Sous les Feuilles

The art of lying on the grass, of dispensing with knife and fork, of making yourself generally useful – with the air of one accustomed to be generally useless, – is not to be mastered in an afternoon. As it is held a special compliment to a man’s manners and intellectual gifts, to ask him to breakfast, so it should be high flattery to bid him be merry in good company under the greenwood tree. Let the candid reader admit, however, that there is vast room for improvement in the art of dining with nothing between you and the pendent caterpillar. (The Epicure’s Year Book for 1869).

No larger feast than under plane or pine,

With neighbours laid along the grass, to take

Only such cups as left us friendly-warm,

Affirming each his own philosophy –

Nothing to  mar the sober majesties

Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life.

(Tennyson, Lucretius, 1868).

Somewhere in between the ideal and the awkward lies the picnic reality. But let not the peripatetic formicidae put you off. Inspired by Lily Lemontree a little while ago, Mrs. VB and I sprawled ourselves out on the lawn in front of Schloss Schönhausen – a quiet little seventeenth-century palace that has recently been restored – and partook of brie, grapes, black German bread, Leberwurst, and Riesling.

I had planned to read aloud for the afternoon, but the book remained unopened. Not long into the affair we spotted a jogging philosopher friend who I had not seen in several years. Seeing our horizontal civility as eminently preferential to his unseemly Sabbatical activity, he trotted over, caught his breath, and chewed the fat for an hour or more. This is the kind of thing that happens in Berlin. We soon set the world to rights, and made a dinner date for next month, to resume a conversation about my next book, in which he has a keen interest.

A gentle promenade around the grounds followed, before heading home. Ants, wasps and Heidegger were left on the grass to their own devices. For once, the weather forecast was completely accurate. In short, I recommend this oft-forgotten activity. Do it with grace and a little charm. Do it with passing intellectuals, if you can spot them. Do it with a decently chilled bottle of wine. But most of all, do it, won’t you?

Harlem Globe Trotter

Ten years ago I stayed in Harlem for the first time. Actually, it was right on the edge, at Amsterdam and 103^rd, in the worst (only?) youth hostel in New York. That particular experience is one I would have been happy to forget, but it is seared into my mind for a variety of reasons: being ripped off by a ‘taxi driver’ on the way; being aggressively propositioned in the communal bathroom; navigating the shelfless glass-doored refrigerator that served 1,500 people, etc. And at no point when leaving the building did I have any desire to head farther north. The neighbourhood was bad enough where I was, and promised worse.

A lot can change in ten years. I’m certainly no longer a ragged backpacker, for one. Experienced eyes would have looked on that neighbourhood differently even then, but now they do not recognise it as the same place. Doings at Columbia took me back to Harlem, and I hereby recommend it as your destination, the next time you choose to trot the globe.

This time Mrs. VB and I stayed in a proper brownstone house on 118^th and Malcolm X. The post-Giuliani neighbourhood is a charming place, full of relaxed yet busy people. The welcome is the warmest in New York. The community is vibrant, mixed, young, and (to judge by the food on offer) demanding of high standards. Ten years ago, I doubt I’d have been consuming home-made and authentic Italian food in a restaurant street terrace at 120^th Street. I might have been welcomed into the bosom of Sylvia’s soul food restaurant (it’s been there for decades), but I somehow think it unlikely that the waiter would have been able to try out his German on me back then. I also suspect I wouldn’t have wandered home calmly at a saunter at around midnight. Friends, the cosmopolitan dream is alive. In these streets America is doing quite nicely, thank you.

The 100ft climb through Morningside Park to reach Columbia on the Upper West Side no longer represents an ascent to civilisation in the stark manner of yesteryear. Ivy League cosmopolitanism is its own peculiar brand of soul-sapping homogeneity. After lengthy days in the rarefied air-conditioning of the Ivory Tower, it felt good to descend again and return to what I happily thought of, for a few sultry days, as home.

High Steaks

The best way to get a great meal by a great chef at not so great a price is to have luncheon.

