Review: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Off to the splendid Curzon Cinema in Chelsea yesterday for the midday showing of the new Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I confess, dear readers, that I approached the film with trepidation. Although a die-hard fan of John le Carré, I have George Smiley et al. fixed forever in my consciousness by the 1979 television adaptation starring Sir Alec Guinness. Nor can I be alone in this; it was bold to produce a new version when the original is so beloved and so rightly celebrated.

However, the film had to be given a chance. A two-hour film and a seven-part television adaptation are different things, and, after all, was not le Carré one of the executive producers of the new film? Tomas Alfredson is a much-lauded director (though I have not seen any of his work).

Reader, I liked it. Despite my scepticism, I managed to set aside preconceived notions and treat the film as something new, and I thought it was good. One of the most striking features is the beautiful appearance of the film; the cinematography is superb, and its evocation of London in the mid-1970s is breathtaking. Like the TV series, it captures the dreariness and drudge of Britain at one of its lowest ebbs, and the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service - "the Circus", as le Carré dubbed it - is a study in beiges and browns, and humdrum bureaucracy.

One of the most scrutinised aspects of the film has been the casting. I was unconvinced by the casting of Gary Oldman as Smiley, and, while he was not as bad as I feared, he still remained somehow wrong. In his attempt to capture the stillness, the banality, the calm of Smiley, he ended up more or less impersonating Alec Guinness, down to the timbre of the voice. I read somewhere that Oldman has "buried" the Guinness version of Smiley; I rather think not.

Many other casting decisions proved to be inspired. John Hurt as Control was superb, an old man seeing things slip from his grasp and desperately trying to stay on top. The frantic chain-smoking and the rages at colleagues were pitch-perfect. Mark Strong was excellent as the betrayed and abandoned Jim Prideaux, a once-great agent left broken by the disastrous expedition to Hungary. And, although not everyone agreed with me, I thought Colin Firth made an outstanding Bill Haydon. Calm and iconoclastic, he conveyed a twinkle of naughtiness that makes Haydon the dangerous rake le Carré created. Benedict Cumberbatch was a very fine Peter Guillam, though the brief scene revealing his homosexuality was puzzlingly pointless.

There were some false notes. The estimable Toby Young was hopelessly miscast as Percy Alleline, the pompous and self-interested successor to Control as head of the Circus. Simon McBurney's Lacon was a strange, subservient, oleaginous figure, and Kathy Burke (whom I confess I do not like) as Connie Sachs was, well, no Beryl Reid. The scenes with Connie and Smiley, so affecting in the television series, were flat and unconvincing with Oldman and Burke in position.

Perhaps the revelation was Tom Hardy as Ricki Tarr. It was a performance of such guile and nuance that the inevitable comparison with 1979, when Hywel Bennett took the role, left Bennett looking weaker than he did at the time. Tarr's motivation and character were so much more convincing, as was the terrible self-delusion of his condemnation of the way the other spies live their lives.

There were some weaknesses in the plotting, too. The unmasking of the mole (sadly not referred to as Gerald in the new film) left you wondering how Smiley had come to the conclusion he did. Nor was Firth given the material to explain his betrayal, with the result that the end of the film was rather flat. That said, there was a satisfying conclusion when Smiley returns to the Circus and takes Control's chair in the meeting room.

All in all, the film does le Carré (who appears fleetingly in a party scene) credit. It's fine adaptation of a brilliant novel. Could it have been better? Yes. But it could have been an awful lot worse.

There is a 'tache in the affairs of men...

Dear readers,

Today we consider the vexed issue of men's facial hair. Since the beginning of the summer break, I have forsworn the razor where my upper lip is concerned, and am now sporting a small but definite moustache. I had been meaning to experiment in this way for a few years, but there had always been some obstacle during the difficult "scruffy" phase, usually weddings to go to. This year, with a free run, I have taken the plunge.

I should state at the outset that the choice of moustache over any other type of facial hair was dictated to me by good old Mother Nature. My beard growth is patchy at best, and the upper lip is the only area with sufficiently consistent growth to sustain it. In other circumstances I should certainly have tried a full beard, though not, I think, a goatee. A mere matter of personal preference.

