear, but how do these differ from other semi-precious materials?  The sense of occasion and infrequency with which formal links and studs are worn helps, but my main complaint with the jades, tiger’s eyes, carbuncles and whatever else haunts the dreams of aspiring Dorian Grays is color.  Its addition at the cuff is just one more data point with which to contend when getting ready.

    Alternatively, I’ve always thought plain gold adds just the correct level of warmth and richness to a cuff.  Gold, the color, is anything but neutral, but gold (Au) melts into its surroundings, anointing its wearer with the right level of soft glint.  Gold, unlike hunks of turquoise and cabochons of garnet, looks like it is supposed to be holding together a cuff.  This is especially true of simple designs—hexagonal placards, modest domes, ovals.  My personal grail is probably a curved barbell design with smooth, unadorned orbs at each end.  A little etching or engine turned texture is welcome, but anything more—and certainly anything novel, like a face or pair of six-shooters—and we are right back hustling rubes on the riverboat.

Shape Shifting

The city trilby, in graphite gray.  Notice the hat band's reflection--bright and noticeable, even though this one matches identically the felt.  

    Hats that can plausibly be worn are relatively few considering the vast array.  By plausibly, I mean both without attracting unwanted attention and, more importantly, without ironic intent.  This isn’t so surprising, really; a hat and one other key accessory is often all that’s required to convincingly evoke a well-known film or literary character--useful on occasions for which a costume is expected, but problematic the rest of the time. Put another way, if you do not wish to attract Guy Fawkes references, a black, wide-brimmed stovepipe hat is out of the question—even without the d’Artagnan beard.  

    But costume hats are hardly alone in attracting attention.  Consider the bowler, which on its famous features alone should be the easiest headgear for a man to adopt.  It is compact, free of immodest swoops or creases, practical in that it is stiffened.  It is also impossible to wear without eliciting remarks.  The same is only slightly less true of the homburg (the hat made famous by Anthony Eden and Poirot), and the top hat is largely irrelevant; the boater (a thickly plaited straw hat with a flat top and brim) is feasible, although comments involving Gatsby are inevitable, whereas the pith helmet (a military monstrosity made from tree bark; see Michael Caine in Zulu) is of course purely costume.  While few might bemoan the loss of these and others, the very idea that a number of shapes have traversed from wide use to obscurity illustrates the point: the hat world is shrinking.  What’s more, the phenomenon is infectious; just the other day I had to frown and shake my fist at a group of high-schoolers who heckled me for wearing a flat cap.  If this everyman’s cloth hat isn’t immune, what is?

    Strangely, the classic felt fedora shape goes relatively unpunished.  But, and I really must stress the point, proportion is absolutely critical.  Over the past several years, and with the expert guidance of Chicago’s inimitable Optimo, I have homed in on a style that seems to suit me.  It is a trilby, which is to say a less exuberant fedora, with a lowish crown, wide-set pinches that sweep back somewhat, a narrow ribbon band and a brim not more that an inch and seven eighths.  If this all sounds rather particular, it is; hat personalities have very little tolerance for variance, and what seem like slight changes in volume, height and placement can dramatically alter the effect.   This is just how it goes when something is worn so near to that most important signifier of person—the face.  Consider eyewear.   

    I think of the result as a “city trilby,” a sort of casual hat with country origins that has spruced itself up for a night on the town.  The style handily goes from denim and waxed cotton jackets right through to suits and overcoats.  In fact, so versatile is the shape I frequently envision it in several colors and finishes.  But here, I’m afraid, is where things can rather quickly go pear-shaped.  A shade even one increment in the wrong direction can throw things off considerably.  Oxblood sounds good, but is hazardously near plum, which, whatever anyone might argue, is purple.  Browns are safe, but make certain the shade doesn’t wash out the complexion.  Black is a characterless vacuum and the least flattering of all hat colors.  Charcoal and navy are infinitely better.  And then there is the hat band.  Because they are made from silk grosgrain, bands reflect rather than absorb light, the effect of which is conspicuousness.  Like a tie, they gleam, so be on high alert when selecting one.  I avoid bright, colorful and dramatically contrasting hat bands, opting instead for muted and dark bands very near in tone to the felt body.

    Ultimately, a hat is going to be noticed, and so any further gilding is not just unnecessary, but unwanted.  This is, perhaps, why many men have dropped the hat in favor of accessories like novelty socks; fine-tuning headwear is just too damn difficult, whereas an explosive item worn mostly out of site is an easy and safe way to suggest effort has been put into one's clothes.  How misguided; the richest moments of personal style require not just thought on behalf of the wearer, but the audience.

A Slow-Simmering Mystery

Part one of two:

A braise might be a slow cooking method, but it pays to be organized at the outset.  

    Many years ago when I was still catering private events, I was asked to do a cooking demonstration as part of the weeklong promotion surrounding the redesign of the food hall of Chicago’s storied Marshall Field and Company (now, sadly, Macy’s).  I was flattered, and sent an outline to the public relations representative illustrating the finer points of braising a pork shoulder, all crammed into the twenty allotted minutes.  For one reason or another, though, the event was shunted, rescheduled, and, as these promotional things often are, eventually cancelled.  Or so I thought.  Some year or two later, a friend showed me a remarkable artifact; in amongst his wife’s recipes was a program schedule in Marshall Fields green, scrawled with her notes on cooking times and seasonings.  At precisely 2:15pm, she witnessed someone giving what I hope was a good demonstration on the braising of pork shoulder.  This mystery brasier had not only used my recipe; the villain had stolen my name.  