It is, I think, rather a recent oddity that our midday meal has been reduced to the limp sandwich. In England the sandwich is king, and it even places highly on the list of the nation’s favourite foods. The inevitable blandness of pre-sliced bread has been turned into something of a gourmet caricature, with John Bull now thinking nothing of munching on crayfish and rocket, blackpudding and cranberries, or roast pork and stuffing, all between tranches of soggy bloomer. It’s a sad attempt to conjure up something of luncheons past, but typically ends up a mere meagre repast.

Get thee to a decent restaurant! You might have to work an extra hour at the end of the day, but if you get yourself fed up to the gills you’ll be able to do it, and a lot more besides. Gourmet eateries everywhere offer their best deals at luncheon, and you can often get premium cooking for a tithe of the evening price.

Now oddly enough, in Germany the main meal of the day is still at lunch time (at least for certain folks). You’d think, therefore, that the lunchtime thrift rule wouldn’t apply. But frankly I’ve found the best lunch in Europe, and it’s going for a song.

The place is called Filetstück and it’s right around the corner. In the evening you’ll pay 26 Euros for an 8oz entrecote, and 34 for fillet. Sauces and vegetables are extra. At lunch time, you get a hunk of beef or lamb, cooked exquisitely by their resident Frenchman (if he’s not actually French then he’s been plastically modified to look like one), with the vegetable sides, and a glass of wine, for 9.50. And it’s sublime.

Better yet, the restaurant doubles up as a premium butcher shop (and you know how I feel about butchers), purveying the finest cuts money can buy and making a mean sausage to boot.

Eat luncheon, dear readers! And get that soggy sarnie away from me!

Winter, Get Away: More About Cake

This is likely my last post until Tuesday next week. It’s back down to -11C here in Berlin, and we’ve had enough. De-camping to Barcelona for the long weekend.

There are only so many things one can do to stay cheery when the winter drags on like this. One can dress accordingly, of course:

And one can partake of plenty of this:

Or this.

My part of town is rather rich in cake and coffee. It comes of people being beautiful and unemployed. Is it manly? Doubtless not, but winter comforts sometimes take priority.

Incidentally, outside the café that serves these delights is a clump of old tree trunks, standing about eight feet high, with holes cut in them in various places, big enough to accommodate books. People drop their unwanted books in the tree and others come by for a browse and take what they like. There’s something rather sturdily reassuring about a tangible tree of knowledge, offering such delights as Flaubert, the Spanish language in Italian, and Thomas Mann. Since nobody would find the thing if they weren’t on their way for cake, I hereby upgrade the eating of cake to an intellectual pursuit.

Until next week then. Stay manly.

*Pics all mine save the last, which I stole manfully from foodieinberlin. Coat: Danier; Jacket: Nino Cerruti; Shirt: Hilfiger; Tie: Mila Schön; Cardigan: Iceland; Jeans: Levi's 514 straight; scarf: Liberty of London; cakes: Himbeer Sahne and  Schoko Limette.

In Praise of Cake, Double Wicks, and Bow Ties

You’ll all be pleased to hear that the little party of last night went off in the right spirit. Homemade hummus, tzatziki, and tapenade were duly demolished, along with all the Sekt, and plenty more besides. Yours truly is slowly rehydrating before going for the Saturday long run. Candle, lit at both ends, is burning rapidly I assure you.

But what would a party be without cake? Thankfully, a good friend and former student of mine came up trumps with the most evil chocolate cake I have ever tasted. Comprising 500g of butter, a whole kilo of sugar, and ten eggs, this thing was a heart attack on a stick. And this is just as things should be. Too many people these days attempt to make chocolate cakes full of compromises, but frankly if you need to compromise you simply shouldn’t eat chocolate cake. Why transform the divine into the mundane? Surely that’s just depressing.

It may be of academic interest, but here’s a snippet of last night’s rig – nothing too formal, for we were at home after all. The best thing about a bow tie, by the way, is pulling on one end of it when the night gets long. Nothing says ‘man had a good time’ like the undone knot.