Growing a moustache is not a particularly fun process. Looking scruffy and/or adolescent is inevitable for a time, though the length of this stage depends on one's rate of beard growth. But it will pass. By far the most daunting step is meeting people whom one knows for the first time avec 'tache. (One's nearest and dearest will see it in the stages on development and will either sympathise or mock according to their temperament.) It is bound to occasion comment - one colleague asked me "What's that on your face?" - and if you are a shy and retiring type, facial hair is not for you. But if you read this blog, I assume that you are prepared to withstand a degree of scrutiny from others, so it should not be a problem.

First-timers may assume that growing facial hair will lessen the burden of the morning shave; one is, after all, removing less hair. Alas, not so. If one is sporting a full and bushy beard, then perhaps the grooming regime will be shorter. Anything else requires its fair share of upkeep. In the case of the moustache, the ends need to be kept tidy, the length needs to be monitored, and there will be a lot of agonising about whether each side is even. (This is a worry which will never go away, in my experience.)

So, to the wearing of the moustache. One of the oddest things I have found is that moustache-wearers are part of a strange sort of fraternity. There seems to be joining procedure, nor any choice in the matter; but one finds that curt nods and knowing glances are exchanged between the wearers of the moustache. Perhaps I am being hit on regularly without realising. But the same sort of mutual - is it respect? Is it admiration? - feeling is found between hat wearers, all too rare these days.

As for public reception, I have found it to be much more positive than I had feared it might be. A lot of people are taken aback initially, for the moustache is a relatively rarity these days, but most people I know have been very kind, or very disingenuous. Admittedly, I have tended to interpret most comments in the most generous light; is being compared to Lord Lucan a good thing? He was a dapper man but he was also probably a murderer. Peter Bowles was another comparator, while another friend still said I looked like I'd lost my Spitfire. All of these bouquets (or are they brickbats?) I am happy to accept.

One must accept, though, that in the modern world the moustache is a rarity and therefore a statement of intent. I like to think that it harks back to the era of film star glamour, of the 1920s and 1930s, of Ronald Coleman, Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Anthony Eden (see below). Others may disagree. The late Freddy Mercury has forever given a decently-sized moustache the whiff of homosexuality, completing the job begun by the Village People. But in the final analysis, I am glad I've grown it, and, for the moment, it's staying. One should always try new experiences where possible, take the road less travelled. If you have never tried growing facial hair, give it a go. The best thing is, if you don't like it, you can always shave it off and start again from scratch. What have you got to lose?

A final note. I write this from the back garden of a house in Connecticut, the sun beating down and a glass (or three) of red wine at my right hand. But all things must change. Tomorrow is the return to Blighty, and then work looms large. Ah well.

Review: The Last Hurrah

Dear readers,

You find the Sybarite on tour and in the field. I write this from possibly my favourite bar in all the world, The Last Hurrah in the Parker House in Boston.(That there is a hurricane a-comin' is neither hither nor yon; rest assured that your faithful correspondent will do his best not to fall victim to Irene's very un-eirenic fury.)

The Parker House is America's oldest continuously-operating hotel, albeit the building has changed. It opened in 1855, on the corner of School Street and Tremont Street, and the current, very charming, building dates from the 1920s. It has been a central part of Boston life ever since; Charles Dickens stayed here during his time in the USA, and associated (one would like to think caroused) with luminaries of American literature like Oliver Wendell Holmes and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; John F. Kennedy was a frequent visitor, holding his bachelor party here, announcing his candidacy for Congress in the Press Room, and proposing to Jacqueline Bouvier in Parker's Restaurant (at table 40, since you ask); and, bizarrely, both Ho Chi Minh and Malcolm X worked here, though not at the same time.

The Last Hurrah is the hotel's bar. And what a bar it is. It is named for Edwin O'Connor's fine novel of Boston politics, in which the veteran pol and several-times mayor, Frank Skeffington, commits himself to one last campaign in the city. Although the city in the novel is unnamed, it is quite clearly Boston, and Skeffington is a thinly-veiled portrait of James Michael Curley, the mercurial master of Boston politics for much of the 20th century. The Last Hurrah opened in 1969, in the part of the hotel which had once been the barbershop where Curley used to have his hair cut.

