Dear readers,
With the return of something approaching summer, I have been inspired to turn my thoughts to an area of great danger and peril for the gentleman, the ankle. (I should say at the outset that there is a special place reserved in my own personal Hell for those who use and perpetuate the word "mankle". Portmanteau words are all very well if they bring added meaning, but this is just inane. I wouldn't call a lady's ankle a "lankle" or, God forbid, a "wankle". Behave yourselves.) In more temperate weather, the ankle is an opportunity rather than a problem; I generally wear red socks (though fuschia occasionally feature), and I take the accusation of being a "red-socked fop" as a badge of pride rather than anything more derogatory. But advent of hot weather brings a new set of challenges.
Let me say very clearly that I do not believe a gentleman can never go without socks. No indeed. (Indeed, dear readers, if your delicate constitutions can stand the shock, I can reveal that I am sockless as I write this.) Clearly, the crime of socks-and-sandals is a heinous one, unless one cultivates the appearance of a paedophile or a rambler. So, at the casual end of the spectrum, if one is disporting oneself on holiday in, say, a neatly-pressed polo shirt and a pair of shorts, one would be fully entitled to throw on a pair of deck shoes over wantonly naked feet, and socks might be an unpleasant distraction from the general air of gentleman-at-leisure.
So far, so good. But we may go a step further away from outright informality. With a casual shirt (I am told such things exist) and a pair of chinos, I see neither harm nor foul in allowing a pair of loafers to display a well-turned bare ankle. Hygiene may suggest that so-called "secret socks" could come into play here, though I confess that they have always struck me as somehow dishonest, rather like backless waistcoats. But needs must when the Devil drives. Surely no crime has yet been committed.
To approach from the opposite end of the spectrum, it seems very clear to me that no right-thinking person would contemplate dispensing with socks when wearing formal suit and proper shoes, whether Oxfords, brogues or whatever. The discomfort caused to the wearer would be as nothing compared to the mental trauma inflicted in spectators. I have seen just such an approach recommended by more outré opinions in some gentlemen's magazines, but - being charitable - I can only assume these ideas were formulated after a good lunch or a heavy session with illegal drugs.
This brings us, however, to that most difficult terrain, the centre ground. Assuming you have friends who are Continental, gay or work in advertising, it is not inconceivable that you will find an occasion which suggests, say, a linen suit sans tie, and you may be tempted to sport a pair of loafers or driving shoes, and may be further tempted to leave the sock drawer untouched. Well, now. This month's Gentleman's Quarterly lectures me in no uncertain terms that, "Whatever the Italians might do in their own country, never even think about wearing socks with a driving shoe. You have to bare your ankles - of this, we're sure." I am not possessed of such certainty. "Sir" Bob Geldof recently appeared on the BBC's light entertainment Clarkson vehicle Top Gear, and was to be seen in a suit and no socks, and argued that it was perfectly acceptable on the grounds that he had beautifully-turned ankles. So, as it happens, does the Sybarite. But I would not encourage those who are amply-endowed in the trouser department to embrace a life of naturism. More fundamentally, for those who are tempted down the path of Godiva-like ankles, there is this question: do you wish Bob Geldof to be your fashion guru?
The Sybarite's view (and therefore the right one, of course) is this. Sockless fun is fine in a casual context, if you have ankles which are pleasing to the populace, and, naturally, if you are otherwise well-dressed. If, however, there is even a hint of formality, however trendy and cutting-edge, just wear socks. Go to town with them, by all means, but don't leave them at home.
(On a wholly unrelated note, can I wholeheartedly encourage those of you who have not so far done so to sample a cocktail called "Death in the Afternoon", one of Papa Hemingway's favourites? A jigger of absinthe in a flute, topped up with iced champagne. Excellent, refreshing and potent, a little like Don Ernesto himself.)
Sunday 31 July 2011
Tuesday 5 July 2011
Let the train take the strain?