And so to the track, well buttered.

In Defence of Breakfast; Or, Dunkin' Don't

Some men, under the illusion that the behaviour makes them seem tough, leave the house each morning on little more than a cigarette, and perhaps coffee. During my stay in the Boston vicinity, I observed that this was often augmented by doughnuts, on the way to wherever men went. I do not like to see unhealthy people. The grey, pallid skin, raccoon-ringed eyes, chapped lips, and mournful vacancy of the expression are all tell-tale signs of the malnourished. Men who look like this do not seem tough to me. They seem fragile.

Breakfast like a king! It is the first phrase of a three-part maxim, the other two being ‘lunch like a prince, and dine like a pauper’. I’ve never been entirely sure about the latter phrase, but in any case, I absolutely adhere to the primary exhortation. When one breaks one’s fast, let us say, at 8 a.m., it may be thirteen or fourteen hours since the body has been nourished. It craves food, and should have it supplied. One cannot possibly expect to make it through a morning’s work in any kind of fit shape unless one is sustained. To eat well in the morning is to take on the fuel necessary to be the best one can be. Let us hear no more of the coffee and cigarette regime.

The knock-on advantages are many. One snacks less. One binges less. One feels fit and able. For those of you who are overweight, I would suggest that eating well – eating best – at breakfast will help you lose weight, for you will be satisfied at the beginning of the day. You will have more energy to exercise, and more will to do it. But what to eat?

The possibilities are endless: porridge, boiled eggs or scrambled, kedgeree or poached haddock, kippers, fruit, pastries and breads, cereals, cheeses and cold cuts. Mix it up, but be sure to feed yourself well. Once, or maybe twice a week, go all out with a Full English. It need not be overly greasy, if done properly, and will sustain you like nothing else. The ingredients, lest anyone should be in any doubt:

Bacon (streaky or back, preferably grilled, according to the English definition of that word).

Sausage (none of your cheap and nasty processed stuff, but something your butcher made. Grilled, for twenty minutes).

Eggs (however you like them. Poached is the healthiest way).

Mushrooms (fried).

Kidneys (from whichever animal you prefer, and lightly fried).

Black pudding, if you can find it.

Fresh tomato (sliced in two and grilled).

Hot toast with butter and jam.

Some people like Heinz baked beans for good measure. Can’t say I disapprove. Wash it all down with a pot of English Breakfast tea, or, for the more refined approach, some Earl Grey.

Nary a weekend in the Beātum household goes by without one. I wish you the same comfort.

The Butcher

One of my earliest memories is of the local butcher’s shop. I’d press my nose on the refrigerated glass and look at what to me was a smorgasbord of delight. Black pudding, lambs' kidneys, fresh sausages, streaky bacon and back, pigs’ trotters and sows’ ears, and so on and so on. I never was much of a one for sweets or toy soldiers. These cuts were my heart’s desire but, much like the child who never owns the toy of his dreams, it was the visit to the shop that I cherished more than the things themselves. On the back wall, which was covered in shiny blue and white tiles, was a row of meat hooks upon which hung a variety of larger carcases. In those days things weren’t pre-cut and packaged; the butcher waited for you to order your joint before hauling down the whole hunk on his shoulder and pouring it out onto the block. He sharpened a gloriously large knife with a long steel that was kept in a leather belt, moving with such speed but miraculously never cutting off his hand. The joint was cut to size, but still attached by the bone. Out came the clever: the moment I always anticipated most. My local butcher was a wiry, tall man with glasses. He’d raise the cleaver right above his head – a good seven feet above my gaze – and bring it down with clinical accuracy upon the bone, making the most delicious crack, immediately followed by the dull thud of blade in block. For many years as a child I really wanted to own a cleaver. All of this took place in a uniquely cool atmosphere – like walking into the fridge to choose your dinner – but with a warmth of conversation that taught me to recognise that butchers are (sadly, were) pillars of the community.

