I was recently in London on an unplanned trip and thought to share a few thoughts:
Thank God for pubs.
When you need them, stop, scan the horizon and you’ll reliably find them. What a great place to spend some time on the cold, blustery days last week.
But I was surprised to find that pubs don’t serve before 10 in the morning. This was a bit shocking for such a cultured city, when we all know how important carbohydrates are for breakfast.
We didn’t scout for ‘destination’ pubs, just those on our path and we luckily found a lot as we zig zagged our way through London. Always warmly lit, often in jewel tones, what better vantage to watch the rain and wile away an hour in pleasant conversation.
Pub grub is reliably good when you stick to sandwiches. I like the toasted smoked salmon sandwich and the brie/ham. You could do worse than a beer and sandwich for lunch and pubs are just the place.
It was a balm to the soul to spend a week without an itinerary and, with the exception of 2 days of business, no spots to hit, no check list of things to do and no plans to buy a single item of clothing!. Not a bad way to carry on going forward, I think.
Ofcourse I found time to saunter past most of the outposts and streets of interest.
First off was Rubinacci if only because it is strategically located next to a stand out pub, the Audley. Just missed Luca; Maria told me that he just got on the plane for Milan that morning and won’t be back for two weeks. And Mariano hasn’t been in London for quite a while apparently and is not expected.
Issues of the Rake with Luca on the cover were prominently displayed throughout the shop. What a super star. Apart from Maria, there was an Asian fellow there with tape measure across his shoulders, who looked suspiciously like the alterations tailor; what’s the matter: too cold for a Neapolitan tailor? Not much of interest to look at, other than Maria, though January is always low on inventory. They do have a new cologne, at least new to me: smelled like Neapolitan lemons. Or is it Sicilian bitter oranges. Too bad Luca wasn’t around, he might have had a spare girlfriend for me on the side, that rakish fellow. Bye, Maria. See you next Summer.
On past the Connaught. A sad story really, the Connaught. I haven’t stayed there since the lamentable renovation. And don’t even drop by the bar since I can’t smoke inside anymore. The Connaught experience used to be one of London’s pleasures for me; no more. I didn’t even walk inside on this trip to greet the old grand dame. Things have changed for me.
Past the butcher shop on Mount Street, is it Allens?, and stop to admire the hanging pigs, racks of lamb, Scottish steak. Yum. Don’t think that there were any game birds aging. Way past the season I suppose. Why did silly thoughts of cholesterol intrude to spoil my reverie? I’ve got to stop that nasty habit of reading the Health sections so much since my beard starting greying. I personally know that you can eat all the meat you want, everyday, forever and it will only do you good and keep you strong and fit. But make it grass fed or wild. Like our cavemen ancestors. Meat is a proper meal. Too bad about the way the British cook it though, but more about that later.
Let’s skip Sautter cigars too because they have more than once sold me a stuffed Cuban and what the hell, where can you smoke now anyway. The smoking police at it again. It is a global pandemic. But not quite. There are still great hedonistic, uncultured, fatalistic swathes of the world which don’t give a damn because they know that you will surely die early from something else there other than smoke. And then there are also those cultured European cities where the citizenry doesn’t accept to abide by silly laws anyway. But not London, no, much too regulated for any insanity.
But I digress.
Across Berkley Sq. and through Bruton Street to say hello to the Guinea Grill. Mercifully, it is quiet and calm outside the Guinea. And will stay that way I suspect throughout the cold months. This is one of the revelations of being in London in January: the outside pub crowds thin out dramatically everywhere and one actually has time, peace and quiet to enjoy a pint outside under gas heaters. The weather is perfect. 38 and drizzly. Ah…London as its best. Time for frumpy tweeds, a tattersal shirt and knit tie if I had only thought to bring them. The weather demands it. The British have the right attitude towards rain. Ofcourse, nobody dresses like that in London; it is only in our collective imagination. But it doesn’t exist.
Onwards like lemmings, to Savile Row, but first Jermyn Street as I’ll save SR on this trip for last like a maraschino cherry on a favorite dessert.
