Be Good Or Be Gone

Image: McSorley's New York

The Sperry chukka boat shoe that embraced my foot slipped slightly as I entered the saloon style doors, forgetting that part of McSorley's allure is its sawdust strewn floor. A quick survey of the place and panic set in. Nearing 30 and my patience in serious decline, I tend to eschew crowded, loud bars for the refined hush of a classy cocktail lair. But I made an exception, in anticipation of Irene's wrath and inevitable solitude holed up indoors, to venture out on a Friday night to drink in the history of New York's oldest Irish bar.

As I weaved my way past the throngs of inebriated guests to the oasis of tables in the rear, I couldn't help but soak up the antiquated atmosphere and allow it to penetrate my psyche. The likes of Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Boss Tweed had all imbibed in this very space so who was I to be weary of its charm? The floor trembled beneath me, signaling its age, as we approach the warped, carved table that would be our domain. Puddles of lager were swiftly wiped away and a command, not a question, was put before us.

"Light or dark?" bellowed the bearded scalawag of a man that would be our waiter. One part Cro-Magnon, one part grizzled sailor, his hair was long and as gray as his beer soiled smock. His abruptness was matched only by his surly disposition; his attitude providing continuity to the experience whereas a fresh-faced young lass would have sullied the vibe. The skin on his face and hands was aged and callused and his fingernails resembled those of a coal-mining pirate. This wasn't so much a job as a calling - his carved out niche on this earth. God forbid this landmark shutter, as his skill set would not be applicable for, say, a Walmart greeter.

"Light" I replied, caught slightly off guard but confident in my choice. After a week of dealing with demanding clients and finicky co-workers, this was a welcome moment of clarity. Smee disappeared into the crowd to fetch our ale and we settled in to discuss the week in review. A gentleman in a straw boater and his lovely lady appeared, taking a seat at the other end of our table. An old fight song rang out across the bar, male voices chanting in unison, complete with interlocking arms and mugs clanking in communal cheer. Then out of no where, 6 mugs of suds were gruffly slammed down before us, the frothy heads careening out on to the notched table refilling the pools that were earlier wiped away. For every one beer ordered two mugs arrive so the night was now well underway!

With time our party grew larger, and the next round brought 24 mugs, carried 8 to a hand by our esteemed barman and his colleague - quite the impressive feat to witness. As mug after mug was passed over and around me, I quickly realized my pristine white shirt had no business in this establishment - nice clothes were not only unwelcome, but potentially at risk. Had I been more in tune (and less rushed), my pressed linens would have given way to crumbled chambray to better align with my environment... I was a show horse in a sea of Clydesdales. This is workwear's haven.

Conversations started to splinter and I began to veer off into a mental dissection of the untouched treasures providing the decor for the historic bar. It's reported that no artifact has been removed from the walls since 1910. Paintings, poems and political pomp, certificates, clippings, carvings and clocks all serve as reminders of McSorley's place in New York history. At the bar area, an original "WANTED" poster from the Lincoln assassination shouts a national tragedy and Houdini's handcuffs swing freely from the bar rail. A row of dusty wishbones looms eerily overhead marking the loss of human life - these harbingers of fortune left by departing doughboys during WWI. The soldiers that returned snapped their talismans, all the while knowing their wish had already been granted. Those bones that remain haunt this hallowed ground with dreams unrealized.

There is no cash register, no bar stools, no liquor and until 1970, no women. "Good Ale, Raw Onions and No Ladies" was its claim and I doubt they heard any complaints. One gets the sense that political correctness has never been enforced here.

With the rest of the spoiled masses panicked over Irene's pending visit, our stint in Olde New York was a welcome reprieve from their unsubstantiated anxiety. A hurricane seemed like small potatoes compared to the trials this place had seen. From the gangs of New York and the atrocities of war to corrupt political machines and the depths of tenement life, McSorley's has offered solace from far worse than a little rain storm.

The last of my ale slid effortlessly down my throat and I placed my mug with authority back onto the nicked up boards of the table. We surrendered our territory to the next army that approached and headed for the swinging doors that led back out to 7th Street. Passing regulars and newcomers alike, I looked around and realized that the people I was surrounded by could have given a shit about what Irene was to bring. Not one of them had thoughts of food or batteries or survival. Their only concern was for the next round and if their ale house would be open for business.

You don't get more rugged than this.

No Rest For The Weary

A week ago, the sun squeezed through the dusty wooden slats of my aged venetian blinds alerting me to the fact that Sunday had begun. My body felt like jelly and the thought of springing from my slate gray sheets was about as enticing as a moldy deviled egg. The sinus cavities sunk beneath my flesh were packed tighter than a rush hour 6 train and my eye lids were laboring to stand at attention. On the air mattress to my left sat my sister, staring, zombielike, at something on my floor, waiting patiently for her lazy, slightly infirmed brother to arouse from his slumber. She had a stomach to fill and a bus to catch.