The butcher used to know everyone and, in all probability, everyone’s business too. The single-most important quality for a butcher was discretion, and that made him a great listener. Yet history has been unkind to them. By precedent they did not serve on juries because their work was thought to harden their hearts. I never could work out how a butcher was any more likely to be callous than a surgeon, a veterinarian, or a funeral director – those pillars of middle-class life who might have been thought ideal candidates for duty at court. But butchers were working class, and concomitantly thought to be unrefined, unpredictable, and already somewhat hardened by life. Their singular quality of being able to listen without prejudice was overlooked because of other doubts.

Gillray, The British Butcher supplying John Bull with a Substitute for Bread, 1795

Still, not everyone maligned these men. Representations of John Bull, the stalwart freeborn Englishman, had a forerunner in the caricatured form of the butcher, and William Hogarth left no doubt about the importance of beef (and implicitly, those who provided it) in his idealization of a content and fulfilled society. He was the pivot point around which local life gathered, for everyone had to visit him, and most probably would meet each other at his shambles. In wartime the butcher became a man of great power, able to do unto his neighbours that which they had done unto him. It became a matter of great importance to respect the butcher if one was to feed a family in times of ration. Mr. Jones the butcher of Dad’s Army fame is the archetype: friendly, eager, courageous, and with a heightened sense of justice.

Hogarth, Beer Street, 1750 (hunk of beef to the left)

There aren’t many left. My mother still has a good one – actually a husband and wife team – but they are knocking on, and soon the supermarket will have won. My Hungarian butcher in Montreal is the salt of the earth, but he too is getting long in the tooth. In Berlin things are a little brighter, but I don’t quite yet have the hang of the experience yet. I’m working on it. In any case, I thought I’d share a thought or two on these rare men, for they are not long for this world, and we may not yet realise just how much we shall miss them.

 Rembrandt, Carcass of Beef, 1655

Game On; or, Manly Cuisine

Men aren’t nearly so afraid of cooking as perhaps they were twenty years ago and more, but there’s an awful lot of knife wielding, fire building and grunting going on. It’s almost as if channelling your inner cave man is a good idea, and I can think of no greater insult to the great achievements of civilisation – of the refinements of skill, thought, and art – than to extol the virtues of the cave. Really, the so-called crisis of masculinity that has abounded, especially in the US, since the early ‘90s, is nothing short of a resignation. The romantic notion of a time when men were real men – an image of loincloth-wearing, spear-carrying, knuckle-dragging hominids – is plainly absurd. From the Greeks on down, refinement in food preparation, eating, drinking, and philosophising about it all, has been the remit of the greatest men and the greatest minds. Lighting a grill just doesn’t cut it. And the gnashing of teeth makes you little better than an ape. It’s time to put the manliness back into food.

Inspired in part by my good friend who likes to eat like an Edwardian, and by thoughts of things honestly raised and honestly killed, I ventured to make this game terrine:

Several things immediately strike me as worthy about this. First, nothing in it came from a supermarket. Second, and relatedly, I was given a reason to visit a number of local butchers and grocers, which are still like little community centres if you can find them. My Hungarian butcher was stunned by a request for streaky bacon, which he had not heard before in fifty years dealing with pigs. I still have a lot to learn about the English language outside of England. While he was giving me a tour of his bacon varieties his colleague was busy trying to give financial advice to an old eccentric who only knew the poles of extravagance and destitution, with nothing in between. The butcher offered to put money aside, for the lean times, but whiskey dreams beat out the benevolent butcher banker. Third, the making of such an intricate dish connects one with a wealth of tradition. Fourth, there was so much of it – four pounds of meat went into it, including venison (fillets and livers), duck, ostrich, sausage, and the aforementioned bacon – that it did the rounds at the holiday parties, and brought friends together. Food is the bedrock of friendship – cum panis, company – so isn’t it all the better if we can supply it?

Most importantly, perhaps, this dish was honest. It is was somewhat labour intensive, but it contained absolutely no processed crap. Somehow it embodied provision, and this, perhaps, is what ought to define the manly cook.

