Ecce Homo

Behold the man. Flesh and blood. Broken. Passionate.

Baldung Grien, Schmerzensmann [Man of Sorrows], 1511

In one of the more curious English etymological journeys from Greek (pathos), ‘passion’ now stands for ardent enthusiasm or, worse, lust. But in its oldest and most enduring sense, passion refers to suffering. It is a corporeal ordeal bound in an emotional expression of anguish. It is pain, of the body, of the heart.

I’d have made a hopeless utilitarian. There are plenty of them still kicking about, but I pity their plight. ‘All pain is bad, umkay?’ The sentiment has a hollow, modern ring suggestive of double-entry bookkeeping and facts in boxes. It seems inescapable to me that the human has always been defined in some way through or against pain and suffering. From pain we derive meaning, sense of purpose, sense of gain and loss, sense of identity. The significance of flesh and blood – our substance – is its tenuousness. We are morbid creatures. We tear and bleed. Around us and in us ‘nature’ struggles. Out of Victorian conceit we’ve been wont to talk of the survival of the fittest, beating our chests as if the civilised world somehow had a monopoly over the category ‘fit’. The flipside of that expression is the suffering of the majority, the struggle, through pain, to death.

This is not meant to be bleak. Through struggle we strive, and in striving we become. Pain moves us, physically, affectively. It holds up to us our limits and dares us to transcend them. Through adversity comes clarity of purpose. The worse the ordeal we come through, the more resolute we are. Just as there is no courage without fear, there is no purpose without pain. Think of all the people who claim they will ‘re-evaluate’ their lives after painful experiences. There is truth in cliché.

Ecce Homo: Behold the man. Through passion – in pain – significant. 

Make Something of Something

I’ve been following the energetic creativity and general joie de vivre of Claire the illustrator for a good while. Sometimes young people give you hope – there’s a spark there: a passion, a purpose, a spirit. If you’re looking for an example of resourcefulness, seek her out. I thought she was a real individual who happened to be handy with a pencil, but it turns out she’s also handy with saw and set-square. She wanted for something, and went and made the damn thing. Now that is a kind of problem-solving psychology that is all too rare these days. And there’s a fair example of fatherhood here too. Go look.

Image lifted from http://illustratorclaire.wordpress.com/. Pretty sure she'll be alright with that.

The example set me thinking. Time was that there were three kinds of people: people who made stuff or dug it out of the ground; people who sold the stuff that was made, or else filled in ledgers to record how much was sold; and people who did bugger all. Each had a value set. The first put value in skill; the second put value in money; the third put value in blood, or else in tradition. It seems to me that there is something very honourable in setting store by skill, something noble about blood, and something essential about tradition. And that makes me lament all the more that practically everyone these days is of the second category. Everyone is a salesman or an administrator, and our lives are reducible to an overwhelming concern with the bottom line. I find very little by way of humanity in the mere chasing of green.

Alas, the artisan and the patron are not likely to be resuscitated any time soon. I therefore exhort you to do as our young exemplar does, and make something of something. Find some value in life that does not reduce to dollars and cents. If you have a frivolous hobby, pursue it seriously. Play an instrument? Dedicate yourself to mastering it. If you’re a gardener, don’t satisfy yourself with pulling weeds, but work to enchant it. Write stories? Get published! There is humanity in these things, for the human creature is artful and skilful. Therein lies one source of our cachet.

RTW @ Timothy Everest, SS2011

Pace Mr. Everest, I’m stealing his photographs, but I’m sure he won’t mind. The bespoke tailor to men, celebrated or otherwise, of impeccable taste, has just launched his Spring/Summer ready-to-wear collection, and it’s divine. Pictures are all from TE’s blog.

Top to bottom: 3-Piece Prince of Wales suit, sky-blue penny collar shirt, and TE's signature Spitalfields flower tie; navy two-piece, with classic spotted tie; cream cotton 2-piece suit, with notable Sea Island pink cotton socks; navy knitted blazer with Liberty print shirt.

Unrattled at the Philharmonie

We turned up at the wrong house. Amateur mistake, you might think, but I thought this guy was a big draw. Turns out he was next door, and a cosy little gathering it was. As it transpires, the night was all the better for it.