Dear readers,
I daresay it will come as no surprise to you to learn that the Sybarite is, under the right circumstances, a fan of train travel. It is often much more convenient, if slightly slower, than flying, and, as for driving, Her Majesty's Constabulary seem to frown upon drivers enjoying a good bottle of shiraz on long journeys. So it was with a degree of relish last week that I contemplated a leisurely trip by East Coast from King's Cross to Edinburgh, intending to take in the evening meal and arrive in Auld Reekie as the nightlife began to warm up. I had a good book and looked forward to travelling in something like the style and comfort of our forebears.
Things did not begin well. King's Cross is currently a hellhole of scaffolding and noise, and, while the modernisation will perhaps bear fruit in time, it is currently an unpleasant place to be. At least, I thought, I had arrived in enough time to seek a bit of shelter and solace in the first-class lounge. It was unfortunate that the temporary taxi rank deposited me about as far from the lounge as it was possible to be without being in a different post code, but these things happen. Once I circumnavigated the station, I looked forward to flopping into a seat and snatching a glass of something reviving. I was to be disappointed on almost every count. The first-class lounge (is it a temporary structure? I cannot tell) had all the charm and warmth of a doctor's waiting room, and what few armchairs they had were taken. I perched on a bar stool by a high table, deposited my bag and went in search of sustenance. Wine there was, and beer and spirits. Even champagne. However, it was in a locked fridge, and only available for sale. The complimentary items amounted to some orange juice, tea and coffee and a (not very enthralling) selection of snacks. "First-class", eh? Perhaps, like beauty, it is in the eye of the beholder...
All was not lost. A longer-than-expected taxi journey had anyway left me with less time than I had anticipated, so, after gulping a mouthful of free orange juice, I headed for the platform, and found, to my pleasant surprise, the train already waiting. Marvellous. I located my seat, unpacked my book and newspaper, stowed my bag away and settled in. Yes, the journey would be four-and-a-half hours, but dinner and drinks were in prospect and the seat was very comfortable.
Once we had pulled out of King's Cross - on time, I may say, for I wish to be scrupulously fair - an attendant moved through the carriage taking orders for dinner. A carbonade of beef was promised, which sounded like the sort of hearty fare which would make the journey pass swiftly, and so I, and, it seemed, most of the other passengers opted for that. Once the orders had been taken, a drinks trolley moved through the carriage dispensing complimentary beverages (I have a deep distrust of those who call drinks "beverages", but I let it pass). I opted for a glass of red wine, which was serviceable, though I had to remark that the days of being presented with a wine list are long gone. It was a binary choice, white or red. It was an Australian something-or-other, unmemorable but inoffensive.
Here again I must be fair: dinner was served with commendable despatch. Having left King's Cross at 5 pm, it cannot have been much beyond 5.30 pm when the dinner service commenced. I was presented with my beef, and, as my glass was running dry, I asked for another glass of red wine to accompany my meal. I was told, politely but without hint of apology, that the next service would be after York (where we were scheduled to arrive around 7 pm). So, it transpired, the "complimentary beverages" were in fact severely rationed, to a glass of wine every two hours or so. This indicated slender pickings on a journey of four-and-a-half hours. I found this - and still find it - almost offensively stingy. I would frankly rather buy my own from a more frequently passing trolley than have limited doses administered like medication doled out by Nurse Ratched. It is not, as dear readers will be aware, as if train travel of any kind, let alone first-class, is cheap these days, and to be given a couple of glasses of wine that cannot (or should not!) have cost more than £5 a bottle for a journey of that length is frankly mean.
Still, the Sybarite is resilient, and, realising with a heavy heart that I would have to eke out my quarter-glass of red while I addressed the beef, I set to my meal. Now, airline food is largely deplorable, but one appreciates that it is being prepared under extraordinary circumstances, and when it is done well - Virgin Upper springs to mind - it is a miraculous feat to be given palatable, even toothsome, food at 35,000 feet. Trains do not have the same excuse. Granted, the carriages are relatively narrow, but they should be able to accommodate a decent galley kitchen, and, given a chef who knows what he is about, there is no excuse for poor food. Was the beef poor? It was certainly not good. A rather flaky piece of indifferent cow in a sauce the main characteristic of which was that it was brown. The meat had absorbed little of the flavour of the sauce (perhaps because there was so little to absorb), and, while it was hardly tough, it was not soft and unctuous in the way that a carbonade should be. If the sauce had contained either wine or beer, there was no trace of it - perhaps the chef had asked before York. It was accompanied by hard and tasteless boiled potatoes, soggy carrots and some broccoli which made the average Chelsea Pensioner look positively sprightly. It was, all in all, the sort of meal which one can at best regard simply as fuel to stop one from going hungry.