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

An Honest Burger

The cook is Joe or Carl or Al, hot in a white coat and apron, beady sweat on white forehead, below the white cook’s cap; moody, rarely speaking, looking up for a moment at each new entry. Wiping the griddle, slapping down the hamburger. He repeats Mae’s orders gently, scrapes the griddle, wipes it down with burlap. Moody and silent… Al never speaks. He is no contact. Sometimes he smiles a little at a joke, but he never laughs. Sometimes he looks up at the vivaciousness in Mae’s voice, and then he scrapes the griddle with a spatula, scrapes the grease into an iron trough around the plate. He presses down a hissing hamburger with his spatula. He lays the split buns on the plate to toast and heat. He gathers up stray onions from the plate and heaps them on the meat and presses them in with the spatula. He puts half the bun on top of the meat, paints the other half with melted butter, with thin pickle relish. Holding the bun on the meat, he slips the spatula under the thin pad of meat, flips it over, lays the buttered half on top, and drops the hamburger on a small plate. Quarter of a dill pickle, two black olives between the sandwich. Al skims the plate down the counter like a quoit. And he scrapes his griddle with the spatula and looks moodily at the stew kettle (John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath, 1939).

I’m quietly celebrating my return to a thirty-inch waist, and that hardly seems like the time to offer a panegyric on junk food, especially having just re-entered the United States. I’ve said before that ‘man food’ is not all fire and grunting, and have waxed opinionated about the value of an educated palate. So, what am I up to?

Well, the thing about junk food is that it is not all junk. Some of it carries a great weight of meaning, as well as of fat. Forget your big chains and your TV-advertised hunger busters: proper American junk food is as honest as the day is long. Authentic hamburgers are made fresh, on site. Nothing about any of the ingredients is remotely processed or mass produced. It is all free from the artificial contaminants that blight so much American food, and that weigh heavily on the American gut.


Best of all, honest American junk food is still served in old-fashioned diners, where nothing much has changed since Steinbeck immortalised the hamburger joints of Route 66. Last night I ate at the Deluxe Town Diner in Watertown, Mass., which serves by its own testimony ‘Industrial Strength Food’. It was all just so. There’s something about a good old-fashioned honest burger in America: in a strange way, it has long reassured a nation that everything will be okay. As long as there is food for workers, then there is work to be done.

The Retrograde Menu

Twice on our European travels in the last weeks, Mrs. VB and I have been confronted with customs that I presumed were long-since abolished. Readers of this humble blog will know well that although I see clear values and virtues for manly men, these generally tend to be inclusive, considerate and, by-and-large, in keeping with the times. I hold on to traditions where they are important, but I am not hard-headed about the hard-won social victories – progress, if you will – of the last fifty years. For my many female readers, I hope to provide an image of man that they might endorse. It would be remiss of me, therefore, not to call attention to the Retrograde Menu.

The Retrograde Menu comes in two forms. One of them looks like any other menu, replete with prices. The other contains all of the dishes on offer, but no prices. The latter form is given to the lady, on the nineteenth-century understanding that a woman has a) no understanding of money; b) no income; c) no interest in the ways in which a household’s money is spent; d) no notion of value; e) no intention ever to pay, or contribute to the expense; f) no self-esteem g) no standing whatsoever when in the company of men. Furthermore, she is supposed to be relieved of having avoided the political minefield of choosing a dish that will not offend her male counterpart’s wallet. She may assume, after all, that if he couldn’t afford the Lobster and the Dom Perignon, he wouldn’t have taken her there. For the man of straightened circumstances, the menu for her can simply be dispensed with: he will decide what she would like.

What utter rot! Needless to say, on both occasions Mrs. VB and I studied the same menu. As a form of protest, I suggested in one instance that she might order for me. I do not think, on the whole, that men are still concerned either to pay for everything, or to conceal the price of things from women. This is an empty chivalry, and no way for a modern marriage to function. So why, please somebody tell me, does this custom remain?