Over in the Philharmonie, Leif Ove Andsnes was giving his first orchestral performance as pianist in residence. Simon Rattle, who is the chief conductor, had sent out a message to the Japanese people, with whom there are great connections in the classical music world. There was a feeling of necessity about the atmosphere – an overwhelming sense that it was important to carry on. We only got as far as the lobby and ticket touts. In the Kammermusiksaal next door, Ray Chen was about to wow a half-filled room.

Photo: Altmann, Beer

Ray Chen was born in 1989. It’s enough to make you swallow your tongue. 1989! This young man plays the violin like he was born with it attached to his arm. It is absolutely a part of him. He won the Yehudi Menuhin Competition in 2008 and has become hot stuff ever since. I can’t for the life of me think why the room wasn’t full, but I’m willing to bet that the acoustics were all the better for the lack of German girth. We were treated to a virtuoso evening with the young star, whose selections absolutely showed off his depth of skills to the enraptured audience. Some of them were so taken aback that they coughed noisily through all the most delicate and quiet moments of emotion poured into his Stradivarius. The rest of us held our breaths for two hours.

The highlights of the evening in this beautifully intimate chamber were Giuseppe Tartini’s Devil’s Trill, Bach’s Chaconne from the Partita for solo violin No. 2 in D minor, and Henryk Wieniawski’s Saltarelle in A minor, which frankly left me feeling giddy. You know me: I’m highly critical of audiences at this kind of event. This one, apart from the one or two who gave the impression of being terminally ill, was there because they really knew something. The reception started warmly, and grew ever more affectionate. The largely empty room raised enough noise of appreciation to gain two encores, and the young Chen treated us to his sense of humour, his German, and his beaming smile. Would that all performances were so utterly worthwhile.

In the audience a few seats down from me was a mother with a young daughter, aged about 5. The little girl fidgeted a bit, but was largely engrossed in the movement of Chen’s fingers, and carried on his melodies. I love to see children being exposed to such things, especially when they seem to realise that it is important. Knowing how to behave as an adult comes from childhood experience, or else is dearly bought. This young one looked inspired, and gave Mr. Chen a standing ovation. It was clearly not her first time. And so a musical education has begun, to her great benefit, and, should she be the next Ray Chen, also to ours.

Double Ton

Few batsmen reach the 200 milestone against serious opposition, so I must be doing something right. My audience has prepared for me a particularly glorious wicket, with even pace and bounce, and provided me with every opportunity to go on and make a great total. Whatever snorters, googlies and mystery deliveries have come my way, I have met them with straight bat and good stride, thanks to my confidence in the pitch. You all do me great credit. Obviously I am gunning for a triple hundred, and have my sights well set on Graham Gooch’s 333 against India in 1990 (needless to say, the BBC coverage cut away for horse racing, ensuring the nation missed his three-hundredth run).

For my large American audience, I’m sorry that the above makes no sense whatsoever, but be assured it’s all in the finest spirit of an Englishman’s love of cricket, with due acknowledgment of everyone concerned when he reaches a score of rare magnitude. I must learn some baseball metaphors. Perhaps by the time I bat 1000…

To the Future King and Queen

The announcement of a Royal engagement is newsworthy for precisely one reason: we discover who is to be our future Queen. It is not important for us to know if she can work, but if she will serve; not if she is happy, but if she is dutiful; not if she is pretty, but if she is healthy. And one might say that even these things should be beyond our ken, for it is nothing to do with us after all whom His Royal Highness chooses to wed. She is entering a public role, and this should have nothing to do with the paparazzi, or with intimate knowledge about whether she can cook, or with what she chooses to wear.

Our utter disrespect for the Monarchy is generally expressed through our interest in all the bits and pieces of their existence that are completely and wholly irrelevant. We reduce them to first names, follow them in celebrity magazines, pass judgment on their comments, their actions, their every move. We answer nonsensical polls about whether we ‘like’ them, or what they’re ‘good for’, and go about as if our opinions on such things matter. We are generally so dim-wittedly unaware of what the Monarchy is for, and from whence it came, that one wonders why we bother taking so much ‘interest’ in it at all, or rather, why they seem so intent on managing their media presence. The Monarchy is now on Facebook, and you can ‘like’ it, and for its part, it will delete offensive comments. The post- modern court is dull, plebeian, and hideously democratic. If Royalty is reduced to this, then how do we distinguish it from its opposite: the Anti-Monarchy Society, also of Facebook?