    As identity theft goes, I am perhaps fortunate that mine was swiped in so victimless a way.  I’m not excusing the bumbling ways of the public relations person, nor the scoundrel who no doubt lacked the charisma required for dissecting the noble act of braising.  I just believe in the mollifying effect a pork shoulder has on general injustice.  Even if done with mediocre ingredients and little care, it can be good.   Done well, though, braised pork shoulder is sublime.  

    In one of the more confusing aspects of butchery, shoulders are referred to as butts.  To muddy things up further, the whole shoulder complex of a pig is almost always sold in two pieces, each with its own cute nickname: Boston butt and picnic shoulder.  The former contains the shoulder blade ensconced in thick muscles and ribbons of fat, the latter, the joint where the foreleg meets the shoulder and typically quite a bit of skin.  Boston butt has two distinct advantages for braising.  Firstly, the meat-to-bone-to-fat ratio is perfect.  It’s also a more practical shape, which is to say less leg-like and generally sawed into rectangular blocks.  So: Boston Butt.  Three to four pounds worth should be sufficient.

    Braising, in its simplest sense, could be said to be slowly cooking in a moist environment.  But so unfilled-out a description not only opens the door to all sorts of variance, it robs some of this method’s famous richness.  I prefer to revel in the details, something that begins with a surface understanding of muscles.  Those that work harder than others are necessarily more developed and, subsequent to being butchered, tougher.  A mature pig’s shoulder is, therefore, a large, tough and fibrous thing full of sinew and intra-muscle fat.  It would be inedible if merely cooked through, but if cooked for a long period of time in a low heat and moist environment, the sinew melts away, the fat renders and bastes, and the once fibrous meat becomes a series of tender nuggets and shards.  One might boil the shoulder whole, which might render it tender, if somewhat flavorless, or slowly roast it, which would create flavor but at the risk of dry meat.  Braising effectively bridges the gap between the two.

    The most desirable aspect of a quality braise, though, is consistency.  Where the success of deep-frying depends upon timing, or the bracing simplicity of preparing raw fish is subject entirely to the quality of the ingredients, braising is far more forgiving.  This is perhaps why that impostor at Marshall Fields got away with his scheme—a braised pork shoulder is always good.  But that’s not to discount proper technique.  Part two will explicate what, when and how to braise correctly.

Pulp(it)

Cedar chips, a good place to start.  

    Unlike planting anew, mulching is a genuine act of faith.  Spring requires the effort of consistency on behalf of the waterer, but, barring any dramatic circumstances, vigorous growth is all but inevitable.  Ensuring the survival of even hardy shrubs during a harsh and uneven winter, however, is a passive exercise.  The sole intervention is an early enough mulching.

    The act—heaping dry, shredded material around the base of a plant—is satisfying.  It seems an act of protection, like tucking a lofty blanket in around a child on the precipice of sleep.  But mulching works in reverse.  That the plant’s root ball is going to freeze is inevitable; the layer of mulch is there to ensure it stays deeply dormant for the entirety of the season.  Shrubs that wake during a mid-winter warm spell expose themselves to peril once the temperature once more plummets.  I have seen accidental new growth in early January that has frozen from its branches by February and killed the shrub by March.  Rather than a blanket to stave off the cold, mulch is a sedative, making the pain of inconsistency, if not tolerant, survivable.

    Depending on the region, mulch takes a variety of forms, although the principle remains the same.  The standard is shredded wood fiber and chips.  Premium versions are natural cedar, but the majority of widely available mulch is the heavily dyed byproduct of the wood industry.  Dedicated gardeners make their own with mulching equipment from accumulated prunings and clippings.  My own technique has three stages, each a further barrier as the season worsens.  I begin with a generous layer of cedar mulch before the first freeze, usually at the end of October.  I plant decorative grass each year, but once dead, I tie-off and cut several bundles, adding those to the base of my shrubs for further loft.  Finally, after the Christmas tree has served its purpose, I clip off the branches and weave those too in and around the shrubs.  Thus protected from themselves, they often survive.

Grass bundles, ready for insulating shrubs.  

    Other tactics exist.  If the shrubs are in containers, moving them nearer a shelter is effective.  This is especially true of a west-facing brick wall, which absorbs daytime heat and disperses it at night.  Like mulching, this is a technique to even-out inconstant temperature rather than prevent freezing.  Some people drive stakes in around their shrubs, tying stout hopsacking between them to shield foliage from the bitterest winds.  It is supposed to prevent leaves from bronzing, but I’d rather look out on those dreariest winter days and see some sign of life rather than bedraggled potato sacks.

    But hopsacking and mulch, and not even radiating brick walls can prevent the loss of the occasional shrub.  I have several planters of boxwood totaling sixteen plants in total.  A winter doesn’t pass without losing at least one.  I can usually say which; they are the ones that grow with less vigor in spring and fail to fill out so well through summer.  They are, one might say, invisibly marked from the start.  I might put faith in mulch, but the matter is obviously out of my hands.