This is a bar in which you can easily imagine shady deals and backstairs negotiations going on. Seats are leather and comfortable, the lights dim as evening comes on, and world-weary and worldy-wise barmen stand behind a fine L-shaped bar. Cigar smoke curling towards the ceiling would fit the place very well, were it not for the strictures of Massachusetts state law. There is a fine range of draught beers, and an impressive cocktail list. He who has not sampled The Last Hurrah's basil gimlet cannot truly be said to have lived; their "perfect" martini is pretty damned good too, an interesting and slightly retro twist on the usual recipe involving both dry and sweet vermouth. Some of the cocktails are a bit too outré for the Sybarite's taste - a Lights Out is Plymouth gin, ginger simple syrup and fresh lime juice topped up with Pilsner Urquell, a Blue Dress is Absolut, blue curaçao, lemon sour and (Heaven help us) 7-Up, and, in a triumph of bonkers-ness, a Last Hurrah martini is Absolut with Bloody Mary and clam juice, served with a garnish of a chilled shrimp. But let a thousand flowers bloom.

There is also a superb range of spirits. 22 bourbons, 15 whiskeys, a dozen tequilas, as many rums and no fewer than 60 scotches. If you can't find something you like in that selection, you need to rethink your priorities. And, as if that was not enough, there are a dozen ports, which can be sampled with different kinds of chocolate.

The food selection is modest, perhaps, but more than satisfactory, majoring on hearty sandwiches (on one of which your intrepid correspondent almost choked last year) and rib-sticking classics. This very evening I had an excellent sirloin tip stew, while my companion feasted on meat loaf with mashed potatoes. Desserts include, of course, the Boston cream pie which is the hotel's contribution to gastronomic Americana.

The clientele is mixed. Many, of course, are hotel guests. A good number are pols from the State House or City Hall, both within metaphorical spitting distance. Some are ladies who lunch, or weary office-workers. And there is a leavening of older men who sit at the bar and peer intently at the ball game on the screens above (remarkably, to one who is not a baseball fan, it is very unobtrusive). But all men and women are equal here.

A final word on the staff. I do find that waiting staff in the US tend to be more professional and more attentive, on average, than back home. Here, they are, perhaps, a mixed bag, but most are fine, and some are very good. But the Palme d'Or goes to Peggy, my waitress this evening and on many evenings past, who may simply be the best waitress I have been tended to by; cheerful, friendly but not intrusive, efficient, watchful and smart.

Et enfin. I probably have not done the place justice. It may not suit everyone. But, a simple plea: if you are ever in Boston, and you appreciate a good drink - of whatever sort - in fine surroundings, drop in. Sit back. Think, and savour. And maybe, just maybe, you may come round to my way of thinking that this is one of the very finest bars in the world. Peggy, another glass of merlot, I think...

Style Icons No. 1: Anthony Eden

Dear readers,

This is the first in a series of occasional columns examining, well, style icons, as the title will suggest to the more observant reader. Suggestions are welcome for future subjects, but don't be surprised if I disagree and disregard them. I'm just like that.

Our first subject is Sir Anthony Eden, later Earl of Avon, probably the most glamorous figure in British politics in the 20th century, and certainly one of the very few for whom style was an integral part of the image. Eden was born into an aristocratic family of County Durham landowners, and, after a "good war" with the King's Royal Rifle Corps - a Military Cross and the distinction of being the British Army's youngest brigade major - then a first-class degree at Oxford's most well-to-do college, Christ Church, he went into politics and was elected to the House of Commons at the age of twenty-six. He would be at the centre of affairs for another quarter-century.

The 1920s, of course, were a decade of great changes in men's fashion. The First World War had a profound effect on clothes, and the frock coats which were all but ubiquitous in the Edwardian era were not often to be seen by the middle of the decade. Instead, lounge suits were in, and Eden was invariably well turned-out. Here he is in his pomp:



Note the peaked lapels on the coat, a little 'racier', somehow, than notched, at least on a lounge suit. Note also the double-breasted waistcoat, also with lapels. (A colleague once said to me, eyeing my suit: "Ah, lapels on a waistcoat. Always saucy." This from a man who had worked in the Diplomatic Service.) Also key to his look was the moustache; to be sure, not an unusual adornment in the 1920s and 1930s, but Eden's was always neatly trimmed and tended. By contrast, Harold Macmillan, his near-contemporary, had a shaggy soup-strainer which never lent him the air of elegance that Eden had.

It helped, of course, that Eden was a good-looking man, though there was something feminine about him, both in looks and temperament. Rab Butler described him as "half mad baronet, half beautiful woman", and, while it was an unkind gibe, there was a great deal of truth in it. Here he is at his youthful best.