We really should take note of the Monachy mottos, and so might They

We are mistaken to think, and the Monarchy is mistaken to endorse the thought, that we all inhabit the same world; that they’re ordinary people, like you and me; that we have a right to know, and that they have an obligation to tell us. If all of that were true then they should not continue as a monarchy, but instead retire into middle-class ennui. The Monarchy has forgotten how to be a monarchy, it seems. They care what we think, and they appear on sofas talking to journalists who call them William and Kate. And this breeds nothing but contempt in those who look for reasons to abolish the whole lot of them, for they flaunt the lie of their special distinction, rubbing our noses in it. For God’s sake go back into your palaces, and occasionally deign to wave at us from a balcony. Be mysterious, aloof, eccentric. Be evasive, elusive, and above all have contempt for the media limelight. You do not need to court it, or to woo us. You are the Monarchy. You have to believe, or at least portray that you believe, that you are morally, spiritually, and constitutionally distinct from me, and from everyone else. It may be utter nonsense, but those are the terms, or else all bets are off. Either You reign, or You do not. Either You serve a constitutional function, or You do not. Either You appear on stamps and the money, or You do not. There is nothing democratic – meant in the crass modern sense, where everyone thinks they should have an equal say about everything – about You.

But who am I to tell you what to do? I’m just one man at court among millions.

A Gentleman's Guide to Wine, Part I

Some time ago I asked you all what on earth might be deemed a manly wine, and offered only its antithesis. I’m now proud to introduce the first guest writer on Being Manly, who knows his stuff and is happy to share. So, for your delight and to our advantage, I give you my friend, Amator Vini. And remember, dear readers, a symposium is technically a drinking party. You’re all warmly invited.

With the vast array of wine available in today’s market and the multiple challenges of price, provenance, and the tendency of wine to be branded, on occasion, as elitist, choosing a suitable libation for a gentleman’s evening of dining or for a romantic soirée can be challenging. Herewith, then, a Gentleman’s Guide to making a sound choice – part one – written from the perspective of a lover of wine in all of its forms, and a buyer of certain types of wine for the last decade.

Wine is a complex entity, and the fact that it is ‘alive’ and constantly evolving makes it profoundly interesting. The vast majority of wines, including those with the unfashionable but highly practical screwcap (which now finds favour in many New World offerings) are designed for consumption within twelve months of release and do not reward cellaring. Their primary appeal is the youth of their fruit, their lightness, and the simple pleasures which they inflict on the tastebuds. For an aperitif of this kind, one that is light on complexity, you could look to the classic options: a young Beaujolais for example, perhaps a Joseph Drouin or a Georges Duboeuf. Each November, watch for the arrivage of the Beaujolais nouveau, wines from that year’s crop, which are a pleasure to quaff and which can be had for a little as a few euros per bottle. More complex Beaujolais are found in the crus of Brouilly, satisfying wines with more character and body, but still suitable as well for a gentle drink before dinner.

Beaujolais has the advantage of price; even the most expensive rarely sell for more than thirty dollars or so. They lack the so-called ‘glamour premium’ that afflicts the great wines of the world, and that places the Lafites and Moutons out of the range of any but the sporting elite or the privileged of Hollywood. These wines – the vins du garde – are primarily responsible for wine’s elitist image (the Lafite 2009 costs over $1200 per bottle, and will be much more expensive when finally released on the open market in 2012). But to focus on these wines is to miss many promising possibilities. Take the 2009 Bordeaux vintage, hailed as one of the greats and held up alongside 1945, 1961, 1982, 2000, and 2005. Its wines, still being aged in the barrel but available for purchase on the futures market, are currently the most expensive Bordeaux offerings in existence. Yet below the stratospheric prices of Le Pin, Pétrus, Lafite and others lies a plethora of wonderfully made, well-priced wine. The appeal of Bordeaux, the largest wine-growing area in the world, is its complexity: wines are blends, typically of the five varieties allowed by law: Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot, Merlot, and Malbec. Assembled through the expertise of the winemaker, they are sublime creations and a true Bordeaux is a sum greater than its parts, and offers marvellous treasures: the softness of a Pomerol, perhaps Latour à Pomerol; the rich depth of a St. Emilion, maybe Fleur Cardinale or Figeac; the elegant fragrance of a Margaux, like D’Angludet; the robust strength of a Pauillac (think Pontet-Canet or, for less, an Haut-Batailley) or a Medoc, like Bernadotte or Pez, from St. Estephe. But how to avoid the pitfalls?