On Costumes

    Pity the fellow dressed as a pickle.  Did he not foresee that an inch of air-brushed latex would be stifling?  Or did he weigh the novelty of his gag against his tolerance for discomfort, and conclude that triumph always requires personal sacrifice?  I’m less generous than that; I bet he’s just not that creative.  Whatever the fault, I don’t begrudge the impulse.  Resorting to costume has, since antiquity, permitted a freedom from whatever propriety we feel bound to—which accounts for the dramatic spectrum of results, from tame to barely contained.  Past a certain age, though, men are wise to leave alone the purely silly (and usually uncomfortable) in favor of more nuanced attempts.  While I wouldn’t categorize costumes of this sort as cerebral, they do require some careful thought and crafty repurposing of clothes and accessories on hand.

    Ten or so years ago, I was invited to a splashy formal event that stipulated venetian masks.  I was talked into a rather well-made plaster number by a friend, a classic domino mask covering just my eyebrows, nose and temples.  The list of characters who have worn this shape (if not this particular Venetian design) is long, from Zorro to The Green Hornet and his sidekick Kato.  The above examples actually demonstrate another point about these nuanced styles of costume: one need not go overboard.  A domino mask worn with a black gaucho hat and pencil mustache is all it takes to clearly broadcast Zorro.  Along with their masks, The Green Hornet wore nothing more elaborate than a chesterfield topcoat and a trilby; Kato, a black chauffeur’s hat.

    Hats really offer the simplest solutions, but fedoras and trilbies are hardly the most evocative.  A deerstalker, tweed jacket and pipe instantly conjures Sherlock.  For the solemn-faced amongst us, Buster Keaton is a porkpie and three-piece suit away.  My favorite homburg-wearer is Poirot, Agatha Christie’s persnickety sleuth, but that’s a costume that takes more than a surface treatment.  The bowler or derby is the richest source of character costumes, perhaps because this stiffened style of hat is both an icon of Englishness and, as society journalist and author Lucius Beebe famously put it, “The hat that won the West.”  Each Halloween I see as many convincing John Steeds from The Avengers as I do Butch Cassidys—both famous bowler wearers.  The best bowler oriented costume I’ve witnessed, though, was by an art student in a dark Mackintosh, white shirt, red tie and black bowler.  It had me scratching my head until he brought the green apple he had impaled on a stick up to his face.

    Umbrellas, canes and other hand-held appurtenances are often required in conjunction with the hats and masks mentioned above.  In addition to a bowler and a white shirt, those aspiring Alex’s from A Clockwork Orange will need a blackthorn cane.  To pull off Monstresor and Fortunato from Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado, in addition to venetian masks, a pair of friends will need a half-drunk bottle of wine with the neck sheared off and a torch.  Keep in mind, though, that the real advantage to costumes of this sort is the ease with which an evening out can be navigated, so anything more elaborate than a few signifiers of character is self-defeating.  

    There does lurk a danger in this approach, however.  In conceiving of and composing a costume, one might discover that it all comes together rather too easily.  This is an indication that one’s wardrobe runs a tad to the theatrical.  I would be personally concerned if little more than adjusting an accent was needed to pull off a pitch-perfect Poirot or Sherlock, an Al Capone or Oscar Wilde.  Costumes really should read as just that, but it’s a problem if one’s ordinary clothes obviously do too.  This, in some ways, is as bad as dressing as a pickle.

Frightening Insight

    Edgar Allan Poe, in relation to the way his fellow Americans furnished their homes, offered this broad criticism:

This vintage Apparel Arts diagram attempts to chart color and texture for each component of male dress, and, in doing so, makes a complicated matter even less clear.  

“By a transition readily understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been brought to merge in simple show our notions of taste itself.”

    His is a direct snipe at the inevitable materialism that grows alongside a moneyed place—the grotesqueness of unchecked purchase-power.  Poe identifies the English alone in distinguishing beauty from mere magnificence, an ability that originates with the aristocracy (for whom nobility is a higher goal than wealth).  Off course, Poe never likely anticipated the ease with which materialism as an end in of itself might diffuse; even without the internet, a costly bauble is far easier to acquire than the sound taste to avoid its conspicuous display.  And, really, what corners of this shrinking world remain immune?

    Who knew Poe felt so passionately about interior decoration?   His Philosophy of Furniture, which first appeared in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine in 1840, goes on to describe an ideal room in crimson, gold and pale gray.  It is softly lit and sparingly filled.  One might describe it as modest, although that loaded term suggests a whiff of constraint rather than restraint.  No--whether the owner of Poe’s room is able to sumptuously fill it or not is irrelevant; instead he pursues composition and harmony.  These terms resonate with me, but perhaps because I am not an interior decorator, I prefer to consider Poe’s philosophy scaled down to clothing.

    Composition seems to me a process of adding based upon context.  Formality, season and activity establish context, with lesser roles played by company, forecast and location.  Once in the neighborhood—say, a warm-weather wedding in a city—garments must be added together.  A lightweight navy suit, a white shirt, a silver tie, black shoes.  But consider the choices within each.  Is the suit patterned?  Is the shirt poplin, pinpoint or twill?  Does the tie have figures or texture, the shoes laces or not?  This to say nothing of handkerchieves, socks and cufflinks, a few of the common points at which poor decisions can quickly detract from the whole.   The secondary sub-choices within categories seem small, but when viewed together, matter greatly to composition.