Jermyn Street. What a low rent neighborhood it seems to have become. There was a time, not long ago, when I didn’t even know how to pronounce the name of this mythic street. Ahhh…the English look and London street as I had imagined years ago is gone. Then, an eager acolyte, I was made to believe, through the net geniuses and other hallowed publications, that I should buy their gaudy cardboard-like shirts, ties and accessories, which I ofcourse happily did. It all seemed so much more interesting then. And I was probably more interesting myself, and interested and eager, then as well. Change.
Paxton cheese shop is still there though Trumpers has moved around the corner. Czech & Speake now prominently display huge bottles of their cologne in their store window; now there’s an English concept I could never fathom: plumbing supplies and perfume. Nor why a cheese shop sits in the middle of a men’s clothing street. Dunhill is shrinking and surely dying; what, no one buying their white dot pipes any longer? Bates seemed to be very open; at least they had a full display of hats in the window.
Today, Jermyn is populated, apart from the shirt shops, by row after row of discount suiting stores loudly promoting suits in January at half price, down from Sterling 400 to 199!! Shirts: 3 for the price of 2!! Who could resist?! Seriously, with the suits displayed on dummies, deconstructed to show the 4 ply canvas hand stitched construction all meticulously done in China, what’s not to like about a $300 suit. The Jermyn Street stores now do a booming business in this bovl.
Just ask Maria, this chubby, savvy and happy alterations tailor, who I discovered over on the first floor walk up at 79 Jermyn St. Maria, along with her equally chubby husband Mario, both from Ecuador, do a very nice business. She threw out some unbelievable number of suits that just one store sells daily; I suppose she knows: she does their alterations. She did the alterations for my friend too who bought a China special. Hanging at Maria and Mario’s was so soothing, I extended my stay beyond the business at hand and lingered, having encountered a young, very good looking, hippy mother and her conservative, embarrassed, teenage daughter from Spain; charming people and we settled in for quite a pleasant conversation as people in a tailors shop will do. There is something about the sound of sewing machines and a happy crew….too bad they don’t serve martinis here.
Over the years, I’ve learned to not even think to take people over to Savile Row or try to introduce them to bespoke. It is useless and frustrating. It is a very complicated business, I have found, to understand how people value material items, and penetrate the sum of their tastes, perceptions and really,understand who the hell they really are, anyway. I don’t even speak to people about clothing any longer. Except a few liked minded, anonymous maniacs on the internet. But otherwise, I draw the line at talking to anyone actually alive. Or alive while I am talking to them.
Believe me, there are many rich people who would think it absolutely insane, if not stupid, even an affront, to suggest spending real money for a decent suit. Or shoes. Or any other item of clothing for that matter. And then there are those who save up for a $5,000 bespoke suit; we all know this unfortunate type. Sometimes I wonder who are the dummies. It’s all rags at the end of the day, isn’t it? Perhaps it would behoove me to examine my own assumptions instead of others…. Who’s the joke on?
Before I left Jermyn, I spied David Gale, the superb shirtmaker, in the far distance, speed walking along Jermyn. He still owed me some alterations on a shirt he started for me while he was at Dunhill before he moved to Turnbull. I see that he has changed from wearing his trade mark white undershirt and camouflage pants while at Dunhill to now wearing a shirt and tie. Interesting guy, really, I think he told me that he has an organic farm somewhere outside of London. Come to think of it, he looks pretty fit for an old guy. Anyway… on this sighting, he was too fast for me this time. But I know where to find him on my next trip. And anyway, I’m going into training right after this trip. Shirt makers can walk pretty fast.
Oh yes. Always up for a satisfying bit of self flagellation, I dropped in on Edward Green. This store has to have the worst service on the planet so it is always a pleasure to test there how well I have absorbed my Zen lessons of equilibrium and equanimity. They have a new salesgirl there. Very knowledgeable, actually. However, as she was talking to me, she was intently staring the whole time at her fingernails, industriously digging the dirt out from under them, pulling off her hangnails and otherwise grooming her nails. It was intriguing. How long could she keep this up? A challenge was at hand. So to find out, I settled in and asked another dozen unnecessary questions. What can I say…she beat me. She is a master. I salute you, EG salesgirl!
Now, in desperate need of some fluids, I racked my memory bank for mission critical information and remembered that a pub…was it the Red Lion…or the Golden Lion…..what do names and details matter anymore at this stage in life as long as one still knows how to get there….was reasonably nearby. Good God, what luck, a curry menu! But I am too late, the Indian gang behind the bar smiling inform me, for their luncheon menu. Then ham and brie it will be. And a pint of your warmest English beer.