I am not saying that the journey was uncomfortable. The seats were generally spacious and soft (though one directly opposite me had broken, and its hapless occupant was unable to stay in the upright position), and there was room to spread out and read and think (though, again, a gentleman on the other side of the carriage was cursed with a folding table which, every time a train passed in the other direction, catapulted his food and drink a foot into the air; he drew the conclusion by the end of the journey that the white wine recently spilled down his shirt would at least remove the red wine which had covered him at the outset of the trip). The food was, indeed, "complimentary" and saved me trekking to the buffet car to buy a sandwich. But the added value which first-class should bring was strikingly absent. If I had known in advance, I would have bought a bottle of wine in an off-licence and travelled steerage.
I am left struggling to diagnose the cause of the malady. Is it merely a matter of the bottom line, of squeezing every last penny of profit out of the traveller and providing a service of the most basic and economical form possible? Is it that expectations have declined over the years and people are willing to put up with less? It must surely - or at least so it seems to me - be possible to provide a genuinely "first-class" experience on the East Coast Main Line which would be a serious challenge to air travel. Even if the ticket price had to creep up a tiny bit, good food, generous drinks, a selection of wines, beers and spirits above the bare minimum, would surely attract discerning travellers, whether for business or pleasure. Wouldn't it?
(In fact I can, to an extent, answer my own question. It can be done better. Just travel on the Eurostar if you want to see what I mean.)
In any event, I shall for the moment have to content myself with dreams of Pullman cars of old and a kinder, gentler age. This autumn I plan to travel to Hungary by train, so we shall see if the rest of Europe do it any better...
I daresay it will come as no surprise to you to learn that the Sybarite is, under the right circumstances, a fan of train travel. It is often much more convenient, if slightly slower, than flying, and, as for driving, Her Majesty's Constabulary seem to frown upon drivers enjoying a good bottle of shiraz on long journeys. So it was with a degree of relish last week that I contemplated a leisurely trip by East Coast from King's Cross to Edinburgh, intending to take in the evening meal and arrive in Auld Reekie as the nightlife began to warm up. I had a good book and looked forward to travelling in something like the style and comfort of our forebears.
Things did not begin well. King's Cross is currently a hellhole of scaffolding and noise, and, while the modernisation will perhaps bear fruit in time, it is currently an unpleasant place to be. At least, I thought, I had arrived in enough time to seek a bit of shelter and solace in the first-class lounge. It was unfortunate that the temporary taxi rank deposited me about as far from the lounge as it was possible to be without being in a different post code, but these things happen. Once I circumnavigated the station, I looked forward to flopping into a seat and snatching a glass of something reviving. I was to be disappointed on almost every count. The first-class lounge (is it a temporary structure? I cannot tell) had all the charm and warmth of a doctor's waiting room, and what few armchairs they had were taken. I perched on a bar stool by a high table, deposited my bag and went in search of sustenance. Wine there was, and beer and spirits. Even champagne. However, it was in a locked fridge, and only available for sale. The complimentary items amounted to some orange juice, tea and coffee and a (not very enthralling) selection of snacks. "First-class", eh? Perhaps, like beauty, it is in the eye of the beholder...
All was not lost. A longer-than-expected taxi journey had anyway left me with less time than I had anticipated, so, after gulping a mouthful of free orange juice, I headed for the platform, and found, to my pleasant surprise, the train already waiting. Marvellous. I located my seat, unpacked my book and newspaper, stowed my bag away and settled in. Yes, the journey would be four-and-a-half hours, but dinner and drinks were in prospect and the seat was very comfortable.