I have noticed that the service in those establishments persisting with this system also tends completely to ignore women. When a man and woman walk into a restaurant together, is there not something distinctly odd about the greeting ‘Good afternoon, Sir’? No eye contact for the lady; no words of welcome; not even an acknowledgment that more than one person has entered the room. I do wonder what would happen if a woman were to dine alone in such a place. What a horrible dilemma for the maître d’. He might have to admit that women exist (and, what’s more, earn more than he does).

I was under the impression that we were well beyond reducing women to empty-headed and meaningless extensions of their husbands. To prove that we are not, and to enhance the foul taste that this leaves in our mouths, I hold up for your general derision the Retrograde Menu.

Cooking Up a Storm

I am pleased to note that men are not strangers to the kitchen. In fact, it seems that there is something of a movement to get us there, through various forms of appeal. Most of the celebrity chefs on our goggle boxes are men of some description, with more or less refinement. Last night I saw Anthony Bourdain extolling everyone to get into the kitchen and properly cook. This morning I found a book, with accompanying blog, called Men’s Cooking Manual, which looks unnecessarily like the mechanics guide to a family car. In short, men are cooking. But I’m worried it’s all fire and grunting.

Man Vs. Food

Eating isn’t about quantity, it’s about quality. It’s also about traditional values and some form of local or national belonging. There are an awful lot of gluttons, posing as gourmands, and the gourmets are left out of the equation. Skip around the Food Network for five minutes and you’ll find all kinds of strange overweight men eating as much as possible. Man vs. Food, for example, is really not a sound message; especially not for Americans. If this is how we eat, then I am suspicious about how we cook. Is there an awareness of art? Is there an appreciation of skill? Are palates being cultivated? Is heritage being honoured and preserved? Is the necessary time being taken? Cuisine merits respect. Do we respect it?

One of the forgotten heroes?

Men should cook, but men should cook properly. The aforementioned blog appeals to a masculine love of sharp knives, tools, swearing and sex. First and foremost, however, should be a passion for food, what it does, and what it means. A passion for creation, and for the instruments of creation, is not effeminate. An active involvement in traditional tastes ought to come with a sense of duty. Lighting up the grill alone will simply not suffice.

A Manly Wine? A Manly Whine

A friend of mine recently made use of my apartment in Montreal, which has seen a succession of temporary sub-lessees over the last seven months or so. As a thank you for her couple of nights repose, she left Mrs. VB and me a bottle of wine in the place, ready for our eventual return. Knowing my penchant for things manly, said friend asked the expert in the local Société des alcools du Québec (SAQ – provincially run liquor store) for a recommendation on manly wines. Blank looks ensued.

Naturally, there will be divergences on such a subject. If, for example, a manly wine is supposed to reflect the character of manliness, then we should need a clear definition of manliness in order to proceed. Unfortunately, judging by the myriad groups and societies out there in the ethereal world, no such common ground exists. It may be that my own definition (provisional) would have foxed the sommelier: robust but refined; sophisticated but blunt where necessary; polite but candid; traditional, with one eye cast to men of great vintage, but also forward looking; fun, jaunty, even eccentric if judged by popular tastes, but solid, reliable, distinguished and, above all, grounded. If anyone can recommend me a wine that sounds like this man, please waste no time in letting me know.

I thought this was a fairly unique problem I was having, but then yesterday I saw this (click to enlarge):

Apologies for picture quality. The only way to get it was to photograph my screen.

Personally I have no problem with oak. What better symbol of strength, endurance and stickability is there than the oak tree? But regardless, I found this faux campaign entirely distasteful, precisely because it failed on point of politeness, sophistication and distinction. A man does not need to point out who is a wimp. It gives the impression that he is somewhat self-conscious of his own status as a man. Self-worth and self-assurance lead us to accentuate the positive, not to point fingers and sneer; certainly not to get up meaningless petitions. The conspicuous failure, however, is the absence of substance in its definition of the opposite to the thing it protests. One cannot laud ‘authenticity’ while practicing gimmickry. One cannot appeal to the ‘interesting’ without demonstrating what on earth that empty label might mean (the word ‘interesting’ always gets crossed out of student essays). One cannot celebrate ‘complexity’ while denigrating the word ‘cause’ by applying it to a shallow marketing campaign.