Again, a double-breasted waistcoat. The white pocket square is a study in carefully-arranged casualness. The hair is perfectly parted and Brylcreemed, and he is every inch the modern and dashing politician. Remember that in the inter-War years his colleagues were men like Stanley Baldwin, Neville Chamberlain and Winston Churchill. Against that backdrop, Eden seemed like a creature from a different world.

Of course, the image was part of his political persona. As he emerged as a leading opponent of Chamberlain's policy of appeasement, following his resignation as Foreign Secretary in February 1938, he and his like-minded colleagues were labelled as The Glamour Boys by the Tory Chief Whip, David Margesson; and it seems unlikely that Margesson meant it kindly.

Perhaps Eden's most significant contribution to fashion in the inter-War years was his popularisation of the Homburg, to such an extent that it became known as an 'Anthony Eden hat'. The Homburg was not, of course, new, having been sported extensively by Edward VII. But it became indelibly associated with Eden to the extent that it became his trademark. Here he is carrying it off beautifully:



We might also observe the splendidly-cut overcoat and the casually-swung umbrella. The very picture of a dashing young man in British politics.

Another 1930s trend which Eden helped to foster was the wearing of a pale, often linen, waistcoat with a dark lounge suit. It is, I can say from personal experience, a very pleasing look, though one must be careful and conservative with the choice of shirt and tie. Here Eden pulls it off to perfection:



Again, peaked lapels on the suit, and, of course, a Homburg, worn at a slight angle.

Anthony Eden retained good looks and elegance into late middle age and beyond. By the early 1950s, his reputation was at its height. Foreign Secretary again (for the third time), and Churchill's (often impatient) heir, he brought the Geneva Conference of 1954 to a successful conclusion and was rewarded by HM The Queen with the Order of the Garter. At his second wedding, to Churchill's niece Clarissa, he cut a very dashing figure.



A splendid double-breasted suit, a carnation in the buttonhole, and a flourish of pocket square. Perfect. But he could 'do' casual, too. Observe here the sweater, open-necked shirt and neckerchief, elegant but underplayed, and quite marvellous.



Eden's reputation for style and glamour attracted some criticism. There is a sort of Englishmen who regards care taken over one's appearance with suspicion, and Eden was never short of detractors. The Earl of Crawford and Balcarres dismissed him as being "vain as a peacock and [having] all the mannerisms of a petit maître", while Sir Percy Grigg, his Permanent Secretary at the War Office in 1940, described him as a "poor feeble little pansy".

Was Eden vain? My suspicion is not, at least, not in the fully derogatory sense in which the word tends to be used. Certainly, he was careful about his appearance, and was lucky enough to be a first-class clothes horse. He must surely have been conscious of the effect his manner of dress had, and the popularity which it brought him. But my sense is that it was simply second nature to him. It was not an act, in the way in which his successor Harold Macmillan's slight shabbiness and exaggerated old age most definitely was. Of course, it doesn't matter about his intent. The effect is what matters, and the effect was glorious. How many of today's politicians are as glamorous and as renowned for it? Maybe some of them might come across this blog and take a long, hard look at their wardrobes...

Review: Skylon

Yesterday afternoon - and what a glorious afternoon it was - found the Sybarite at the Skylon bar in the Royal Festival Hall. It was not my first visit by any means, nor will it be my last; in addition it was a relatively fleeting stop. Nevertheless, it is worth flying the flag for this excellent establishment.

Skylon is named, of course, after the iconic structure of the 1951 Festival of Britain, the vertical 'needle which, so the joke of the time went, was like the British economy, in having no visible means of support. (Interestingly, by which I mean it interests me, the fate of the Skylon is unknown, with one theory having it thrown into the River Lea when the Festival site was dismantled.) But I digress.

Skylon is also a restaurant as well as a cocktail bar, but I have not eaten there, so cannot comment (though the bar snacks are excellent). But what makes the place such an attractive destination to me is the cocktail bar. The range is superb, and the staff give the impression that they know what they are doing. Though I have never needed to do so, I am quite sure that you could go off piste and they would not bat an eyelid. Prices are not cheap; most cocktails are £11.50 and other drinks are of a piece. But I have paid more for worse cocktails and much worse service.

