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Silverfoxesclub-digest In this issue:
-Dead-end job!!!
---------------------------------------------------------------------- "Worker Dead st Desk Five Days!" Bosses of a publishing firm are trying to work out why no one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for FIVE DAYS before anyone asked if he was feeling okay. George Turklebaum, 51, who had been employed as a proof-reader at a New York firm for 30 years, had a heart attack in the open-plan office he shared with 23 other workers. He quietly passed away on Monday, but nobody noticed until Saturday morning when an office cleaner asked why he was still working during the weekend. His boss Elliot Wachiaski said: "George was always the first guy in each morning and the last to leave at night, so no one found it unusual that he was in the same position all that time and didn't say anything. "He was always absorbed in his work and kept much to himself."
A post mortem examination revealed that he had been dead for five days
after
suffering a coronary. Ironically, George was proofreading manuscripts
for
medical textbooks when he died.
You may want to give your co-workers a nudge occasionally.
And the moral of the story: Don't work too hard. Nobody notices
anyway. (by Jonathan Kandell, a frequent contributor to The Times' Travel magazine, who lives in New York.)
LONDON--Perhaps it was the early chill of a London morning
that awakened
me; the very thought made me burrow deeper under the
crushed-velvet
bedcover. I was staying at Home House, a private club that
accepts
nonmembers like me for lodging and meals. The previous
evening was still
a pleasant blur of conversation, claret and crackling roast
duck in the
club's dining room overlooking Portman Square, London's most
fashionable
address in the early 1800s.
I turned to the night table and focused myopic eyes on
the book I was reading when I fell asleep: "Can You Forgive
Her?" by
Anthony Trollope, the 19th century novelist of English
aristocratic
manners. Then, with superhuman effort, I staggered down the
corridor and
drew a bath from two lion head spouts that quickly filled
the
6-foot-long marble tub. As I floated in the hot water, I
remembered that
Madonna had stayed in this very room not long ago. Yes, I
can forgive
her.
I was in London in May, pretending to lead the life of an
English gentleman, an admittedly diclassi ambition in the
progressive era of Labor Prime Minister Tony Blair. During
four days of
fantasy, I confined myself mostly to Mayfair, the 40 square
blocks
bounded by Hyde Park, Piccadilly, and Oxford and Regent
streets, home to
London's most traditional clothing shops, private clubs and
restaurants.
This meant lodging in premises that date at least to the
Edwardian era,
getting measured for custom-made clothes, "bespoke," to use
the British
term, and dining and drinking at places of which my
grandparents would
have approved.
Of course, paying for that experience, especially in
expensive modern-day London, would amount to financial
folly--$7,000 or
more, by my calculations. Instead I adopted the approach I
use at
antique shops: browsing to my heart's content but disgorging
my wallet
on only a few objects. This may mean staying for only one
night at a
grand hotel, then moving into more affordable premises (as I
did, moving
to 8 York House, a B&B bargain at $50 a night for one, $70
for two);
deciding whether to purchase a bespoke suit or shirts but
not both; and
turning tidbits at a well-known bar or tearoom into a full
meal.
For my first day in London, I put up at the Ritz. Among
its many virtues is its proximity to the clothing
establishments of
Jermyn Street and Savile Row, where I would spend much of my
time and
money. Another big plus is the hotel concierge, Michael de
Cozar, a font
of information on anything to be bought, imbibed or visited.
Of the two shirt makers he suggested, I chose New &
Lingwood, at 53 Jermyn St. Turnbull & Asser, just across the
street at
71 and 72 Jermyn, is better known but requires a minimum
order of six
shirts. At New & Lingwood, a quiet, two-story establishment
next to a
shopping arcade, Sean O'Flynn, the chief shirt maker,
assured me I would
have to buy no more than four.
"Our hallmark is a generously cut shirt," he says.
"Something to let you
put on a few pounds over the years." Given my weight
trajectory in the
last few decades, it's a hallmark that makes fine sense.