    Harmony, then, emerges as a process of subtracting.  In the casual analogue to the above example, imagine a cool-weather event in the suburbs that suggested to our same model corduroy trousers, a checked shirt, a knit vest, and a lightweight tweed jacket.  He is tieless, and perhaps because of this, selects a handsome silk handkerchief for his jackets breast pocket.  The forecast suggests drizzle so he takes a felt trilby along, and if it's inclement enough for a hat, why not a scarf and unlined gloves?  All of these items, including his socks, are in autumnal hues, and yet, as he looks at himself before leaving, he sees the composition is awry.  Harmony is still possible, but only after an offending hatband or handkerchief is dismissed, or some more invasive action is required, like the swapping of a busy shirt or jacket for something quieter.  Rather than being thoroughly conceived of from the start, harmony is arrived at by removing noise.

    The common factor between composition and harmony is in managing the variables.  Simpler compositions and easier harmonies are achieved with fewer variables, but the trade-off is sophistication.  The best dressers always have more happening than is immediately obvious—a solid that fractures to a self-pattern up close, a texture that emerges when within whispering range.  Beware though; it is in the allure of hidden features that the greatest pitfall also lurks: novelty.  Bright linings, mismatched buttons, contrasting thread—these and more might seem near relatives to the techniques of the advanced dresser, but where the former’s are subtle these are conspicuous.  Worse, they are the unnecessary variables that complicate dressing—they are Poe’s elements of “show.”

Fifty shades, weights, textures, and, ultimately, effects of gray.  

Great Legs

A pool of golden duck fat.

    I can’t say I blame the refrigerator.  There’s little doubt, though: rudimentary preservation methods yielded our richest morsels.  Bacon, gravlax, prosciutto, cured sausages of every description—these and many more are the results of pre-icebox innovation.  It’s fitting, really; sagacity and determination deserves a delicious reward.  And is there a happier discovery than the salt-cured and fat-preserved duck leg?  The anonymous peasant who conceived of the method may have had necessity alone in mind, but let it be testament to his or her genius: despite a humming refrigerator, six months rarely passes in this kitchen without a dinner of duck confit.  

    If perhaps not with much else, in kitchens I deeply appreciate efficiency.  Cooking and sealing a perishable in its own fat is a very efficient loop—from butchering to final preparation there is little waste and nothing extraneous.  This is especially the case with a duck, which has a large volume of subcutaneous fat, but rather lean meat.  Confit solves the imbalance.  Begin by butchering a Pekin (Long Island) duck into five pieces: two legs, two boneless breasts and the carcass with wings still attached.  Remove all the fat from the carcass, wings and breasts, and put it in a heavy pot or dutch oven over low heat.  Set the still-fat-covered legs aside.  The skinless breasts should be immediately grilled rare and eaten on a sandwich while the fat renders.  The carcass should be made into stock.  

Duck legs during the cure.

    Efficient, but there is a mathematical problem in beginning with a single duck.  The volume of available fat on a typical duck is just shy of that required to completely cover two legs.  Somehow, through the magic of multiplication, beginning with two or three ducks improves the fat-to-legs ratio.  The other option: source butchered duck legs and rendered duck fat.  This is the less authentic approach in that it represents an expediency in the efficient loop earlier described.  It also means no delicious duck breast sandwich or stock.  It should have no material effect on the finished confit; I cannot speak for the opinions of those souls anonymously credited with dreaming up confit.  

    With the two major components of confit now acquired—duck fat and duck legs—the process can begin in earnest.  The legs must be cured.  What ails them?  Moisture and trace surface bacteria.  Happily, nothing more complicated than salt and time is needed.  Generously sprinkle each leg with salt, and snugly pack in a clean terrine, ceramic casserole or stainless bowl.  This is also a good opportunity to introduce aromatics.  I favor garlic, black pepper and thyme, although bay leaf and even cloves are traditional.  Wrap the container tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for a minimum of two days.  

Game chips.  

    One might use the time to ponder food safety, and by extension, the tactic at play here to ensure it.  Food safety is a moving target governed by time, temperature, air and the presence of bacteria.  That last one is what typically turns stomachs, but keep in mind that bacteria is ever-present, on and inside of virtually everything.  Most of it only becomes hazardous after it is permitted to grow, which readily occurs in humid, oxygen rich conditions between 40 and 140 degrees fahrenheit.  The good news is bacteria is easily destroyed in a number of ways.  Salt, for instance, kills surface bacteria, which is the prime goal of the above curing period.  What takes place next guarantees safety.  

    After the two-day curing period, the duck will have shed moisture, most evident by the somewhat darker and contracted appearance of the flesh and fat.  It will also have developed deeper flavor, although if there is excess salt present it should be wiped off with clean paper towels before cooking.  Discard the aromatics.  Bring the rendered duck fat up to a barely noticeable simmer—say around two hundred degrees fahrenheit—and slip in the duck legs making certain the fat comfortably covers each leg.  Simmer on the stove or in the oven for two or three hours, or until a clean knife easily passes in and out of a leg.  Let cool, wrap or cover tightly, and return whatever vessel is being used to the refrigerator.  What’s been created is a sterile environment; any remaining bacteria has been destroyed by the heat, and the thick layer of congealed fat hermetically seals the legs, preventing any new bacteria and oxygen from spoiling the meat.  As is, the legs will last six weeks or longer.    

Finished duck confit.

