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!

McNeal Continues to Impress

A few snaps from the Spring/Summer collection from McNeal, which continues to impress in terms of style, quality and price. I can’t pick the difference in quality between this and Gant, but you can reckon on paying about half the price for everything.

I raided the sale rack for this brown-sugar coloured cord jacket and the classic tie. Went for a song.

Make Do and Mend, II

It has been a while since I last harped on this subject, but I was put in mind of it during a recent trip to the cobbler, who has breathed fresh life into three pairs of shoes. It is a rare thing for me to be in the same country as all of my shoes, and I have wasted no time in fixing up these summery selections. Nothing irks me more than the way life leads us towards the disposable, the frivolous, the temporary. Contrary to the popular notion, they still do build them like they used to; it’s just that you have to look a bit harder to find them (whatever ‘they’ may be), and you have to look harder still to find those with the skills to maintain them. When I buy a pair of shoes, I buy them with a mind to them lasting at least ten years. Good shoes are expensive, but if you divide the price by ten, and then compare with the kind of shoes that will last you only a season before being binned, you will find that they make economic sense.

The only thing is to find a decent repair man. The shoes here in question presented a variety of challenges, all ably met in this instance. The penny loafers (Ballin, Italy) were the easiest job. A simple black heel.

These rather amusing summer loafers (Café Noir, Italy) came replete with wooden heel, capped in tan rubber. I think my man found a decent match for it.

And the final pair (also Italian, but I bought them five years ago and can’t remember the maker) represented the greatest challenge. The heel was easy enough, but due to a couple of unfortunate rain incidents and some over use in their early years, the leather around the top of the sole had split, and there was some looseness all around. My man successfully repaired the damage, sanding away the most afflicted areas, and making all secure. This pair is acquiring a lovely patina as they age, and I would be loathe to lose them.

Think Italian: Avoid Italy

I was in Italy recently. My ruminations on Italian men are still to come, but in the meantime, since it is forty Celsius outside and nobody knows what to wear, I thought I’d offer a thought or two on Italian threads.

Contrary to proverbial knowledge, the roads led me away from Rome to Sienna, Florence and Milan. Along the way I mentally pressed my nose against the glass of many a tailoring establishment, savouring the finest in Italian couture, and I marvelled at the wealth of quality shoes, in the home of fine footwear. But I neither wet my beak, nor dipped my toes. Oh no. A sage Italian shoe salesman, actually the proprietor of a fine establishment in Montreal, told me before I left that I would shop in Italy in a state of awe but, if I would be sensible, I would buy nothing. He was right. One does not buy Italian in Italy.

Italy is, amongst other irritations, very expensive. In Europe this is not exceptional, but elsewhere one may indulge in the vulgarities of ‘The Sale’, which in Italy seems not to exist. The price is the price is the price. And it is too much. The going rate for a respectable pair of shoes, for example, is anything between 300 and 800 Euros, more if you want a quality pair. Some may not scruple at such a price tag, but to be manly is to be responsible – to know the distance between the price and the value – and to act accordingly. One must ‘go around the block’, and compare. Once one leaves Italy, one finds Italian finery everywhere, at a fraction of the price.

Thus it is with pleasure that I introduce an item of my Italian summer wear, purchased outside Italy, of course. Some of you will perhaps remember my penchant for plaid, and this I couldn’t resist:

The jacket is by Mario Matteo, in a loose-weave linen. The attention to detail makes all the difference. One cannot overestimate quality stitching. One might even be permitted to fawn over an accomplished button hole. The surgeon’s cuffs are a lovely bonus, especially when the heat might give one cause to let one’s wrists breathe. I will not dwell on numbers and figures; suffice to say that it cost no more than 20 per cent of its suggested price.

How pleasant to cut a bella figura. How satisfactory to cut the price!

Slacking Off

It has been a little while since my last entry, but this is not the slacking off to which I refer. In my defence, I have been on the road. There is no more ceremonial way to mark the end of winter than to pack up one’s winter clothing, take it all to another country and leave it there, and come back bearing linen jackets and straw hats. This was my mission. I am pleased to report that I have been met on my return by blue skies and clement temperatures. Who says rituals are empty gestures?