After mulling over scores of fabrics, I made four
choices: two cotton poplins ($196 each), the first a narrow
blue stripe
and the other a blue and red gingham; a white,
double-layered cotton
voile ($210) that can be worn with a tuxedo; and a navy-blue
Sea Island
cotton ($235) that feels like cool satin. After selecting
collar and
cuff styles, I let O'Flynn take 10 measurements of my neck,
torso, arms
and wrists (including the thickness of my watch). A
Hollywood producer,
the only other client at the moment, was making impatient
sounds in the
background, but to no avail: My shirt maker would not be
rushed, even
for American royalty.
In three weeks, O'Flynn would have a sample ready and
send it to me at home in New York. I was to wear and wash
the shirt
twice, and if I was satisfied, O'Flynn would make the three
other
shirts, which I would receive six to eight weeks later. The
cost,
including mailing charges and import taxes, was about $950.
I bought the
shirts this time but made suits a browsing experience for
this trip.
I mulled over the rest of my shopping strategy during
lunch next door at Wiltons, a clubby, wood-paneled
restaurant dating to
1742. The high quality of the service and food have remained
unchanged
for decades. Waiters in black suits and waitresses in white
nanny
uniforms move about at the pace of a slow waltz. Some of the
heavy wood
tables were hidden behind curtains to accommodate patrons
who wanted
privacy. I ordered a half-dozen succulent oysters ($15) and
a grilled
Dover sole ($38). They needed no seasoning other than a
squeeze of
lemon.
I walked a few blocks to Savile Row, and after
window-shopping at several tailors on the concierge's list,
I entered
the oldest establishment on the street, Gieves & Hawkes, No.
1 Savile
Row, and explained my plight to Mark Henderson, the chief
executive: I
had exceeded my shopping budget, but I still wanted to be
measured for a
suit in hopes that I could afford one on a future visit to
London.
Henderson obliged, demonstrating the patience one expects at
an
establishment that has been in business since 1771 dressing
the elites
of history, from princes and sultans to tycoons and actors.
Before entrusting me to a bespoke cutter, Henderson
recited the dress-for-success mantra that has guided Savile
Row for
centuries: "You have only a few seconds to make a lasting
first
impression, and what counts in that brief time are
appearance, body
language and what you say, in that order."
For a minimum of $3,400, Gieves & Hawkes would tailor a suit
that
practically guarantees the "appearance" factor and would
last me a
lifetime, a credible claim now that I'm past 50.
The store takes up a whole street corner and four floors,
including the sprawling basement where master artisans
assemble the
wardrobes of royals and superstars (who, in keeping with
store policy,
cannot be identified).
I consulted with cutter Brian Jeffrey, whose credo is to
balance what a customer wants with what the shop thinks he
needs. I
wanted a suit I could wear day or night all year except
summer. Jeffrey
suggested a dark gray, midweight wool in a subtle
herringbone. He
convinced me that cuffs look good and add weight to keep the
pants
straighter. I held firm to a single back vent instead of the
two side
vents he advocated. He then took more than a score of
measurements from
shoulders to ankles.
If I had gone ahead with the suit, I would have returned
for my first fitting in four weeks, though tourists can be
accommodated
within 10 days. A second and final fitting would take place
either on my
next trip to London or on a visit by the store's tailors to
New York,
part of a biannual tour of several American cities to
service customers.
(Alas, Los Angeles is not on the Gieves & Hawkes route.)
If the price and time demanded for a bespoke suit sound
daunting, so does the maintenance. The suit shouldn't be
worn more than
once a week or sent to the dry cleaner more than twice a
year. In
between, Jeffrey suggests cleaning it by gentle sponging and
keeping it
wrinkle-free by steaming it for a few hours over a tub of
hot water.
As I left the store, the cutter offered a final word of
advice: "If you have an old suit, hang the bespoke suit over
it to keep
it filled out." That made my decade-old Armani sound like a
shoe tree.