    Enough casual science though; confit is meant to be eaten.  On an appointed evening, open a few bottles of Beaujolais.  Dig out the duck legs and set aside.  It would be a pity to waste all the lovely duck fat; my preferred use is to scrape it into a medium sized pot and deep fry sliced potatoes for game chips.  When dinner guests are assembled, heat a large heavy-bottomed pan, and brown the duck legs skin-side down until crisp.  Flip and finish with a ten minute roast in a hot oven.  Serve with baguette and a salad of chicories dressed with vinaigrette.  A cautionary note: the ease of the final preparation might suggest to the less experienced home cook that some additional stroke is needed.  A spiced couscous, or saffron risotto.  Resist the urge: the magic of duck confit is in the apparent imbalance between effort and jaw-slackening flavor.  

Straight for the Jugular

 Part One of Three

Tools of the shave.

    Each of my six groomsmen received a cutthroat razor the evening before my wedding as an advanced token of my appreciation for their service.   A letter with dual entreaties accompanied.  I asked, firstly, that they consider the razor as more than a symbolic gesture—that they each learn to use it, and in learning, discover something of themselves.  Secondly, and somewhat more importantly, I asked that they postpone their first go with the thing until after the big day.  Nothing ruins an honest union like a badly bleeding wedding party.  My hope was that, in a month’s time or so, they would discover that shaving can be a ritual, and the accouterments required for doing it properly stir something of value in most men.  

    Cutthroat or straight razors are the easiest of these objects to appreciate, but, by a very wide margin, the most difficult to use.  A good one has an obvious balance, even in unpracticed hands.  The unfolded blade suggests the correct grip and, once assumed, is lighter and far more agile than one might anticipate for so outmoded an apparatus.  While the design might inspire a surgeon’s confidence, bringing the blade to a creamed-in two day beard requires nothing short of bravery.  My only advice to interested parties is to research and then consistently practice the technique—the short essay is not the correct medium for so nuanced and hazardous a pastime. The curve is steep and full of nicks.  And while a straight razor shave is as close as it gets, the real reward is the half hour spent patiently acquiring it.

    Pastime really is the correct word for straight razor shaving.  Ask a fisherman how he prefers to spend his time; pulling fish from the water will almost certainly be second to tying flies and tending to his rod.  A razor’s edge requires honing on a strop—a thick cowhide strip backed with course linen that is the only way of realigning the delicate cutting edge.  Emollients, soaps, brushes and aftershaves deserve an essay of their own.  But unless the practitioner has become a master, being categorized as a pastime also excludes straight razor shaving from the daily routine.  Proficiency is not enough; any pressure to perform quickly might come to a grisly end.  A safety razor is for most men the better implement for the daily grind.   The real thing needs a weekend’s hour.

Craft Project

Raw denim jeans, stiff enough to lean against a door unassisted.  Wearing them in at this stage is crucial.  And torturous.

    Plenty of style writers (and even proper writers) hotly defend or persecute jeans.  Though I wear fairly classic clothing in fashion-resistant cuts, I come down firmly in defense of jeans as a sort of current day buckskin trouser—just the thing for casual and active occasions.  They do have one very significant downside though: for a casual garment jeans are awfully high-maintenance.  

    This struck upon me one day when I was at a friend’s house for cocktails.  I opened his freezer, and instead of ice cubes for my Tom Collins I found three pairs of jeans stacked neatly between the Russian vodka and frozen pigs-in-a-blanket.  I had only before that day heard of the practice of freezing worn jeans to kill off the bacteria that causes odor; having witnessed it I decided I would never permit myself to own anything with so dialed-in a fit as to not tolerate conventional laundering.

    Although my routine for jeans is hardly conventional.  Some years ago, dissatisfied with the pre-weathered washes and special effects dominating the jeans market, I was ushered toward raw denim by a helpful salesperson.  He must have known that I would respond to the do-it-yourself approach these jeans required, as rather than giving the heritage pitch he went strait for the clinch: you should get two pairs in case you mess one up.  Remarkably, these were also the cheapest jeans in the place as all the artful faux finishes add significantly to the cost of manufacturing.  This is perhaps the only opportunity one will ever have to pay less for more control over a garment.

    True raw denim is a stiff cotton twill over-dyed with natural indigo.  Cotton is hydrophilic (meaning it absorbs water) and so raw denim will shrink as the cotton fibers dry out and contract.  Some raw denim has already been soaked and slowly dried, known as sanforized, so the consumer won’t have to contend with blindly guessing at size.  Mine were unsanforized, meaning the denim goes from loom to cutting and sewing room to store shelf where they reside in all their inky blue stiffness waiting to be worn.  Unsanforized jeans are often referred to as shrink-to-fit, but a better term might be guess-at-fit.  Most raw denim will shrink ten or fifteen percent before the fit is correct.  The process is truly trial and error.  Of course once the fit does seem dialed-in, the jeans will be nearing their apex, after which, decline into tatty, over-faded impossibility is inevitable.

     Getting shrink-to-fit raw denim jeans to the correct size requires some thought though.  The architecture of jeans is significantly different to traditional trousers.  The waist, seat and side seams of standard jeans do not have inlay (additional cloth pressed flat) so proper alterations are not possible.  A good alterations tailor might be able to cinch a waist or seat by cutting out a strip, but because of the contrast stitching and patch back pockets, the proportions will seem off.  The better route is, with the help of a good salesperson, to try and get the fit right from the start.  Once shrunken, the jeans should be snug—even tight—through the seat and thigh as they will loosen considerably through regular wear.  Pay no attention to the hem—just be certain the waist, seat and thigh seems correct.  