Time to get moving, some boring evening appointment beckons. But not before a stop at Fox’s on St. James Street for a cigar. Since I am cutting down, there is no better choice than Montecristo’s Petit Edmundo, a treasure at only 4” but with a 52 gauge. I think it only right in the nature of things that as one gets older, and things start to shrink, that one’s cigar should keep up with the general trend. It is brief pleasures that count now. So a Petit Edmundo it will be for tonight as I ask Gavin to choose 2 cigars for me and a friend, and be sure that they are not stuffed. Sport that he was, he went through 2 boxes until he found the 2 cigars that he felt were best. Excellent! Poor Gavin, though, is in desperate need of some oxygen and really should get out of that smoke filled shop from time to time. Oh, and I won’t bore you, as I was bored, by relating a pedantic conversation between two English customers on the leather, cumin, cherry flavors of this and that cigar which I was forced by proximity to listen to while in Fox’s walk-in humidor. A cigar is just a smoke for God’s sake. Shut up now! Serenity now….serenity now. Ommmm. Quick, Gavin, give me the damn cigars, I’ve got to dash.
I need a hat. Nobody seems to wear a hat in London, but I need a hat. You really have to have a hat in London in Winter. If you are ever going to wear a hat, this is the place and time. With Lock just down the street, why not drop in, just for a look. Lots and lots of nice hats and caps to buy here. But my perennial problem with a fedora or trilby is with the air travel; I just can’t carry the hat around, if not wearing it. And can’t store it in the plane’s overhead bin. So now I wear a cap instead and stuff it into my pocket when not needed. A nice tweed cap fits the bill for me when a fedora is impractical. One starts to get practical with time and a bit of seasoning. You start to learn what you like and what works for you. I think that the Lock Voyager will work for me. Because it folds though the felt is a bit thin and insubstantial. Tempting. But not this time. The people here are very nice. On your way out, pick up the nice little 35 page brochure Lock has put out; it has thoughtfully included a little paper measuring tape to take your head measurements. It is always nice to measure things, generally speaking. It’s good information to have. Keep the tape in your breast pocket. You never know when you will need it.
So where was I….
Though I had promised myself not to have anything made on SR, there was a must-see tailor who I could not resist visiting and after all, there’s no harm in looking, is there?. So when I had an hour on my own I snuck away to indulge my forbidden pleasure. It is tantalizing to go in knowing that you are just planning to look, not buy, but that any little tease, any sensory perception, could tip the balance despite your mighty resolve. Ofcourse, if you are receptive, you start to melt and SR’s magic begins to work as soon as you open the creaky door and see the fire going, the leather sofa in front beckoning, the dark wood paneling, the samples, the books of cloth, all of which you need. It is wonderful to submit to SR’s enticements. There is nothing more bleak than to be fitted in an anonymous hotel room by a traveling tailor just to get the damn business done with. We have to give SR its due: SR knows how to do it right. Not necessarily the suit, but certainly the merchandising. I carry that experience with me whenever I wear anything made on the Row. I, for one, enjoy SR’s blandishments and don’t want the day to come that I am too cynical to enjoy it. Plus, it is nice to submit to being seduced, even when half aware of the artifice.
This particular tailor makes clean suits. I felt a touch of Caraceni Roma when I tried on a coat here. In that it was lean, minimalist and elegant. It was beautiful actually. We shall see. Someday, not today, as I stuck to my resolution. Though I now know where I will get my next suit made.
Btw, 2 things the tailor brought up was the amount of ‘overwrap’ at the buttoning button. I was surprised that the overwrap on this coat – a very minimal, IMO, 1.5 inches was too much for the tailor; he would have taken it in further. My God, some of my SB coats are a good 4-5 inches and I sort of like them that way, though they are sport coats, good when needing to wear a pull over underneath. Another point: the roll on a 3 button coat; he much preferred no roll, thinking it more chic and elegant, adding that only his North American clients asked for a roll down to 2.5 or 2. I don’t know about all of that...though it’s something to think about.