Knowing that my measurements for a Savile Row suit were
on file put me in a festive mood. And what better place to
celebrate
than Claridge's Bar on Brook Street, a few blocks north. I
entered
through the hotel's lobby, passing framed photos of Winston
Churchill
and members of the royal family who partied here in their
youth. The
hotel and its bar, both heavily refurbished in recent years,
are trying
to walk that difficult tightrope between the traditional and
the hip.
Columns and sconces show traces of the bar's Art Deco
heritage, while
the almost-bare walls and clean lines of armchairs and
stools exude a
contemporary minimalism.
The clientele was just as eclectic: businessmen in
bespoke suits, tourists in jeans, even a mother with a baby
carriage.
Between slow sips of two classic Claridge's cocktails, a
Citrus Martini
(lemon vodka, Cointreau and lime juice) and a Flapper
(champagne with
crhme de cassis, known on the Continent as a "kir royale") I
enjoyed a light dinner of appetizers, including a
Californian vegetable roll, chicken tempura and an
assortment of sushi.
The tab was $66.
While Claridge's Bar has sought to adapt to changing
times, the Palm Court at the Ritz, the setting for London's
most fabled
tea service, remains resolutely traditional. The central
skylight
illuminates pots of palms, the hanging lamps look like
birdcages, and a
central niche holds the sculpture of a woman surrounded by
angels.
Surveying the awed customers around me, I sensed that
this was a ritual with as many layers of significance as a
Japanese tea
ceremony. There were young children served tea by their
parents as a
rite of passage to becoming young ladies and gentlemen;
elderly visitors
from the ex-colonies feeling a bit of pre-independence
nostalgia;
Americans determined not to make a faux pas; Brits from the
countryside
persuading themselves that some things never change in
London.
The service was uniform for all. Tea (seven varieties)
arrived in silver teapots with silver milk jugs and
strainers. On the
bottom level of a triple-tiered tray were finger sandwiches
of smoked
salmon, egg and watercress, cucumber, and turkey and cheese;
on the
middle tier, freshly baked scones with jam and clotted
cream; and on
top, a selection of afternoon tea cakes. At $42, tea at the
Ritz seems
pricey at first glance, but in fact, it held me over until
breakfast the
next day.
I spent my last afternoon in London at Selfridges, the
venerable old department store that has kept its Burberry
clientele
while reaching out to a younger generation with slogans like
"Walk the
walk, carry the bag." It happened to be Japan Week, and the
seven-story
establishment seemed to shake one moment to shrill Japanese
heavy metal
bands and doze the next with barely audible ancient string
instruments
played by kimono-clad women. I hastened past a gantlet of
Asian
scent-sprayers and chose a classic umbrella, even knowing
that I would
forget it on the plane home.
That final evening I headed for Home House, technically
several blocks north of Mayfair, but all the same a
prominent landmark
on my map of a traditional gentleman's London. It's far less
snobbish
than other clubs. In the grand salon I did not come across
any
florid-faced elderly men snoring in their armchairs. In
fact, the
average age of members and visitors seemed to be early 40s,
and a third
of them were women.
A major renovation has almost brought the townhouse back
to its original, pristine Georgian style. A skylight tops an
atrium and
marble stairway. The walls of the main drawing room are
decorated with
Grecian urn bas-reliefs and scenes from mythology. In the
music room, a
grand piano under a crystal chandelier awaits a member's
whim to play a
waltz. The bedrooms are individually decorated in the styles
of the
residence's many past owners: Georgian, Victorian,
Edwardian, Art Deco.
The future club was built in 1776 as the residence of the
Countess Elizabeth Lawes Home, a Jamaican-born heiress. Its
last and
most notorious occupant was Anthony Blunt, exposed in 1976
as a spy in
the pay of the Soviet Union. Apparently his income as chief
caretaker of
the queen's art collection wasn't enough to support his
lifestyle as a
gentleman.
I can believe it. End of silverfoxesclub-digest V1 #299
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