With Bordeaux, unless you have inherited great wealth, avoid the hype, and choose wisely. Consult guides such as those offered by reputable sources such as Decanter magazine, and follow the adage of buying lesser-known names from good vintages. Look for the magic years: 2000, 2005; even 2001, 2006, are promising. Avoid 2007, where poor weather produced wine without character, and wines were selling for far-fetched, pre-recession prices. For a steak-frites, choose a Pauillac or Medoc; for roast chicken, Pomerol; for a chateaubriand, a St. Emilion; a Margaux with fine cheeses. And don’t forget the sweet gem of Bordeaux, Sauternes: if the prices of the fabled Chateau d’Yquem make you weep, look to its lesser-known neighbour, Guiraud, which sells for much less and is just as good, and in good years, like 2009, possibly better. With a Sauternes, you might offer ripe figs, soft cheese, and chocolate.

What to do with those New World wines? Unlike their French avatars, the wines of Australia, Canada, Chile, and the USA tend to be sold by grape; a Bordeaux will never tell you what the blend is (you are expected by the Bordelais to have done your research), but the Americans will place it on the label. At the so-called Judgment of Paris, Napa Valley reds beat their French counterparts, and they are sure bets for a good evening – but only if you can afford them, for the great wines command the same hype found in Bordeaux. Avoid the wines from mass-production tank farms, such as those made by Gallo. The most interesting wines are those from smaller producers – Tablas Creek, Ojai, Longoria – although they can be hard to find. Canada’s wine offers many gems and with few polluted by cult status you can make some informed choices guided by the name. Choose Mission Hill or Iniskillin for easy options; Lailey or Tawse for more interesting styles. If you like the scent of green grass in your wine, choose Chilean Cabernet; for wines to be drunk with a resilience provided by over-extracted tannins, Australian wines.

Readers will note the absence of Italian wine here, and will also spot the clear preference for French wine. I must offer the confession that I have never quite understood Italian wine, finding it astringent and of inconsistent quality. A recent report discussed in Decanter suggested that up to 30% of Italy’s vineyards should be pulled up or replanted, as they make substandard bottles. That is open for debate. But if there is one thing to be said for choosing wine, it is to find a region you understand and enjoy, and learn all you can about it. France offers, for me, wines of unbeatable value. Away from Bordeaux you can find exquisite soft rosés from the south; heavy, tannic reds from Provence; fragrant, unoaked expressions of the Chardonnay grape in Burgundy, which put the vanilla-butter produce from some Australian or American vineyards to shame; and, the French wine par excellence, Champagne. Champagne offers what no other sparkling wine ever achieves; Prosecco and Cava are pleasant, but the curious mix of power, acidity, depth, and brioche in a fine bottle of Champagne, which can only be called such if it comes from the area around Reims and Épernay, is unmatched anywhere else. And what of the price tag? Champagne has also acquired its own glamour premium, and in my opinion money spent on Cristal or Moet prestige wines is wasted; leave them for the racing car drivers to show off with. Small family producers are the ideal choice – here you will find wonderful expressions of terroir. My favourite is H. Billiot et Fils, which, lacking the marketing power of les grandes marques like Moet, sells for a song but is a much finer wine.

So, gentlemen, whatever your choice, remember that prices can be misleading; research always pays off; and pick lesser-known wines from good years, especially for Bordeaux. Do not waste your time on buying footballers’ wines like Pétrus or parvenues like Le Pin (over $2,000 per bottle for the 2009); you will be disappointed, and in debt; and so, looking for a good wine? Try Ch. Bernadotte, from Bordeaux; a fine Drouin Brouilly from Burgundy; a provençal rosé from Bandol, or a brut from Billiot, and make sure that you approach wine as a creature of complexity and vivacity to be carefully poured, slowly tasted, and matched for its depth and weight with the food of your choice. In my next column, I will offer some more thoughts on the correct matching of foods and wines and sample menus, for your delectation. Until then –

Amator Vini

Charm: Offensive?