Now, the slacking in question rather concerns my dear old nether man (the legs, to mere mortals). After the last post on shorts, I thought quite hard about what to do, and in the end invested in a couple of pairs of slacks. These items are difficult to find at a reasonable price, but a man must be prepared to turn over stones. I came away with some 100% cotton Calvin Klein Dylan cut slacks in navy, with grey pinstripe, and some linen and cotton eggshell slacks by Bosco Uomo. Both elegantly break on the shoe, and have a European style fit. No billowing trousers for this fine fellow! To combat foot fatigue and Italian cobblestones, I bought some medium blue Italian loafers with a curious rubber soul. Having decided against shorts, shoe shopping was something of a breeze. Some socks in pastel blue and pastel pink completed the shopping spree, before all of it was put away ready for May. $150 the lot ($460 value).

Meanwhile, I am pleased to report the successful purchase of a Tim Farah suit from Club Monaco: retail $519 (already a bargain), I paid $58, plus $5 shipping. For anyone who has never given Club Monaco a try, know this: their sale prices are on a precise schedule, and everything ends up going for a song. Better yet, if your local store no longer has that item upon which you had set your heart, they can find it for you in one of their other stores and mail it anywhere in America for $5. So, I bought the suit pants for $9 in Cambridge, MA., and had the jacket, $49, shipped from New York. It took three days to arrive. This suit, with working cuff buttons and detailing way beyond its original price point, is my bargain of eternity.

I report these stories of sartorial thrift not to gloat, but to present to you the possibilities. Looking fine need not cost a king’s ransom. Thrift is a virtue often forgotten in these plasticated times. Retailers, especially in times like these, can be persuaded to slack off the price.

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.

The Gentleman's Club

[T]he Drones, where a certain standard of decency is demanded from the inmate. Ask anyone at the Drones, and they will tell you that it was a black day for the dear old club when this chap Glossop somehow wriggled into the list of members… the universal consensus of opinion is that the fellow is a bounder and a tick, and that the moment he showed signs of wanting to get into the place he should have been met with a firm nolle prosequi and heartily blackballed (P.G. Wodehouse, Right Ho, Jeeves).

In my time I’ve had the good fortune to frequent a number of gentlemen’s clubs. Most of them were perfectly frightful, but anthropological curiosities nonetheless. As a teenager, I watched the awkward sociology of the private golf course club house, not knowing then quite what was wrong. Lower middle-class golfers acting up; upper middle-class golfers trying to be of the people; over made-up women golfers posturing, not realising their hopeless subjection; the odd working-class golfer, spitting old-school venom and being anonymously reported to The Committee. After 8 o’clock, no male was allowed past a certain pillar, upon which hung a brass bell, without donning a jacket and tie. Nothing distinguished the one half of the room ‘past the bell’ from the other, except the haughty stiffness of those who dressed up, looking at the casual slum of monstrous costumes on the other side. Such a bizarre line in the sand, this. Incidentally, the television resided on the formal side of the line. Want to watch Coronation Street with your whisky and water? Get a tie on!

At age fourteen I was bemused. Now I see the point, but I confess that this small mindedness was pushing the envelope of pointless snobbery. Dress codes serve a meaningful purpose, but the boundary should have been the club as a whole. It serves no one to stratify a single room, for God’s sake. It might surprise, perhaps, to note that the higher up the social scale one travels, the more relaxed the regulations. Some institutions exclude by reputation. A man who feels he doesn’t belong automatically stays away; for those who assume a place, the door opens (there are always ways around the money question). A brass neck can take you far, if you know where to stick it. As a case in point, a number of esteemed institutions have recently opened their doors to me, and I haven’t parted with a farthing. Jolly decent of them.

The social dancing and niceties aside, I mention all this merely to make an objection. Perform a Google operation on the phrase ‘gentleman’s club’ and you will be appalled to find that the vast majority of institutions listed rather fall short of the description. No doubt, gentlemen have always visited houses of uncertain repute, but the institutions had not the audacity to presume that the presence of gentlemen signified for them a like status. I know that the word ‘gentleman’ has been emptied of its meaning in the last hundred years, but that is no reason completely to derogate it. It is horrifying to think that the drunken hordes who tonight revel at post-modernity’s rather tangible version of the greasy pole will wake up tomorrow and think themselves upright men of social standing. The gentleman’s club need no longer be the exclusive resort of the social drone, but it ought still to be something more than a grotesque projection of the gutter.