    Rolling or permitting the excess length to stack are both acceptable according to current fashion, and purists would tell you that jeans were never intended to be hemmed.  Personally I find the former slightly too noticeable and the latter impossibly uncomfortable.  Both are also loaded with style and cultural connotation and one or the other can be distracting depending on context.  For these reasons I hem, but only after I am certain the jeans have settled into a consistent length size.  Make certain to specify an original hem; this procedure will ensure the finished hem will resemble the authentic, crinkled, half-inch jeans stitch.

    This is the point in the essay where denim purists send me enraged letters for having skirted the technical aspects of buying, breaking-in, cleaning and living with raw denim jeans.  Keep in mind, though, that these are the same people who freeze their pants.  I like jeans, and I think those made of raw denim are the best choice.  But I also firmly believe that they are casual pants made for leisure and the instant they require much more energy than, say, a dress shirt, they lose my interest.  Here is how I do it.

Buy raw jeans, removing all labels, including interior logos and size tags

Soak flat in bathtub filled with lukewarm water

Hang to dry in crisp, autumnal breeze

Endure wearing on several occasions around the house or garden

Ignore the fact that they are likely far too long until they have softened

Take to alterations tailor to hem, specifying “original hem”

Wear often, launder infrequently on cold, gentle cycle, hang-dry

Neck on the Line

McQueen inspired

    What’s in a name?  For sweaters with extended neck lines, everything.  I fail to see why rollneck is the term preferred by most style writers; it’s one typo away from neck roll.  I have heard these sweaters called polo-necks, which is obviously another attempt to anoint a garment with the allure of the sport of kings—an increasingly crowded category considering how few people play polo.  All these permutations are intentionally less evocative of this noble sweater’s best name; the turtleneck is cool precisely because it is sort of square.  Anyway, what’s the problem with turtles, creatures that symbolize the archetypical male characters famous for having worn them—tough on the outside, all pulpy within?

    No conversation about turtlenecks could possibly take place without acknowledging Steve McQueen in Bullit (1968).  The British racing green mustang was cool, but it’s McQueen’s navy turtleneck beneath his brown tweed that remains the enduring symbol of the film.  Of course that’s also the problem; style writing in major media likes to reference Bullit, treating the film and its lasting aesthetic as validation for the turtleneck’s existence.  As compelling as McQueen is, so thin a treatment opens the turtleneck up to similarly cheap negative judgements.  As even a casual internet search for turtlenecks reveals, images of guys doing their best McQueen account for about a third of the result; the other two-thirds are humorous memes and catastrophic attempts at style.  

    So the turtleneck is divisive, perhaps more so than any other traditionally male garment.  But I’m convinced the division isn’t the love/hate sort.  Rather, I think turtlenecks are just more susceptible to disaster, and many have made up their minds based upon a single train wreck.  Too skimpy and they look like thermal layers; too thick and the wearer appears chin-deep in quicksand; not formal; not entirely casual; often too warm; never invisible.  At the center of the difficulty is the fact that great variety exists in turtlenecks; choosing wisely requires a little experience and a good deal more common sense.

Sunspel makes terrific lightweight knits in every imaginable sweater-configuration.  King among them are the turtlenecks.  

    I wear two types of turtlenecks, but there are probably  three or four categories.  By a considerable margin, the easiest to wear are lightweight turtlenecks of fine merino wool.  These work especially well beneath navy blazers and tweed jackets where they appear casual because of the nature of the material (a knit), but cleanly delineated and somehow more serious than expected.  It is a good look for a cool-headed antagonist—one who creates rather than follows rules, all while warding off the damp chill of his underground lair.  At the other end of the spectrum are the heavyweights with texture or knitted patterns.  These are worn on their own or, if outside in the real cold, a heavy overcoat or shell.  The look is more hero-poet than bond-villain, but either are smart change-ups from the usual coat and tie.  In between lightweight and heavyweight, however, is a no-mans-land of middleweights that are too bulky beneath jackets, but not substantial enough on their own.  And lurking throughout are all manner of misguided variations: stubby-little mock turtlenecks, stitched-down faux rolls, droopy and feminine cowl necks.  The real thing has a densely knit tube that doubles over on itself to create the clean, masculine band around the neck, accentuating the jawline and drawing attention to the face.

    There are some practical matters to consider.   Collars, of course, don’t work, which leaves the habitual shirt-wearer with two options: wear nothing, which is possible with the lightweight merino variety, or buy some closely fitting undershirts.  Remember that turtlenecks are warm, and often too warm for crowded dining rooms or bars.  Holiday parties in private homes seem like the correct venue, but all those roaring fireplaces and tankards of glühwein will have most men quickly overheating.  I wear mine when I know I will be mostly outdoors—sporting events, long walks, picnics, visits to drafty museums, trick-or-treating with the kids, shopping at the farmer’s market.  But the very best excuse for a turtleneck, as McQueen demonstrates so well, is a car chase.  Short of that, a leisurely drive with the windows down will do fine.