It was charm again, my dear, simple, creamy English charm, playing tigers…. I was right years ago… when I warned you. I took you out to dinner to warn you of charm…. Charm is the great English blight. It does not exist outside of these damp islands. It spots and kills anything it touches. It kills love; it kills art; I greatly fear, my dear Charles, it has killed you.  

(Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited).

As one who has recently embarked on a charm offensive in a culture susceptible to its seductiveness, I take umbrage at the notion that charm is somehow – offensive. Of course, Anthony Blanche was himself the caricatured embodiment of empty charm, made malignant by a strong current of impoliteness. English charm rather seems to civilise our passions, to order our emotions, and to bolster our reputations. It ought never disconcert, but rather refers those we meet to the respectable heritage from which we spring. It surely goes without saying that the maxim I employed in my last entry works just as well the other way around: how one looks ought to be positively reinforced by what comes out of one’s mouth.

Of course, true charm indicates a certain sincerity. It is not possible, in the longue durée, to be charming without substance, intelligence and good will. No one can be charming through gritted teeth for any great length of time. Such a villain will come unstuck. But its cultivation ultimately has a bearing on one’s character, and it is in its very creamy Englishness that it positively reinforces love. And art? Perhaps. Artfulness? Certainly.

When You Greet A Stranger...

When you greet a stranger, look at his shoes.

So goes the saying, and there’s a lot in it. I’m given to write on the subject because of Will’s podcast on shoe shining over at A Suitable Wardrobe. There’s really something to be learnt here, and it’s not all vanity and preening either. The advice about shining one’s shoes as soon as you buy them is practical and sensible, for good reasons explained by Will and his guest. Go there and find out. Moreover, I’ve been reminded recently – as if I needed it – that looking the part is really so important in life’s struggles. I’ve noted many times that clothes do not make the man, but that the man can certainly be unmade by the wrong sartorial choices (which usually amount to a lack of thought). As a rule of thumb, what comes out of one’s mouth ought to be positively reinforced by how one looks. In the last few weeks I’ve been stretched intellectually by a number of powerful people whose judgments might make or break a career. My mind, I am pleased to report, is able to translate thoughts into words rather effectively, but I dare say this would count for little if my shirt collar were loose, my suit ill-fitting, and my shoes scuffed and uncared for. People move through life at breakneck speed, forming opinions and making policies based on impressions, for impressions are all we have time to gather. Your shoes, suit and shirt won’t be the reason you get the job, but they could easily be the reason you don’t get it. Or, to put it another way, no one will consciously notice the cut of your jib, unless they don’t like it.

Keeping Good Company

     ‘My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company.’
     ‘You are mistaken,’ said he gently, ‘that is not good company; that is the best…’

(Jane Austen, Persuasion, 1818).

Good company, which Mr. Elliot reduced to the requirements of ‘birth, education, and manners’ is nigh impossible to find. Fortunately, I am blessed by constantly being in the best company, but to understand me correctly requires an explication of Austen’s prose. There is nothing worse, I humbly aver, than people being clever. Intelligence ought to come with modesty, pertinent interventions, and humility. Clever people flaunt their superiority at any opportunity, lacing it with facetiousness and pedantic corrections. Clever people delight in the tripping up of others. Clever people know a variety of stratagems for penetrating the most fortified of hen houses.

So what did ‘clever’ mean? Our old friend Samuel Johnson first defined the word as ‘dextrous, skilful’; his second definition was ‘just, fit, proper, commodious’; and finally, ‘well-shaped, handsome’. Austen’s ‘clever’ company was, therefore, not so much vulpine as perfectly adapted to polite company, in both mental fitness, social appropriateness, and aesthetic appeal. Were such people ‘well-informed’, they would be devastatingly interesting. Their ‘great deal of conversation’ would not be mere artfulness around ladies, but a supreme engagement with the world and the like minds around them. The best company is sympathetic, challenging, and fair.

You may keep your clever people. I will take the best.

The Gentleman's Club, II

In keeping with the notion that one must seize one’s opportunities, I’m taking the chance to go for lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge Club on Pall Mall next week, before my European voyage comes to an end. Since I have previously maligned the diminished status of the gentleman’s club, I thought it worthy to give credit where it’s due and celebrate the good old ways where they are well preserved. Here, for your general edification, are the basic rules for club members and visitors alike. If more places insisted on the form of decency, would not the substance of decency follow on?