Now 5 p.m., SR knocks off for the day and so I. Off to the Burlington Arms for a bit of refreshments. On the way, pass by A&S to look at the mannequins in the window; very nice DB suits, their specialty. Business must be booming because the tailors in the basement, who you can see from street level, are still working under the fluorescent lights, and each has a 3 ft. high stack of bundled cloth waiting to be sewn; they won’t be going home early tonight. The work of Savile Row continues as the good people in the district make their way to their bus and underground stations in the Winter dark.
Not sure if this is the Burlington Arms here on Old Burlington Street but it serves beer and will do just fine. Can’t walk anymore, legs are gone. And can’t stand with arm crooked. Thank God for a few empty chairs at the bar but we're early so lady luck is with us. After a few pints and feeling better now, well, it is time to smoke this Edmundo which has been sitting patiently in my pocket for too many days. The bar is now packed to the gills. So I pick up my sorry carcass and make my way outside with the rest of the outcasts. What the hell?! A police station? Who puts a bar opposite a police station for God’s sake! There’s no time to run if the shit hits the fan; the cops are just 10 steps away. And probably recording everything anyway. But too tired, I sit down anyway, under the welcome gas heater, temperatures now dropping pretty fast, and light my stubby cigar. That’s better.
Have you stopped for a moment to count the number of CCTVs watching us the UK? Don’t. It is mind boggling, counting cameras, watching you. Those horrible little cameras with all sorts of antennas bristling up and down the poles. The UK must have the most intrusive security technology in the Western world. Who is watching us anyway? Is it computers, scanning various facial data points, going through millions of profiles? Is it people sitting behind consoles? What do they want? What is the purpose? The most dicy situations are on the steep escalators going deep into the bowels of the underground stations. Those tubular cameras scanning the riders are so up close and personal that they look as if they could give you a colonoscopy. And the worst of it all, there’s no way to escape while on those escalators. That is if you have to….
Oh well. I am innocent, I tell you. Nothing to worry about on that account, I am sure. Really. And a good cigar makes everything look better. At least for 45 minutes; that’s not bad for these times. Anyway, better to muse about clothing since I am sitting in the middle of Savile Row, the bespoke capital of the world!
Now I must say that there were only 3 stylish men at the time of my visit to London. Well dressed, and stylish. And I am tired of the many muddy grey suits worn indifferently by muddy grey men. Sorry, I don’t care anymore if a suit is cut on SR if it’s not worn well. Nor about the minutiae of button holes, stitching, gorge height, etc. Nor about the prestige and provenance of this or that tailor. Might as well just get a GBP199 special if the suit’s not worn well. They don’t look that different anyway, do they?
Alden talks about ‘dress with style’. Not ‘dress’. Not ‘go out and get a $6000 bespoke suit’. Rather, ‘dress stylishly’. I agree. If not, why throw out good money? It’s pretty simple, isn’t it?
Well, there were no stylish men in London during this visit. OK, there were three…. And forget chic altogether. I used to see at least a few more. And I must add that the suits I did notice on this trip fit horribly; mainly because their wearers had outgrown them: in the waist. The coats pulled, stretched, moaned and groaned. Really, so many suit jackets could hardly be buttoned; it was a crime. I chalk it up to a nice layer of accumulated fat laid on for the Winter. Now, as a caveat, I did not go to any ‘stylish’ bars, restaurants, clubs, scenes, etc., much to my regret, but I wasn’t setting the agenda on this brief visit, so….who knows, maybe all the stylish men were collectively sheltering inside somewhere in the chill London Winter. Who knows…maybe they’ll come out when the weather turns better. Maybe they’ve moved to another borough. Or emmigrated. What’s going on with the UK’s bonus tax anyway? You need big bucks these days to buy something on SR. But what does it matter anyway; I never found London particularly stylish or chic anyway and there are more important things to consider…
…such as my cigar. The Edmundo is good. My fellow outcasts at the next table, under the heater, are milding amusing, chatting up two willing girls who must be willfully guileless or the better part of drunk; oh stop being so cynical for God’s sake. I must be losing my sense of humor; how could romance ever flourish if one did not suspend belief? Where’s your imagination, son? But I do miss having my cigars and drinks at a good hotel bar. I always enjoyed that. Though smoking outside in the cold seems to be the only solution tonight. But it’s cold comfort. Now I just need to find someone guileless.
To be continued….