Down Loden; Or Inheriting Tradition

The strong point of the English gentleman pure is the easy style of his figure and clothing; he objects to marked ins and outs in his costume, and he also objects to looking inspired (George Eliot, Daniel Deronda).

These words still have a ring of truth about them, although I am afraid they indicate that there aren’t many gentlemen, English or otherwise, left in the world. Most people succumb to fads, fashions and phases. I’m also rather afraid that the English have unwittingly adapted their manners in accordance with their exposure to American television. English people were not known formerly to whoop. English men did not even scream for the Beatles; now they unleash their girlish falsetto appreciation for passing mediocrities. This by way of an aside. I would rather focus on the positive part of Miss Evans’ observation.

Adhering closely to classic designs, one can build a wardrobe that will hardly date. To borrow an apt aphorism from the sporting world: form is temporary, class is forever. The seasonal highlights of the catwalk are tomorrow’s reason to bury your head in shame. The avant-garde always look silly, ten years later. They do leave behind little bits of elegance that will endure, but it is probably better to be one step behind. Since the classics are always recycled, one can apparently be a trend setter by simply following tradition. Paradoxical? Perhaps, but tradition will (should) always trump the merely temporary tricks of the trade.

Let us also add thrift into the analysis of the English gentleman pure. Classical elegance and quality can be expensive, but they last so long that they afford the possibility of recycling. The best of men have never shunned quality upon the grounds that a thing is used. A thing demonstrates its quality through its age and ought, perhaps, to lead us to be mistrustful of the new (this is partly why I can’t bring myself to read contemporary fiction, but that is for another time). My latest purchase – a rare find indeed – is to the point: an Austrian Loden coat of uncertain vintage. Such a timeless design can fetch a pretty penny in the finest stores. It will last me a long time yet, and was a snip at $40, don’t you think?

More weightily, from a sentimental point of view, Father has promised me his Raymond Weil watch when he passes – we have discussed it without morbidity – and I await my inheritance with infinite patience, but with certainty that I will myself bequeath the object when my time comes. How fitting that such trust can be placed in a time piece. It marks the hours itself without appearing to age. I applauded his taste as a child when he purchased it, and secretly coveted it for many years. It will be passed down laden with meaning, assured to last, and as a token of a permanent bond. Form is temporary, class is forever.

Make Do and Mend

Worn-out things carry a stigma in our disposable culture. If it's broken or old, throw it out and buy a new one. The new one, whatever it is, will also be despatched when it breaks in due course. Consumer goods tend to come with two design features: they malfunction frequently and they cannot be fixed. If repair should be possible, the price of a replacement puts the cost of renovation in the shade. Why? Things date too quickly. Today's miracle of science is tomorrow's Ark. Nothing is worth keeping: even if it doesn't break we shall throw it out anyway in order to 'upgrade'.

This disposable ritual is unedifying. We are not so much upgrading as degrading ourselves. Long ago, I decided I should wait until the next technological leap forward before investing in a mobile phone, Blackberry, Ipod, TV, stereo, etc. Each time the great improvement occurred I resolved to wait again, and I find myself without all these things and not caring in the least about the paucity of gadgets in my personal arsenal. What I do have is not exactly steam-powered, but things work. I am not often perplexed by technological problems. I make do and find myself better off in mind and spirit, not to mention in matters financial.

I suppose the lament here is that it is impossible to find genuine quality anymore, since the life-span of goods is expected to outlast their technological utility. What surprises me is that where quality is an option, such as with clothing, frivolity trumps it. Instead of aspiring to clothes of elegant cuts and timeless styles, made with durable fabrics, we follow whim and fancy and spend a fortune in the process. Wardrobe staples will pay for themselves because they will stand being repaired. There is no shame in sewing! Even socks, if of good quality to begin with, deserve to be darned at least once before discarding. Shoes, if well-made, can be soled and heeled for years. Invest wisely in the first place and spend less in the long run. Thrift, and an eye for quality, are manly traits. Frivolity is decadent. Fads are empty thrills. Make do and mend.