The previous day had been spent at exhaustive lengths reliving the Prohibition era at the 2011 Jazz Age Lawn Party on Governors Island and subsequently at the most fitting of cocktail dens - The Clover Club in Brooklyn's Cobble Hill. The artful crooning, playful dancing and cheerful drinking had left us weary, and me with a crescendoing sinus infection.

Ever wonder what "the cat's pajamas"
looks like?

With a firm squeeze, the goodbye hug ended and the younger of my parents offspring disappeared into the throngs of hyper visitors anxiously attacking a red bus like it was the last mode of transport on earth. As I walked back towards the subway, the sky belched out an ominous grumble - a foreshadowing of the storms that were to come. (Little did I know that the worst of it was still a week away - hello Irene, you dirty little whore).

Pleasant weather is strife with guilt. With the command of a vixen's stare, the sun and breeze can lure one from their dwelling and deeds to simply bask in its ego. Productivity, rest or mindless entertainment run afoul in its midst, even when such things are all that's desired. It has a way of taunting with its glow but on this particular Sunday I was anxious for the storms to roll in and my recovery to begin.

I bounced lightly on the subway car home, the rumbling motion jostling my compacted head. I affixed my swollen eyes on the dermatological ad that promised clearer skin (no money down!) to avoid eye contact with the creepy European tourists and their inappropriate Ed Hardy tank tops. The longer I stared, I thought about the rest of my day; the excitement over my pending leisure was slowly overtaken by fear of boredom. A wasted Sunday was unacceptable, even if it was in the name of health. Leisure, in my opinion, should still produce some valuable personal advancement - writing, reading, good conversation, etc.

The jolt of the subway car knocked an idea to the front of my subconscious and I snapped to in a fit of excitement. Earlier in the day, my sister and I were discussing the cocktail list I was developing for a pending bridal shower she is hosting**. Today would be the perfect day to finalize the menu and experiment with a concoctions I was unsure of, a non-alcoholic soda - perfect for a gentleman dosed up on Advil Cold and Sinus. Productive, relaxing and delicious:

Perhaps the coolest part that can barely be seen:
Served in a highball from The Sands Las Vegas!

Strawberry/Basil/Lemon Soda (as seen in Bon Appetite):

• 1 oz Fresh Lemon Juice
• 1 Tablespoon Raw Sugar
• 6 Basil Leaves 5 small (or 3 large) Stawberries, quartered
• 1 pinch Kosher Salt
• 6 oz Club Soda

-In a large mixing tin combine lemon juice, sugar, basil, strawberries and salt. Muddle ingredients. Add ice and soda water. Stir until well chilled and blended. Strain into highball glass with fresh ice. (Can also be adapted into a margarita)

Double double toil and trouble:
My potion.

The good kind of mess!

Contrary to popular opinion, I think that mixing drinks is less about the booze and more about tradition, technique and precision. The ritual and motions are not only therapeutic but create a connection to a time when quality and craft were at the forefront of society. Like any other creative professional, mixing a drink, regardless of alcoholic content, excites my artistic spirit as well as my burgeoning palette. The endless combinations, ingredients and flavor profiles keeps my interest constantly piqued about what possibilities lie ahead. Not only do I revel in trying new recipes but have become passionate about introducing others to my findings and derive much satisfaction out of serving drinks to those that appreciate and enjoy their purpose. This crisp, complex soda highlights how wonderful a drink can be, even devoid of intoxicating proofs. And it provided the perfect remedy for invigorating my soul when my body was rife with discomfort.

But why not take my culinary efforts to the next level and add a light lunch to the mix. One of my favorite restaurants in New York lies on Court Street in Brooklyn's Carroll Garden's neighborhood - Frankie's Sputino. Aside from their unabashedly fresh take on Italian entrees, they produce one of the simplest, yet inventive crostini I've had: fresh ricotta, local honey and cracked pepper on toasted housemade bread. Simple in design, profound in taste. Here's is my take using more readily available ingredients:

Modified crostini

• Toasted Sesame Bagel (if you're not in NY, I don't know what to tell you)*
• Goat Cheese
• Macadamia Honey
• Fresh Cracked Pepper

Straight from Australia via my chum Vinny

I sat to nosh as the sky opened up. Thick beads of rain beat down steadily on the fire escape just outside my window, creating a soft hush to muffle the passing traffic. I felt all the more refined having created my own lunch and nestled in with my victuals for a thorough exploration of the WSJ Weekend Edition. I don't know if it was the Advil, the nourishment, the cool rain-induced breeze, the excitement or a combination of the lot, but my head cleared by evenings rise and the remainder of the night was spent enjoying the leisure that only a rainy day can bring.