As it was a flying visit, with only time for two drinks, I kept it simple and ordered a martini. The options are agreeably many: vodka or gin, dry or dirty, garnished with an olive, a twist of lemon, lime or orange, or a cocktail onion (which would strictly make it a Gibson, but never mind). I requested a very dry gin martini - it was Tanqueray - with a twist of orange, as I was feeling frivolous and summery. Reader, I would have married it. It was everything a good martini should be, powerful, crisp, clean, refreshing, and with a healthy gin kick. It was no meagre measure and the twist was artfully presented.

My companion opted for an Aviation: Tanqueray 10, Luxardo maraschino, fresh lemon juice, a dash of sugar and violet syrup, shaken and served in a martini glass. It resembled nothing so much as a White Lady, but I am told it was pleasantly cool and refreshing on such a hot day. (Note to self - make a White Lady later. Mmmmmmm.)

In addition to excellent cocktails and good service, there is, of course, the location. We were seated by the window, looking out across the South Bank and the Thames, and, I must add, with a touch of schadenfreude, the poor punters baking in the heat outside, while we were coolly air-conditioned. The staff had pulled the blinds down a little far for my tastes, but then, with all that glass, the place could easily become a hothouse.

So, dear readers. Go to Skylon. If you fancy yourself anything of a cocktail fan, you must go. Even if cocktails aren't your thing (in which case you must be very odd), it is an excellent bar with attentive staff, a fine range of drinks and a lovely atmosphere. It's not cheap, but it should be, at least, an occasional treat.

Socks, please, we're British?

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.)

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...

The bow tie and the modern dandy

The bow tie. A difficult area. For evening wear, of course, the rules are straightforward: black tie means a black bow tie (or coloured, but, please, some restraint) and white tie means a white bow tie (never anything else). Here is not the place to expound on the current celebrity trend for wearing a black neck tie with a dinner jacket. But for daywear, the bow tie is a minefield. Should it be worn at all? What would it best we worn with? What colour? What pattern? What shape?

Arguments against it abound. It is too American, some would say. Others would argue that it is the preserve of the eccentric public school master, or, still others, the slightly creepy old man. There is also an argument – powerful,  but one which any dandy must at least ignore, or, better, subvert – that it smacks of trying too hard, and that is an accusation which will cut any well-dressed British man to the quick.

There are good bow tie role models and bad ones. The good ones include Winston Churchill, Robin Day and Keith Floyd, or, for the younger generation, Andre 3000. The bad ones include (we were all thinking it) Pee-Wee Herman. The common factor in all of these cases, however, is that the bow tie is a deliberate statement. No-one can don one and be surprised that it elicits a reaction, favourable or unfavourable. Therein lies its attraction to the dandy, but it also illuminates a fundamental paradox at the heart of dandyism (of which more later).

So, to guidance, then. There are some obvious rules. A bow tie should always be self-tie. Ready-made examples (automatic bow ties, as they were called when I was at university) are an abomination. If you don’t know how to tie one, learn. It isn’t that difficult. And if you can’t be bothered, don’t wear one at all. (Sidebar: for evening wear, that doesn’t mean wear a straight black tie; if you can’t be bothered to tie your own bow tie, give your apologies and don’t go. You don’t deserve it.) But that is very obvious. Another clear piece of guidance should surely be to avoid the excesses of the 1970s-style, ‘bat-wing’ shape, unless (good God) you are doing it on purpose. It suits very few, and no-one wants his clothing to be described as ‘comedy’.

Pattern, pattern. The spotted bow tie is of course classic. In darker colours, it evokes an earlier age, the tipping point between frock-coated Edwardian gentlemen and the modern suit. Make it brighter and it is more of a statement still, skating the border between amusing frivolity and I’m-a-wag. Patterns can work; a muted paisley with a plain suit can be very pleasing to the eye, and even restrained stripes could be acceptable. (Loud or strident stripes are best left, I think, to evening wear, and to the realm of the club tie.)

As a side issue, there is the rest of the outfit. I may be a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, perhaps, but it seems to me that the bow tie will work with either a suit or professorial tweeds. In the latter case, the wearer has made his decision and will have a narrow band of choices; checked shirt, I suspect, tweed or corduroy jacket (very possibly with elbow patches), twills or flannels. In the former case, however, there is a little more freedom. I would advocate a three-piece or double-breasted suit, as one of the pitfalls of the bow tie is an unsightly expanse of shirt-front. And a plain, or plain-ish, shirt is probably advisable – one should only make so many statements at one time. A pocket square is a very apt accompaniment, and perhaps, in skittish mood, a boutonnière. But one ought not to heap Pelion upon Ossa; never forget that the bow tie is in itself very powerful.

