Punching Up

The guilty urn, retired along with Madame Bovary, to a shelf where it holds nothing more potent than old corks.  

    The first Christmas my wife and I spent married we had the idea of starting, from the thinnest winter air, a tradition: we would host a party.  Three weeks before the appointed date scores of friends received our invitations, printed, remarkably, on fragrant, cedar veneer.  Replies flew back.  The house was decorated with swags of laurel, holy, mistletoe, garlands of fir and football-sized pine-cones.   I knew a cheese monger at the time, and he organized for me a quarter wheel of Gruyere, a Stilton, an imposing hunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano and a Tête de Moine, the pungent Swiss cheese that, when shaved on a special device, resembles a tonsured monks head.  I displayed them on a pane of tempered glass the size of a porch door.  A friend in the wine business made some modest selections, and a DJ we knew created a tasteful playlist.  

    Despite the effort, we felt something missing the day before the party.  And then it struck me: Punch!  Nothing, I imagined, filled the holiday hollow with genuine spirit—spritzed the chilly scrooge with gemütlich—quite like a shimmering pool of communal drink.  I pawed at my small collection of bar-tending books; the options seemed elaborate, or too obscure and all of them rather too sweet.  I eventually settled upon an idea suggested in a mercurial addendum: macerating pineapple in spirit—gin, in this case—to be syphoned off and used to mix cocktails with seltzer or tonic.  This was ideal, as I had a large urn that would prettily display the pineapple, and the spigot at the base would make dispensing the drams a cinch.  I imagined myself a benevolent friar, administering the elixir with a wink and a nod, holding merry court over the glistening and pungent banquet.  And so, in addition to four coarsely chopped pineapples, in went three liters of gin.

    It was a hit, although an hour into the party I noticed my guests drinking full glasses of the stuff without much in the way of a mixer.  I was surprised to see a particularly close friend tapping the liquid dregs with the slurred exclamation, the punch runneth dry!  It becomes fuzzy about the edges from this point forward, but I recall several otherwise restrained guests fighting over the gin-sodden hunks of pineapple, each a jigger worth of spirit.  One fellow fell asleep in the stilton.  The following morning I awoke in my robe on our deck, rather chilly.  The uncovered cheese beaded sweat, as did my brow as I surveyed the carnage. The tasteful playlist dumbly played to an audience of  upturned glasses, walnuts shells and wilting holly.  I’ve tried since to forget the event, but many dear friends still refer to the pineapple incident with some mixture of humor and nausea.  

    There are at least half a dozen lessons in this anecdote, but one in particular has stayed with me.  Traditions cannot be started anymore than can solar eclipses.  They emerge, instead, already equipped with debated meaning and foggy purpose.  Our intentions might have been innocent, but we nevertheless had been reckless with definitions.  Like a tradition, punch is a fixed entity that resists encroachment at the risk of biting back.  Don’t misunderstand me: the ingredients and preparations might vary considerably within the genre, but the premise is always the same: wine, fortified wine, a dash of spirit, fruit and ice.  The careful reader will notice vast quantities of gin and tropical fruit play no role whatsoever.  There is good reason; punch is a social mixture with just enough, well, punch.
 

Claret Cup

One bottle of mediocre Bordeaux
One cup of Amontillado Sherry
Two jiggers, Grand Marnier
One cup of fine sugar
Two cups seltzer
Orange rind

Stir all ingredients gently in a large stainless bowl.  Let sit for thirty minutes, covered in refrigerator.  Add one very large block of clear ice.  Serve in tea cups with a ladle.

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.

The Wine, The Ritual and The Wardrobe

A decanter can be purpose-built, or, as is the case here, the destiny of a cut-glass and silver wedding present.  

“The modern habit of doing ceremonial things unceremoniously is no proof of humility; rather, it proves the offender’s inability to forget himself in the rite, and his readiness to spoil for every one else the proper pleasure of ritual.”