Yes, an actual printed newspaper… remember those?

Sickness led to boredom. Boredom led to creativity. Creativity lead to productivity. And productivity provided the cure.

*Sorry, Im a NY bagel snob
** Due to Irene's bitchy wrath I was unable to travel and my cocktail list was for naught. For those interested here is the menu for your viewing pleasure.

One Stylish Hound

Image: link

Bully, old boy, bully! Quite right.

...and this is just for his evening constitutional.  Imagine what the opera might bring?

Hanky Panky

Ye without snot, sweat or grime
may cast the first stone. 

It's rare that I have to defend a classic accessory against the modern world. Most people, even those without sartorial flair, can recognize that the garments and embellishments from yesteryear are vastly superior to the stylings of today. However, on numerous occasion my cognizance of hygiene has been called into question over the simplest of linens to be found on my person: the handkerchief.

In its purest form, the handkerchief is no more than a square of fabric, rolled at its edges to prevent fraying and to give the look of a finished trimming. Nestled into the back pocket of a pair of trousers or peeking from the breast pocket of a jacket, it is possibly the single greatest display of form and function found on any gentleman. Unfortunately, society has scoffed at its use and stigmatized its patrons as nothing more than snot smugglers.

The handkerchief's main purpose is no longer as a "snot rag", as my unapologetically blunt grandfather would have stated, but as a utility piece in the gentleman's arsenal. In this day and age, kleenex, toilet tissue, paper towels and other disposable paper products are readily at hand for the discharge of whatever is stowed away in the caverns of our schnozes. I however, still like to carry a clean, pressed hanky on me at all times (as well as a pocket square, which should go without saying) as a measure of preparedness as well as a sign of class.

When one looks past its mucus stained reputation, a handkerchief becomes a multi-tool of personal polish. It is a safe guard against an occasional runny nose brought on by the elements of winter. Its cool cotton swipes away the beads of sweat on a muggy summer day. Its cleansing quality creates clarity on a pair of smudged sunglasses or rids hands of unwanted grime. And, perhaps most importantly, its soothing touch can comfort a sniffling lady or rid her of that trickling tear.

As a rule of thumb, just remember this: The one in your pant's pocket is for you, the one in your breast pocket is for her. Washed often and replaced yearly, the handkerchief can and should serve a purpose in modern life. With proper use, it can keep you clean and your footprint green, all while staying pearly white.

Put down your slings and arrows and judge me no more. Viva la hanky!

Perfection:

Paul Stuart's Phineas Cole Spring/Summer 2011

There is not much that renders me speechless but I can't find the words to do justice. So just stare... and appreciate... and rest easy knowing there IS a God.

Flipped Off

There's a bit of Costanzian flair injected into my personality. Although I am tall, slender, well-coiffed, and a self-proclaimed style hound, I can wreak of that short, fat, bald cynic who yearns to be draped in velvet. I can't help it. Being confined to a tiny island highly populated with the ignorant, the arrogant and the blithely unaware begins to grate on a person after a while and can turn a man from Tom Hanks to Mel Gibson faster than a Porsche can reach 60. Modern civilization's general disregard for style standards or pride in one's personal appearance rivals (and in my opinion could be directly related to) the overall decline of manners and decorum. Both have left many parts of daily life as irritating as a calypso ringtone, but with the chill of winter firmly in the past, one seasonal pest in particular is starting to circle like the Jaws to my Orca. And George is getting ANGRY!

Ba-nump



BA-NUMP



BA-nump, ba-nump-ba-nump-ba-nump-ba-nump-ba-nump-ba-nump…

Ohh how I loathe you crude beast! Although the wretched rubber thongs have been not so quietly flip flopping their way back into society over the past month, last week's near perfect temperatures made way for their permanent return on a daily basis. All over the city I must endure their flagrant trumpeting of casualness. They are the Blofeld to my Bond; as evil and disastrous a villain that ever was hell bent on world domination. Their thwacked chanting acting like a sorcerer's spell, entrancing the world into an unsightly display of feet.

My fear and paranoia have been escalating like a turkey's in November. Soon that annoying sound will be inescapable, The squishing of sweaty phalanges against soft neoprene and the reverberating pat of rubber against concrete will emanate from the streets. Rarely is there relief, for most think their flippers are welcome everywhere, like babies or cell phones. From the office ("but I'm wearing a skirt.") to the theater (with the most formal of cargo shorts) to the finest watering holes ("It's like so gnarly to be in this classy bar"), the nasal squawks of the Gilbert Godfried of footwear will resound. My own family and friends are among the worst offenders, flaunting their feet with reckless abandon. Even from inside my castle walls I must endure the clacking of sandal footed neighbors bouncing down the hall stairs. In the workplace, women are shedding their pumps for flops. Tourists are polluting our streets with Reefs and Tevas, some even (heavy sigh) paired with socks. And worst of all, grown men are forgoing their dignity for the chance to let their toe knuckles breath. I can grant exception to most women as their stylistic cues and daintier physique warrant overexposure, but how can a man take himself seriously with his feet flopping about in the open. No one wants to see a man's feet off of the beach. Period.