It also seems clear that the bow tie wearer must know his audience. Given that it is a clear statement (of whatever sort), bold indeed would be the soul who wore one for a job interview, for a funeral, or to meet his potential in-laws. But to enliven the daily grind in the office, or for a light-hearted but formal social event, the modern dandy must surely acknowledge that the bow tie can be a valuable weapon in his armoury, albeit one which should perhaps be deployed sparingly.

Herein we delve deep into the very essence of dandyism. And we find a striking contradiction, of which, your humble correspondent would suggest, the bow tie is emblematic. What is it that the dandy wants? Superficially, to be noticed, of course, and, as a corollary of that, to have the approval of the rest of humanity. Nevertheless, there is a contrary desire, surely, to do what one will, and to damn the eyes of the rest of the world. Conformity is the very antithesis of dandyism, for if everyone was a dandy, then no-one would be. To be a dandy is to stand out. But how, the impatient reader, cash-rich and time-poor, will ask, does this relate to the bow tie?

Well, I will tell you. To wear a bow tie is to stand out from the crowd. It is to court attention, to invite comment, and to risk mockery. But it is also a form of elegance – that is not too strong a word; a well-sported bow tie is a thing of beauty – which sneers at conventional opinion and establishes the wearer as a free-thinker who cares about what he wears and has put thought into his ensemble, but disregards the herd mentality and the cop-out of “dark suit, white shirt, plain tie”. Either you like clothes or you find them a tiresome necessity. If you fall into the first group, then take heart, and start to think about a bit of experimentation. It won’t kill you.

And, yes, I sometimes wear bow ties. My top tip? Don’t listen to what people say: except me.

New cocktail idea

Dear readers,

I am not, as a rule, much of an innovator when it comes to cocktails. I tend to respect the Herculean efforts of those who have gone before, and generally stick to tried-and-tested ideas like martinis and gimlets. I actively disapprove of a lot of the trendy and "wacky" rot that some bars serve, and I have a particular bugbear when it comes to describing anything that is quaffed from a cocktail glass as a "martini". I am willing to make exceptions - never let it be said that The Sybarite is inflexible! - and an honourable mention must, for example, go to Ian Fleming for his creation, in 1953's Casino Royale, of the Vesper: three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka and half a measure of Kina Lillet. (Alas, Kina has not been in production for twenty-five years, so recreation of this is a tricky business these days; I am told that Cocchi Americano is a reasonable facsimile.) On a side note, it is interesting, and perhaps an illustration of changing times, that Bond orders his cocktail in a "deep champagne goblet".

Where was I? Oh yes, innovation in cocktails. Not generally my bag, but the other week, I was making a martini and my mind idly turned over the sort of variations one could make to the recipe. For some reason, carrot and ginger popped into my head, and I started to wonder... So I bought a bottle of (reasonably cheap) vodka, downed a shot, and put in a chopped-up lump of ginger. The bottle was then resealed and put away for a few weeks. (I found a quick tasting every week was a pleasant way to monitor its progress.) The ginger infused rather nicely; it gave the vodka a distinct and distinctive but not overpowering undercurrent of ginger, while retaining the spiritous kick which gives vodka its reason to be.

I daresay that this ginger vodka could be put to a good many purposes. In this case, however, I added to probably three measures of it one of Lillet Blanc, a dash of orange bitters, and, rather than a twist, a generous curl of fresh carrot. The effect was deeply pleasing. Ginger and orange go well, and the sweetness of the carrot was a pleasant and quirky whisper in the background. I advise trying it. The only problem now is that I can't think of a name for my new creation...

Review: Carte Blanche, by Jeffrey Deaver

Well, dear readers, no self-respecting sybarite could ignore the publishing of a new James Bond novel, Jeffrey Deaver's Carte Blanche, published here in the UK on 25 May but as yet, I believe, awaiting release in the US. I confess - no, that has a hint of apology - I aver that I am a great Bond fan, and the Fleming books are among my favourite novels. I also enjoyed the John Gardner continuation books, though I haven't read the later Raymond Benson stories. So, what of the new addition to the canon?