- C.S. Lewis

    As wines age, insolubles agglomerate and precipitate in the form of dusty-looking sediment.  If the wine has been correctly stored, which is to say horizontally, this sediment will have collected in a crop-row along the length of the bottle.  And so the first step to decanting is to stand the bottle upright, gently so as not to cause too great a plume, and for several hours until the sediment has resettled in the ring at the bottom.  Uncorking the bottle without disturbing the sediment requires a steady hand, or—and it pains me to admit this—one of those high-tech lever-action screw-pulls.  The decanter itself need not be one—any wide-necked glass or crystal pitcher will do—but it must be absolutely clean.  The other, rather more exciting accessory is a light source illuminating the bottle’s neck so the pourer can see and prevent any sediment from escaping.  This can be done dramatically with a low candle, but the flashlight function on a smart phone is just as effective.  The decanted wine will not just be sediment-free, but opened up from its long stay in the bottle.  

    The other type of decanting isn’t just a less refined process; it demonstrates quite effectively what is meant by that particularly obtuse term, opened up.  Younger, less complex wines also benefit from leaving the bottle before drinking, but the reason isn’t sediment—it’s air.  In the virtually airless environment of the bottle, a young wine might take several years to find a pleasant balance of tannin, varietal flavor, alcohol and acid.  The introduction of air—oxidation—speeds things up considerably, toning down astringency and amplifying the rounder, fruit flavors lurking just below the surface.  I also find the strong ethanol nose some warm-weather wines can have disappears altogether after decanting.  The method is blessedly simple: unceremoniously uncork a bottle and pour it vigorously into a clean carafe.  Let sit for some unspecified amount of time and drink.

A good hook is indispensable when setting out clothes.  

    I might be unique in drawing the comparison, but I’m always reminded of decanting wine while laying out my clothes.  I rarely remove something directly from a closet or armoire and pull it over my head.  Folded sweaters or polo shirts usually need some mild reshaping; trousers always benefit from a quick shake and smoothing; shirts I snap into life with a flourish.  The practice also affords the opportunity to inspect for marks, missing buttons or creases—those minor emergencies, correctible as they are, still better discovered at home.  But the main purpose is to knock some of the drawer and closet shape out of the garment before wearing—to allow the garment to breathe.  

    Like old wines, more formal clothes require significantly greater attention.  If a suit is needed, I remove it to a hook for inspection.  Despite precautions, lint and dust settle on shoulders and lapels—something remedied by a few gentle sweeps of a quality lint brush.  If a shake doesn’t release the errant wrinkle, out comes the iron and board.  Shirt, tie, handkerchief, socks and shoes are chosen, each carefully inspected and no less subject to brush or iron.  I arrange the various components; an hour later the results have either found a natural harmony or require some minor adjustment.  Either way, it’s the time spent out of ordinary enclosure that reveals.

    The truly devoted rotate their wardrobes and regularly inspect their wine collection; they shine shoes religiously and faithfully note cellar temperature.  These activities are executed in the name of practicality, and the tangible benefits—fresh suits and wine—suggests that practicality alone is motivation enough.  But it would be foolish to deny the ceremony; hobbyists are always aware of ritual.  As C.S. Lewis infers, forgetting oneself is the point.

Reasonably Seasonal

This Cote de Brouilly could go either way--chilled or cellar temperature. 

    Perhaps four years ago at a lively bistro on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, I sat for lunch with my wife on a particularly hot day.  She was rather pregnant at the time, and perhaps because of this, we were given a table very quickly, despite what appeared to be an impatient lunchtime crush of regulars.  The tables were tightly arranged in the small dining room and so eavesdropping was unavoidable.  Next to us sat two men; while I hesitate to say they were rude, their manner was certainly brusque, and more so than might be excused by local custom.  The waiter, a Frenchman, was patient while one of them studied the wine list, finally jabbing an index finger at a name.  The exchange was brief but perfect:

“Is that the red wine you are supposed to drink cold?” 

“That Beaujolais would be fine chilled.”  