The Club recognises two standards of dress
Before 11.00am on Weekdays and before 6.00pm on Saturdays, Sundays and Bank Holidays smart informal dress is permitted.

At other times, subject to the exceptions set out in the Regulations, gentlemen are required to wear a jacket and tie, and ladies to dress with commensurate formality. Jeans are not permitted. Gentlemen who remove their jackets pursuant to regulation E (2) must wear long sleeved shirts fastened at the cuff.

The Committee considers that the following forms of dress are inappropriate in the Club house at any time: shorts, t-shirts, training shoes, and similar casual wear.

Members, Guests and Reciprocal members who are using the bedrooms are exempted from the dress code when first arriving and last departing.

The use of mobile phones is distracting to others. Their use is unrestricted in the Pall Mall Business Suite. In other areas please switch them to silent or vibrate, and if you have to take or make a call please go to the telephone booth (on the first floor), or the street outside.

Children under ten are generally not admitted to the Club house. If they are to be invited to a Private Function, please discuss with the Secretary when booking.

Animals are not admitted, except guide dogs.

The Perfect Saturday

Let me preface this entry with the disclaimer that today was definitely not the perfect Saturday. Adverse weather and a persistent sinus headache have put paid to that. But two recent compliments have given me pause to think about what the perfect day would look like (and I am presupposing that the perfect day simply must be a Saturday). So, before indulging in the fantastic, I extend my thanks to the Modern Traditionalist and to Bow Tie Guy for their respective nods in my direction. In times of inclement weather, the perfect Saturday would undoubtedly see them included on my morning’s reading list, along with the Telegraph and the following eight:

The Sartorialist
Paper Flowers
Dandyism
Art of Manliness
Older Brother’s Advice
Modern Gentleman’s Blog
An Aesthete’s Lament
Rose C’est La Vie

Gongs dispensed, on with the idealising (with absolutely no mind to geographical impossibilities. Photographs invoke each place as I go, and I publish them with not a little nostalgia).

I have a love hate relationship with sleep. It gets in the way of action, but also provides the platform for action to take place. Presuming the perfect day to be free of guilt, I begin with a sound lie in, to be followed by the weekend papers, a full English breakfast (which I shall have to describe, because it has lost its way), and my favourite blend of imported tea. Mrs. VB suggests that this would be more congenial taken al fresco in the morning sunshine, against the backdrop of the Rockies in Vancouver. I concur.

Vancouver

Contrary to popular belief and low expectations, English breakfasts are not a festival of grease, but a thoroughly delicious and nutritious repast. None of the ingredients should ever be bought in a supermarket. Ever. Black pudding ought to be home made by the butcher who slaughtered the pig that produced the meaty sausages, home-cured bacon, and fried kidneys that adorn your plate. The sausage and bacon must be grilled, not fried. Eggs should be organic free range, not because I’m an eco warrior, but because that’s how hens are supposed to be. It is only to be expected that such things will taste better. Tomato, fresh from the vine, will be seasoned and grilled. Bread, dipped briefly in the bacon fat, should be fried in a hot pan. You’ll find it crispy, not dripping with lard. The finishing touch, for me, is a sliced and well-fried field mushroom. The umami original. This should be followed by wholegrain toast and some good English preserves. Black current will do nicely. Of course, I like it best when I cook it myself, but failing that, I’ll have Marc Cohen of Sparrow in Montreal do it. I’ve never had a finer brunch than there.

Montreal

Eating over, time for a round of golf with a couple of chums, preferably on a course otherwise empty. So long as I’m fantasising, I might as well dispense will all the hackers! I haven’t played in a long while, but on this fair day in May (for this perfect day will be in that merry month) I will card a round in the 70s and be satisfied. The club house where I used to play, on the edge of the North York Moors, was actually a rather charming pub. After polishing off a couple of jars of real ale – nobody in North America knows what this is, I guarantee – I am homeward bound.