In Stride

    Walking suffers precisely because it is pedestrian.  When it is necessary, like between mall entrance and some distant parking spot, it is loathed.  Walking for regular transportation can be good, unless one is late for something—then it becomes a frustrating slalom.  Walking for pleasure is fraught, most notably demonstrated by the classic long walk on the beach; few things murder romance like a forced shoreline march through hot sand and stinging salt.  Successful walks often have an ulterior aspect: dogs, farmer’s markets, window shopping—these diversions fill in the gaps when a walk’s pleasure might be conspicuously thin.  And then there is the least appreciated aspect of walking: exercise.

    Naturally, running gets all the exercise credit.  In fact, when walking is explicitly identified as exercise things quickly go awry; speed-walking, however challenging its practitioners claim, is as silly as slow-running.   Conversely, when left vague, as it was on an invitation to a charity walk I attended several years ago, walking is still misunderstood.  It was late autumn in a leafy suburb, and, for once, the weather was seasonably correct—cool, billowy white clouds, a crisp breeze.  I dressed as I would for a walk at home: whipcord trousers, shirt, lightweight knit.  I took along a tweed jacket as there was a lunch scheduled following the walk.  Well, I was way off.  Apparently, a charity walk is a near cousin to the charity run, and the expected costume is high-performance exercise gear.   The pace was my ordinary one, and the distance, three miles or so, not unusual.  I had to lend an underdressed girl my tweed as it clouded over and became chilly.  It  didn’t matter; the walk had the veneer of exercise, and that trumps common sense.

    Why must walking be sped-up or accompanied by specialized equipment to count?  I’ll offer a shaky theory: walking doesn’t register as exercise when compared to the current fad for intense and extreme fitness.  I have friends who wake at dawn to execute punishing routines under the tutelage of former commandos.  Others are perpetually in training; for what it’s rarely clear.  Still others compete in gimmicky obstacle course events where mild electrocution is part of the fun.  I don’t begrudge this movement; obviously some of the appeal is in the spectacle.  But I do question the effectiveness of fitness that isn’t sustainable; for every friend who has taken up some intense new regimen, another, having abandoned his, asks me how I stay fit.  My answer always disappoints: moderation.

    Walking might be a moderate exercise, but some care is needed in doing it correctly.  Posture is crucial: pelvis, shoulders and head should be vertically aligned.  When posture is mentioned, the immediate reaction is to sweep the shoulders dramatically back and jut the chin forward.  That’s standing at attention, and not correct for walking.  Imagine, instead, a thin chain attached to the crown of the skull; if someone were to gently pull taught this chain the result would be good posture.  Two more mistakes lurk.  The natural tendency when walking with purpose is to lean forward, as if late for an appointment; when merely strolling, the tendency is to lean back, resting weight on the lower back.  Both should be avoided when walking for exercise; a neutral position with a moderate stride must be established and kept to for the duration.  I challenge those who remain skeptical of this sort of moderate exercise to concentrate on posture for a three mile walk.  

    Clothes are the final barrier for most.  Putting on workout gear must trigger something in the brain—a sort of mental preparation for battle with the elliptical.  But getting geared up for a good walk undermines moderation.  Choose, instead, clothes that take sport as a prefix—those durable odd trousers, jackets and pullovers traditionally intended for leisure.  Other suggestions…  Dressing in layers sounds sensible, but I always wonder what to do with the peeled articles.  Jackets that can be buttoned and unbuttoned or have other convertible features are ideal.  Shoes should be sturdy; loafers are for loafing, not walking.  I prefer a hat to an umbrella when raining as a good walk requires swinging of arms.  For the same reason gloves are essential in the cold; jamming frozen hands into the pockets upsets the rhythm and balance of a good walk.   The sum often looks like something I might wear for lunch at a casual restaurant.  Which is perfect, as serious walking works up an awful appetite.

Overthrown?

    Is it outerwear or the idea of outerwear that has fallen on hard times?   Fur-lined great coats, thickly piled ulsters, raglan sleeved balmacaans—these things still exist, if not widely in ready-to-wear, then certainly as products of the magical confluence between imaginative client and willing tailor.  But the use of classic overcoats has dramatically declined, even since I was a boy.  Why?  The usual response from misty-eyed classicists is to blame technical sports gear.  But is innovation in materials really the sole reason for diminished richness in the variety of overcoats?  I would argue not; it is only an accessory in the slaying of the heavy overcoat.

    The warmest, widely worn overcoats of the first half of the previous century would be those made from lofty woven cloths, like melton, camelhair and alpaca pile.  These would vary considerably in performance and price, with the most exclusive (and warmest) end of the market featuring fur collars and lapels.  But cheaper woolens with less loft and a courser hand made up the vast majority of overcoats.  In the simplest sense, real warmth was expensive; the rest offered mediocre performance and an experience similar to wearing a thatched roof.  Synthetics, especially wind and water-resistant shells and poly-wool filler, changed the construction of outerwear considerably.  No longer was a coat reliant upon the quality of a particular cloth; stitching filler between layers of synthetic textiles is a cheap but effective way of creating warmth.  Today’s cheap puffer coats might not look like much, but they are warm.