    I was impressed how expertly this professional dealt with what, for lesser waiters, might have been an opportunity for haughtiness.  His response was delivered with a gracious smile, but the message was clear: you may drink that particular Beaujolais chilled because the day is hot and the spirit in here conducive.  As a devoted Beaujolais drinker, I was satisfied.  This young, uncomplicated French wine can, indeed, be chilled.  Some combination of varietal (Gamay) and fermentation method (carbonic maceration) produces light bodied, fruit-forward and yeasty wines without the tannic astringency that would become metallic and flat once cold.  The problem is that the fashion for chilled Beaujolais tends to creep outside of those appropriate moments.  Ordinary Beaujolais doesn’t need a chill to be good, and the Crus (small, pricier producers) can demonstrate complexity and nuance that would be a shame to flatten out with chill.

    When it works, though, few wine experiences seem as clever.  So ingrained is it that red wine should be served at room temperature, that any sign of chill seems an error.  Perhaps this is why red wine is often served too warm; the fear of faux pas creates an overcorrection.  Counterintuitively, Beaujolais almost becomes more serious when chilled.  The signature fruity nose develops juicier and darker notes and a bracing structure can emerge where before there was little.  Well-chilled Beaujolais is also dangerously drinkable, and not unlike rosé, is a practice best reserved for those warm weather daytime events where a few drinks seem less an indulgence than a right.  The waiter was spot-on; chilled Beaujolais is more about atmosphere than correctness—the enhancement of time and place through an unusual practice.  

    A surprisingly similar sensation can be had by going sockless.  A collection of quality, over-the-calf hose can be the difference between dressing and dressing well.  Having multiples of sober colors is an efficiency, and a complement of less serious patterns is the mark of a more sophisticated dresser.  But even the most comprehensive collection can’t compete with the thrill of going without on those warm and casual occasions when even the sheerest, coolest wearing versions stifle.  I adore my own collection of lisle, merino, silk and cashmere, but my favorite day on the sock-wearing calendar is the one when the breeze finds its way between loafer and trouser cuff.  

    But socklessness, like chilled red wine, can creep too.  Any occasion more serious than a non-business lunch or casual outdoor event really requires socks.  I don’t usually look out for ankles, but a bare one at a wedding or business function is hard to ignore.  It’s funny to think of a man’s ankles as being distracting considering our collective tolerance of exposed flesh these days, but somehow that little patch of skin between foot and calf is weighted differently than midriff and décolletage.  Specifically, it signifies leisure.  This is why a tie requires socks; on younger men forgoing the latter looks affected, on older men, like a jarring omission.

    The only real danger in chilled Beaujolais or socklessness is deploying either too regularly.   This is often the case with seasonal indulgences; they only delight when experienced in contrast to the expected.  Of course this cuts the other way too; the instant the practice feels routine, a return to more conventional habits is welcome.  We are blessedly early in the season though, so at least once a week I will be the guy drinking cold Beaujolais, ankles very much in the open.

Diction Matters

"Coriander?  Don't be silly.  The nose on this Syrah is straight norisoprenoid-carotenoid...  amateur."

    The other evening while waiting for the butcher to tenderize some lamb, I noticed the shop’s curious short-hand for describing its stock of wine.  Little placards had been affixed beneath each selection with the following choices: Fruity, Spicy, Earthy, Silky, Flowery, Racy.  Red, white or pink, for each bottle one or several of these terms had been circled.  Other customers happily went about filling their baskets, but I stood contemplatively, suddenly aware of how abstract the task of choosing is.  Of course none of the wines were actually spicy or silken, and what could racy possibly mean—that the wine is partial to skimpy undergarments?

    Of course language only provides two options: the literal and the figurative, and the literal would make for a rather scientific description of esters and volatile compounds.  So we rely upon the figurative to convey the complex experience of wine, which would be fine if we could all agree what earth tastes like.  Wine professionals largely can, and they routinely use familiar figurative terms to accurately conduct their evaluations.  The hobbyist is left to establish his or her own lexicon, and I have never been in a room with two who can agree entirely upon a wine’s profile.  In describing sensory experience, the gray area is vast and even the broadest terms can become unmoored.