Ampleforth Golf Club

An essential ingredient of the perfect Saturday is the happiness of my wife. How else can one expect to maintain a joyful demeanour if the love of one’s life is not also blissfully at peace? At home I find her just arrived back from a successful outing to the shops with like-minded friends, heavily laden with fine fabrics at a fraction of the fare. She craves coffee and cakes, and we know just the place. Leysieffer is a German chocolatier of international repute, and their cafes are brilliantly indulgent places, but with a firm grip on civilised ideals. My favourite location was at the top of KaDeWe department store in Berlin, amidst the most sensuous and glorious food hall, and with views across the city.

Berlin

Having gone home to change, we venture out to Les Deux Magots at Place Saint-Germain des Prés, Paris, for some light but deliciously complicated French cuisine, accompanied by fine wine and a literary buzz. Tourists will all have decided to go somewhere else for the evening, and the place will be occupied only by those Parisians exceptionally known for their politesse.

Paris, St. Germain

An after-dinner stroll in the dusk along the banks of the Seine takes us home in time for Match of the Day, and an exceptional single malt from the Highlands called Tomatin, which I first tasted as an eleven year old. Not inappropriately for such a day, I nod off over the pages of T.E. Lawrence’s translation of The Odyssey.

Tailor Made

I remember the tailor coming to our house in the ‘80s, and fitting father up for his suits. He wasn’t a particularly good tailor, but I gained an early appreciation for fabric samples, and understood implicitly that ‘off the peg’ was synonymous with ‘does not fit’. That is still true, unless you have marvellous fortune, but hardly anybody cares anymore. So much the better for those of us who do, for therein lies our cachet.

It’s taken me years to find a tailor I actually trust. Walk into H. Padar Bespoke Tailor on Ste. Catharine in downtown Montreal, and you will be sized up before a tape measure has been unfurled. After 35 years, Mark H. Padar simply has an eye for fit. He immediately put me into a 36” suit jacket that he thought would work and, while I swooned with incredulity that anything could be that good, he told me he could make it much better. It took a great deal of resolve not to part with $600 on the spot. I have known this man to work miracles on garments that were never meant to fit me, but which ended up seeming as if they were made for me. It gives one a great deal of confidence while shopping to know that ‘not quite’ can be transformed into ‘spot on’.

Bespoke tailoring need not break the bank. It represents great value for money, for one is buying into a genuine skill. Hems are so cheap to do that I cannot fathom why trousers are worn too long. Fake-buttoned jacket cuffs can be made authentic for a small fee. Even quite major alterations fall within the purview of most. I have today converted a rather large waistcoat into a rather small one, which will be some comfort to the person who overestimated my girth when he bought it for me. I’ll post pictures of that at some future date, along with some of my other projects that have brought great garments back from the brink.

Emulating Pheidippides

It’s 490 B.C. The story goes that having run 150 miles in two days, Pheidippides ran back from Marathon to Athens (over a distance uncannily similar to a modern Marathon race) to announce the Greek victory over Persia, at which point his heart called it a day and Pheidippides died on the spot. It’s hard to believe this has become a popular feat to emulate, but then I figure most people who attempt it do not reckon on it being their last act. And probably nobody does the 150 mile run in the two days prior to a race.

It has long been my intention to run a marathon. I watched the various degrees of insanity in the London marathon every year when I was growing up, and always vicariously felt the sense of achievement when the amateurs with ‘respectable times’ were finishing. I don’t much see the point in being a professional runner – I can’t access that psychology – and I’ve no desire to put on a monkey suit and schlep about in public like an idiot. I respect those who do it for charity, although I suspect that for many this is an after thought. 26 miles is a long way. People aren’t generally given to putting themselves out too much unless they are somehow directly implicated in the cause. But the truth is that it’s pretty difficult to get a place in the London marathon without signing up with a charity. The fund-raising obligation is not small.

The primary mentality, therefore, is that which wonders if I can. It is not dissimilar to those climbers who are plagued by the mountains simply being there. All kinds of qualities are at stake, but they can be boiled down to two: physical fitness and mental toughness. In an age of obesity and apathy, to be athletic and focussed sets one apart. There is, in addition, the not inconsiderable sense of achievement inherent in completing such a venture. Fortitude, self-reliance, endurance. How many know, for certain, that they possess these qualities? When the dial says empty, can you keep going?

I will be running the Montreal marathon this September. I promise not to bore you all with a training diary. I am not, after all, doing it for anyone else.*

*But I might raise some cash all the same, since people seem determined to give it.