Perhaps the reason for my hatred is that I just don't understand. I fail to see the appeal of such a pedestrian article when boat shoes, loafers, driving mocs and even an espadrille exist as stylistic choices. Yet human's seem to be drawn to flip flops like groupies to a rock star. They remain a symbol of the casual counterculture (to which I hate to inform them, aren't so counter anymore) and rebellion against "the man" that made shoes a de facto societal norm. The excuses are numerous: "people were made to walk barefoot", "socks suffocate my feet", "my feet sweat and smell in shoes", "they are just, like, sooo comfortable". Blah blah blah. Regardless of the reason, they have become a idol of leisure to which people bow whether practicality or comfort is at issue. And their followers will defend them at all costs. True story: I saw a young fellow on the subway, strapping and well attired from head to ankle. Had I had to judge him solely on his feet, he looked like a hobo… his feet left black and dusty from the grimy streets, all but ruining his polished look.

After months of succumbing to such travesties, I ache for the fall when heavy boots tromp the streets and leather yet again meets marble floors. But in the meantime there is an accessible oasis offering repose. A revered gentleman's spot where leather reigns and a full vamp is heralded as a work of art no matter the season: the cobbler.

Nothing polishes off an outfit 

like a freshly shined pair of shoes

Standing tall with the barber and (if you're lucky enough to have a good one) the tailor, a cobbler can provide safe harbor from the ugly modern world. Now more than ever, with my thonged nemesis looming about, I find it necessary to seek refuge atop the high chairs of my 38th Street shop to indulge in one of life's little pleasures - the shoe shine . I first started my shine addiction as morning relief from the rigors of the daily grind. After ducking out for breakfast, I would indulge in a session of shoe therapy at least once a week before returning to my desk. Walking through the door of the nondescript shinery, one is removed from the fast paced world of Midtown Manhattan and it's endless corporate poppycock. The Wayne's World basement boasts a homeyness, with accents including red vinyl seats, wood paneling and metal framed posters of hardline sports cars. It's unpretentious, unrefined, inexpensive and I love it.

It's but one high step to hoist myself up onto the elevated seat where I can lock my soles into the cast iron stirrups. Calm cascades over me and the weight of my worries is lifted, if only for a brief time. My breathing is eased, heartburn is settled and best of all there isn't a flip to be flopped in sight. As the process gets underway, some men reach for the paper but I prefer to remain in my disconnected haze and immerse myself in the technique. The motions, rhythms and movements are hypnotizing, only adding to the relaxation.

Shining so bright you need shades

Horsehair brush and shoehorn:
Each morning throughout the week
 I give a quick brush to revive the luster of shines past

First, a quick towel wipe frees any excess dirt or dust and in extreme cases a saddle soap is used to cleanse the leather. The Kiwi tin is then popped and a base coat of polish is circulated onto the leather with a round applicator brush followed quickly my a massaging hand application. A tight weave towel is then sprayed and vigorously rolled over the vamp garnering a base shine. A second spread of polish is placed on the vamp and swiped with two large horsehair brushes. Finally, a shaggy towel is spritzed and forcefully slung across the vamp again to produce the high finished shine. After the final pull the towel is snapped with authority to denote the process has finished.

As I pay at the register I can hear the aged Italian cobbler singing songs from the old country as he pounds away at his craft in the rear of the store. To my dismay (and no doubt his), the crude threshold acts as a portal back into the other dimension where the world so often overlooks the details of style. One in which leisure and comfort reign and the propriety of the old guard is constantly threatened. But I move forward, my foot armor exquisitely shined in an attempt to battle the sandal wearing hippies in my path.

The shine costs $3, but the moments of reprieve are worth so much more.

The Tie Bar

Image: GQ.com

I like my ties like I like my cocktails: classic, well-made and with a twist.

Why has no one thought of this before? I spotted this tie by Mark McNairy over on GQ.com this weekend while catching up on old GQ Eye blog posts and I dig the design. They say all art comes from other art and so McNairy throws a curve into the classic repp tie, reminding us that it doesn't take much to make something your own.

Instead of busy patterns and loud colors, make a statement by playing with fabric and texture. Look for ties in silk knit, wool, cashmere, or linen. With summer approaching, gingham, madras and seersucker provide classic alternatives to neckwear banality. When in doubt though, the standard solids and stripes will always leave you looking chic and timeless.

My classic repp by J. Crew

In the tie bar, don't be caught with an AppleMango-tini. Ordering up a classic provides the least regret and reduces your style hangover.