    Describing the often ineffable qualities of cloth during the bespoke process presents a similar problem.  In fact, many of the same figurative terms used for wine are tossed about when confronted by cloth bunches: dry, body, crisp, refined.  To some these terms are ironclad and when crossed about what is specifically meant, exchanges can become prickly.  I’ve even perceived discrepancies in meaning of commonly used words amongst professionals.  But this only happens when forced to describe their products for promotional material and such; behind the scenes is the science of cloth-finishing, replete with its own semi-scientific vocabulary, unencumbered by the novice’s notions of drape and durability.  

"Sweet cloth.  No,  I mean dry cloth."  

    The problem in selecting cloth with desirable properties is particularly dependent upon experience: those with it struggle to convey accurate or consistent descriptions to those without, and those without rely too heavily upon the received wisdom of those with.  A vicious cycle if I’ve even seen one—and no doubt responsible for many garments that do not see the light of day.  Some of us novices are fortunate; under the vast experience  of my tailor, Chris Despos, choosing a dog seems very unlikely.

    At the moment, my daughter’s favorite bedtime book is an edited collection of drawings featuring a baby encountering edible and inedible things.  The idea is that the audience should decide whether the thing in question is yummy (corn, for instance) or yucky (earthworms).  Perhaps after the two-hundredth reading the real message occurred to me: acquiring experience is a similarly binary process.  A wine, a cloth, or whatever else is either yummy, or yucky.  Crucially, both is impossible.  The results of your choices—whether strapping Cabernets or mellow Dolcettos, whether gossamer super cloths or dense hopsacks—are what is called preference.  And there it was, hiding in plain site all this time.  

In the Pink

    Pink wine, like a pink shirt, is for an unserious occasion.  Both are personal favorites, which makes the coming weeks exciting.  Spring is the best time for pink.  As it happens, a recent birthday brought a length of pink chambray shirting as a gift, and, as if these things are cosmically prearranged, several bottles of rosé, rosato and rosado.

    Whether French, Italian or Spanish, and despite the wide range of styles, I find most pink wines function similarly: they stand in as softer, fleshier substitutes for white wines that might have too much acidic backbone for whatever food they accompany.  This is because pink wine is made from red grapes, the tint of color being determined by how long the pressed juice is left in contact with the grape skins.  In this sense one might think of pink wine as red wine light—an approachable chilled version with traces of the red varietal’s character.  That’s not to say they are typically complex wines; the appeal of pink wine is that it asks very little of the person drinking it.

    They should be served chilled, but need not be kept cold for the duration.  They are good picnic choices for this reason.  In fact, pink wine has always struck me as daytime wine.  As long as you don’t encounter anything more serious than quiche, or perhaps a ham sandwich, pink wine navigates lunchtime menus confidently.  And while they don’t exactly flounder in the evening, perhaps some of their pretty charm fades with the light.  

    Pink shirts pose more of a challenge.  I find they are strictly daytime shirts, and casual ones at that.  This insistence dictates everything from the type of cloth (ones with texture and noticeable weaves are preferred) to styling details (namely, barrel cuffs and casual collars).  One of my more cherished shirts is a nubby royal oxford with semi-spread collar and barrel cuffs.  I have to limit myself wearing it so it does not prematurely wear out—which is difficult as it works casually with everything: light gray suits, navy blazers, cream linen trousers, beneath a charcoal cashmere sweater.  

    And here is where I am running into a style dilemma.  The cloth sent me as a gift is a lovely chambray from Simonot Goddard (via A Suitable Wardrobe).  The chambray I've encountered has a casual, even workwear aspect to it, but this version is utterly refined.  So refined, in fact, that I am seriously tempted to have it made into a pair of French cuffed shirts.  But I usually reserve this more formal style of shirt for evening, so when and how these would be worn I’m not sure.  Sometimes a cloth rides roughshod over whatever notions have typically defined it. 

I’m open to suggestions.  Below, for inspiration, is a small gallery of pink wine, shirts and cloth.