Once we had pulled out of King's Cross - on time, I may say, for I wish to be scrupulously fair - an attendant moved through the carriage taking orders for dinner. A carbonade of beef was promised, which sounded like the sort of hearty fare which would make the journey pass swiftly, and so I, and, it seemed, most of the other passengers opted for that. Once the orders had been taken, a drinks trolley moved through the carriage dispensing complimentary beverages (I have a deep distrust of those who call drinks "beverages", but I let it pass). I opted for a glass of red wine, which was serviceable, though I had to remark that the days of being presented with a wine list are long gone. It was a binary choice, white or red. It was an Australian something-or-other, unmemorable but inoffensive.
Here again I must be fair: dinner was served with commendable despatch. Having left King's Cross at 5 pm, it cannot have been much beyond 5.30 pm when the dinner service commenced. I was presented with my beef, and, as my glass was running dry, I asked for another glass of red wine to accompany my meal. I was told, politely but without hint of apology, that the next service would be after York (where we were scheduled to arrive around 7 pm). So, it transpired, the "complimentary beverages" were in fact severely rationed, to a glass of wine every two hours or so. This indicated slender pickings on a journey of four-and-a-half hours. I found this - and still find it - almost offensively stingy. I would frankly rather buy my own from a more frequently passing trolley than have limited doses administered like medication doled out by Nurse Ratched. It is not, as dear readers will be aware, as if train travel of any kind, let alone first-class, is cheap these days, and to be given a couple of glasses of wine that cannot (or should not!) have cost more than £5 a bottle for a journey of that length is frankly mean.
Still, the Sybarite is resilient, and, realising with a heavy heart that I would have to eke out my quarter-glass of red while I addressed the beef, I set to my meal. Now, airline food is largely deplorable, but one appreciates that it is being prepared under extraordinary circumstances, and when it is done well - Virgin Upper springs to mind - it is a miraculous feat to be given palatable, even toothsome, food at 35,000 feet. Trains do not have the same excuse. Granted, the carriages are relatively narrow, but they should be able to accommodate a decent galley kitchen, and, given a chef who knows what he is about, there is no excuse for poor food. Was the beef poor? It was certainly not good. A rather flaky piece of indifferent cow in a sauce the main characteristic of which was that it was brown. The meat had absorbed little of the flavour of the sauce (perhaps because there was so little to absorb), and, while it was hardly tough, it was not soft and unctuous in the way that a carbonade should be. If the sauce had contained either wine or beer, there was no trace of it - perhaps the chef had asked before York. It was accompanied by hard and tasteless boiled potatoes, soggy carrots and some broccoli which made the average Chelsea Pensioner look positively sprightly. It was, all in all, the sort of meal which one can at best regard simply as fuel to stop one from going hungry.
I am not saying that the journey was uncomfortable. The seats were generally spacious and soft (though one directly opposite me had broken, and its hapless occupant was unable to stay in the upright position), and there was room to spread out and read and think (though, again, a gentleman on the other side of the carriage was cursed with a folding table which, every time a train passed in the other direction, catapulted his food and drink a foot into the air; he drew the conclusion by the end of the journey that the white wine recently spilled down his shirt would at least remove the red wine which had covered him at the outset of the trip). The food was, indeed, "complimentary" and saved me trekking to the buffet car to buy a sandwich. But the added value which first-class should bring was strikingly absent. If I had known in advance, I would have bought a bottle of wine in an off-licence and travelled steerage.
I am left struggling to diagnose the cause of the malady. Is it merely a matter of the bottom line, of squeezing every last penny of profit out of the traveller and providing a service of the most basic and economical form possible? Is it that expectations have declined over the years and people are willing to put up with less? It must surely - or at least so it seems to me - be possible to provide a genuinely "first-class" experience on the East Coast Main Line which would be a serious challenge to air travel. Even if the ticket price had to creep up a tiny bit, good food, generous drinks, a selection of wines, beers and spirits above the bare minimum, would surely attract discerning travellers, whether for business or pleasure. Wouldn't it?
(In fact I can, to an extent, answer my own question. It can be done better. Just travel on the Eurostar if you want to see what I mean.)
In any event, I shall for the moment have to content myself with dreams of Pullman cars of old and a kinder, gentler age. This autumn I plan to travel to Hungary by train, so we shall see if the rest of Europe do it any better...
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