    But cheap warmth doesn’t account for why most modern outerwear is short.  If we consider for a moment transportation, historically the challenge has been in staying warm on the platform, in the chilly train car and within unheated indoor public spaces.  Cumbersome or not, a heavy overcoat was necessary.  The modern challenge in transportation is in trying not to overheat while en route.  We spend short spells outside of heated environments and once a destination is reached outerwear is shed and must be stored.  What’s required is little more than lightweight but effective insulation of the vital organs.  Today’s preferred commuter jackets are made of feather-weight, high-performance ingredients but rarely extend beyond the hips.  The popularity of vests has me wondering if sleeves are already thought of as unnecessary.

    While lessoned expectations of formality have enabled the short, brightly colored technical jacket, a type of overcoat still very much exists at the ordinary retail level.  As overcoats began cutting weight and volume according to consumer demand, full-length coats became knee-length, double-breasted ulsters became single and lapels and collars standardized.  What emerged was the result of consolidated choice, generically compliant with an established idea of what a man’s overcoat looks and feels like.  The critical failing, though, is performance.  Real warmth is just not expected from today’s generic overcoat.  The most common are made of wool with some minor percentage of cashmere—principally used to justify a higher price point—but the weight and loft of the cloth is barely more than what is expected of a sport coat.  The fact that it is likely single-breasted with skimpy, deeply plunging lapels and a collar incapable of flipping up or buttoning further reduces practicality.  In short, the modern overcoat has retained the cons, but eliminated the pros.  If a young man’s first encounter with an overcoat is with one of these, he can hardly be blamed for preferring technical gear.

    So is the overcoat this generation’s buggy whip, perhaps vaguely familiar, but no more likely?  I had all but given up on the future of overcoats before last winter.  In the deepest stretch of January I was responsible for taking some high school seniors to a desolate and frozen patch of Iowa for a wrestling tournament.  As they clamored onto the bus, I noticed one of them was wearing a bathrobe over his school uniform.  I enquired: he explained it was the only thing that didn’t end above his hips, and as the bus was chilly and he wished to stay warm for the duration, he thought a full-length robe was the most practical solution.  It occurred to me on the spot: given time, the heavy overcoat, like anything else, can seem novel.  Sadly, rather than wool pile or dashing camelhair, his was synthetic fleece with cartoon characters.  I made him remove it before entering the arena; as with all combat sports, first impressions are important.

Raw Deal

    I’m often accused of being too idealistic, especially as concerns vegetables.  When asked by an acquaintance what should be done with some fresh produce, my answer is likely to be “eat it.”  Few like this answer.  What people want is involved discussions of methods and cooking times, seasonings and gimmicky preparations.  I’m tired of arguing; if eating pristine vegetables raw is a philosophy, then so be it.  But neither do I have an agenda; I’m just convinced that it is often misguided to try and improve upon what a good farmer can coax from the soil.  

    Sadly, the instant vegetables are discussed the emphasis predictably shifts to health.  My understanding is that some raw vegetables retain higher levels of nutrients than their cooked counterparts while others, most notably, capsicum, achieve higher levels following a shake in the pan.  The problem is the vegetable enthusiast, a type of extremist foodie who wishes nothing more than to radicalize the moderate vegetable eater to their cause—whether that cause be bales of raw kale or buckets of lycopene-rich stewed peepers.  I refuse to choose; I enjoy vegetables too much to be governed by so narrow a (vegetable) world view.  I boil, braise, sauté and eat raw in equal measure.  My guiding principle is no more idealistic than good taste.  

    That said, the raw vegetable does deserve a closer look.   A good start to a meal is refreshing, balanced, texturally interesting but not too strongly flavored.  For these reasons raw vegetables are difficult to beat.  Baby carrots trimmed of their tops and scrubbed are ideal for dipping in premium olive oil and sea salt.  Radishes anointed with salted, cultured butter are excellent too.  Cauliflower has terrific texture—a toothsome, crumbling resistance rather than the crisp snap common of most vegetables—but the standard white variety has always seemed rather uninspiring.  These days baby cauliflower seem to show up in farmer’s markets in an array of colors, from deep wine to palest green.  Sliced thinly, drizzled with olive oil and seasoned with sea salt and freshly cracked pepper, guests will be as dazzled by the presentation as they will be puzzled at how delicious so few ingredients can be.  

Cauliflower, olive oil, salt, pepper.  

    Speaking of slicing thinly, raw vegetables require either developed knife skills (and a sharp blade) or a mandolin slicer.  I dislike job-specific gadgets, but must make an exception for the latter, which is a simple board with a fixed, graduated blade.  There are expensive food-service versions with precision-mounted adjustable blades and stands, but cheap, handheld Japanese models work just as well (and somewhat assuage the guilt felt over acquiring a kitchen gadget).  And as it happens, autumn is the ideal time of year for thinly sliced vegetables, as heartier roots, bulbs and stalks stand up well to the rigor of the preparation.  A good mandolin will make fast work of anything from dense beets to fibrous broccoli stalks.  The resulting mound will be crisp and pleasantly colorful, virtually crying out to be made into a first course for a cool weather meal.  If there are any raw-vegetable skeptics left, the following salad should bring them round.

Shaved Raw Winter Vegetable Salad

Using a mandolin, thinly shave rounds of carrot, beet, celery, fennel, peeled broccoli stem and apple.  Dress lightly with a good vinaigrette.  Mound in the center of individual plates or large service platter.  Sprinkle with chopped parsley and black pepper.  Using a vegetable peeler, shave slivers of aged Manchego cheese over the salad and serve.