What's Afoot? Shoes, Silly.

Time was when buying a pair of shoes was a delicious experience. A clerk in a shoe shop could expect to be treated as a respectable white-collar worker, an expert consultant, and an authority on quality. My childhood memories of being taken to buy shoes – walls lined to the ceiling with boxes, ladders on slides, metallic foot measures, shoe horns and the intoxicating smell of fresh leather – might as well be from the Edwardian period, and I cherish them. I’m not sure what happened to that kind of shoe shop, but it disappeared at some point in the 1980s and was replaced by something entirely tasteless, the quality and the knowledgeable salesman with it.

Now one has to work hard to find, and probably pay a fortune to own, decent shoes. And by decent shoes I want immediately to discriminate against designer shoes made by labels not fundamentally known for making shoes. Cobblers to them! I balk at shoes that cost a fortune but which come with no obvious assurances of quality manufacture. One wouldn’t buy a watch made by Armani, and shoes are no less objects of artisanal craftsmanship. In addition, shoes used to be made in different widths. If you’re anything but average, you probably have a hard time finding shoes that properly fit. You have my sympathies.

Providing you have struck it lucky and found the ideal shoes, I’m afraid I have bad news. You now need to strike it lucky another four times. Yes, a gentleman needs five pairs of shoes. Any fewer and you will wear them out too fast, and be inadequately prepared for all occasions. As a minimum, I would suggest Oxford or Derby shoes in black and brown, for everyday wear; dress shoes for best (one should relish the chance to wear patent leather); penny loafers for lazy Sundays; and either brogues or boots for gadding about in the country (or lounging around in cafes, depending on the way you ride). Of course, there are a million options besides, but I find it hard to imagine not having at least this much in my arsenal. Of course, winter wellies are a necessary extra, and a difficult one to boot.

Pictured, with apologies for quality, are my Derby browns by Gruppo Forall, Bruno Magli Oxfords, dress shoes by Moreschi, and John Fluevog boots. Suede loafers are away for winter, but I’ll update in the future.

Class Act

On my way home today I observed a street scene that might have come straight from the pages of Henry Mayhew. A somewhat dishevelled man wearing an eye patch was engaging in toothless japes with a hunched, walking-stick wielding man wearing rudimentary ear muffs. I expected to see a mudlark and a crossing sweeper at any minute, as our omnibus swerved to avoid the itinerant costermongers. But then I remembered that everyone in America is middle class. And then I thought of England, where society is supposed not to exist. Silly me.

In the introduction to Arthur Marwick’s The Sixties, the author reluctantly confessed that his education, the fact of his professorial status, had made him upper-middle class. Marwick assumed that the democratization of social opportunity had nevertheless left the old social framework intact, but following contours of intellect rather than wealth. His was a class system based on merit, but a class system nonetheless. His reality no doubt gave him good reason to think this, for he was among the first generation of modern levellers, and assumed a place that assuredly looked, felt, and smelled very much like the upper-middle class of yore. Yet the idea was becoming unpalatable. Those scholars who followed him might have expected to be ridiculed, if not stoned, for asserting their implicit social superiority, however reluctantly. In fact, they actively cast off the mantle and quickly swapped white for blue collars. Marks of distinction disappeared among the distinctly Marxian. Elitist aspirations, including those founded on intellect, became an outmoded embarrassment. Now we find it appropriate only to be ordinary – such an unpalatable collective – or else ‘public opinion’, like a Leviathan Bounderby, will point a chubby finger and accuse us of wanting to be fed turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon. Hard Times indeed. Intellectuals should know their place: a dark, underpaid corner of unimportance, diminutively apologizing for not being of the ‘real world’.

Actually, the haute cuisine and lustrous utensils sound rather appealing, taken metaphorically. The truth is that we still sort ourselves out, even though social deference is dead, and humility is an endangered species. As I sat watching the Victorian apparition today I knew that for all the world I was not of that scene, and to a like degree those characters were not of my intellectual commute. This does not signify any sense of entitlement on my part, nor any social chagrin on theirs; merely that worlds apart are not wont to meet. Were not these distinct orbits more inclined to overlap in days before our undoubtedly noble motives led us to deny that difference exists?

I pose the question sincerely: how does one be a gentleman in an age that looks poorly on distinction?