So I ask you again, dear Readers, for your recommendations. Please, nobody say Ravenswood.

New York Inspirations: The F-Word

Fine dining, as aforementioned in these pages, is perhaps not what it was. It would be remiss of me, therefore, not to point out the exceptions to this rule, as and when I am lucky enough to experience them. In New York, culinary Mecca, who else might be expected to provide such an experience, but a rather shouty fair-haired Englishman, televisually famed for his furious temper.

Fortunately for me, the only F-word to consider on this august occasion at the London Hotel, W. 54th St., was ‘food’. For the frugal fine diner (and who isn’t these days?), Mr. Ramsay offers a $65 repast for early birds, and the three-course menu turns out to be a seven-course delight, once you factor in all the little amuses bouche along the way. I am told this particular establishment has two Michelin stars: clearly I have been ill-raised for I could not possibly fathom how on earth it could have been finer. The forks were really all lined up. Food, service, atmosphere, attention to detail, but especially the food, were all exquisite. Whomsoever Mr. Ramsay has employed as chef du cuisine really ought to feel justly proud.

Despite the fantastic food, perhaps the foremost factor of this experience was the license it gave to the diners to behave as manly men and womanly women. Knowing how to sit; how, and what, to order; how to eat; and, most importantly, how to converse. It is rare to be afforded the opportunity to have one’s good graces aired and appreciated, and in an environment befitting the effort. A few awkward customers had clearly swum too far out, but for the most part this exemplary experience allowed for feelings of formal, yet relaxed, friendship to be fostered. In a small pocket of New York, polite men and women knew how to feel, and did not feel out place.

Man at Table

‘You must sit up straight at the table, like a little prince, until everybody else has finished’, said Mother. This comment was typically met with an irksome visage, expressive of frustration at seemingly pointless rituals. I was a boy, brimming over with surplus energy, and with plenty of rigorous derring-do with which to be getting on. Sitting still in a chair, waiting for the lazy mastication of my elders and betters, was a trial. The key to being released from this polite obligation was the observance of another one, in the phrase: ‘Please may I be excused’. Rough and tumble resumed with alacrity. And kids never suffer from indigestion.

These were valuable lessons. There were many more besides, reinforced daily as the price of home cooking. The end in mind was never convincing to my child mind: ‘One day you’ll be invited to business dinners, or job interviews, and you wouldn’t want to be judged for the way in which you hold your fork, would you?’ The emphasis was always negative. There were no points for doing things correctly; only penalties for getting it wrong. It has not exactly turned out that way. Mother vastly overestimated what kind of courtly instruction was being doled out in the other homes. As the social playing field has levelled, one’s boss is as likely to hail from dung-heap stock as he is wont to stutter for the silver spoon in his teeth. I know this only too well, and Mother foresaw it. But she expected things to level up, and I needed to make the grade. It rather seems, lamentably, that things levelled down.

Behaving with dignity at table is much more likely to be noticed as exceptional these days. You may be applauded for it, but you may also be mocked. The cut and thrust world, so it seems, has superseded the more delicate manoeuvrings of the knife and fork. One is lucky ever to see a soup spoon (pictured), let alone a fish knife. And why do so many places expect me to recycle my cutlery from an appetizer and use it again on a main? Would you pour white wine into a drained glass of red? Well, so it seems, perhaps you might. Cutlery is symbolically important, as well as being functionally integral to the process of nourishment. Leave your knife and fork in a certain way, and you declare to the room that you are finished. Plates should not be cleared away until everyone’s irons are likewise arranged. In restaurants this rule is dead. Why won’t wait staff actually wait? As I am forced to fidget in my seat by the constant interference of intrusive servers, they occasionally moot the words ‘excuse me’. Well, for once, no you may not be excused.