First, the Fleming estate deserves credit for its courage. A much more comprehensive 'reboot' than the recent films has taken place with Bond explicitly now of the current times, a veteran of RNR service in Iraq and Afghanistan (his service there is not detailed, but one suspects it was more high-octane than mentoring and training, or logistics). The original Bond, though his age was something of a moveable feast, was of an explicit generation, having served in the Second World War, and the new Bond is no exception. The other brave move was to bring in American crime novelist Jeffrey Deaver, a man with an already-established authorial voice. Both decisions were firm departures from the very fine Sebastian Faulks-penned novel Devil May Care. Faulks's book was set in the 1960s, and was written "as" Ian Fleming, Faulks being an accomplished literary pastiche writer. He was brilliantly successful; the book really could have been written by Fleming, and there were some lovely touches to it. Deaver's book is a different proposition.

The plot, while a little convoluted, is gripping, and sufficiently unpredictable to keep even the casual reader interested. Deaver presents a credible Bond, successful and effective but with an undertone of sourness, and his depiction of the world of espionage is convincing, though the inter-service rivalries are sometimes overdone. Our hero has been shifted from the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, or, colloquially but incorrectly, MI6) to a shady organisation known as the Overseas Development Group or ODG, a latter-day SOE designed, as M tells Bond, to "protect the Realm... by any means necessary". It is heartening to see reinvented old friends like M, Bill Tanner and Mary Goodnight, and Deaver portrays Bond's organisation without too many knowing winks at his reinvention.

This being a Bond novel, of course, we have exotic locations: the Balkans, South Africa and, er, a disused military hospital in Cambridgeshire. Two outta three ain't bad. Deaver is very good on South Africa in particular, with some fascinating descriptions of the Rainbow Nation, in its glory and its squalor. We also have a host of beautiful and glamorous women, from Ophelia Maidenstone, ODG's SIS liaison officer, through the South African police captain Bheka Jordaan to Bon's only conquest of the novel, a dynamic anti-hunger campaigner Felicity Willing (the only rather awkward nudge-nudge, wink-wink name in the book). We also have a marvellous Bond villain, the sinister Severan Hydt, who is fascinated by death and decay. Hydt is a slightly outlandish character, but we expect that of a Bond villain, and if he is a man who probably doesn't exist, he is not a man who couldn't.

And, of course, we have brand names. Fleming was a great exponent of product placement before the term was invented, but for him it had a purpose. He was writing in the 1950s, when austerity was still the order of the day, at least in the UK, and the high-quality products James Bond used were a window into a life of unattainable but attractive glamour for his readers. Deaver picks up the baton; Bond drives a grey Bentley Continental GT, drinks Crown Royal whisky (with which he invents a new cocktail, a nice echo of Casino Royale, where it all began) and Dom Perignon, tells the time with a Rolex Oyster Perpetual and clothes himself in Canali and Turnbull and Asser. Deaver has thought a great deal about Bond and Fleming, and acknowledges that Bond used not necessarily the flashiest or most expensive brands, but the best. It is woven through the novel without becoming intrusive.

So is it a good book? Yes. It is a well-paced and intricately-plotted thriller, as one would expect from an author of Deaver's calibre, and it updates Bond convincingly. There are one or two slips which demonstrate Deaver's unfamiliarity with writing in a British voice; no-one from Belfast could be described as having a "mid-Ulster" accent, and the idea that the Travellers' Club can always be relied on for excellent food and first-class service will be a surprise to its members. But these are tiny stumbles, and Deaver will iron out any wrinkles in time.

I was disappointed when Sebastian Faulks was not commissioned to write another Bond novel, and very sceptical at the notion of a 'reboot'. But Deaver pulls it off. Carte Blanche is a good thriller, a good Bond book and a good read. Buy it, and enjoy it.

[NB - Titus points out that I mislabelled Crown Royal as a "bourbon". Mea culpa, I was distracted for a moment. It is, of course, a blended Canadian whisky.]

Shades of opinion

Dear readers,

I promised some while ago in my musings on summer clothing and accessories a word on sunglasses. As we are now into June, perhaps it is the time for a few thoughts which might be helpful.

My principal gripe is that, while people often put a great deal of effort into choosing their sunglasses, they very rarely (seem to) pause to consider whether the shades in question match the rest of their ensemble. Now, this seems prima facie to be absurd. One wouldn't carefully select a pair of shoes, for example, then assume that they would look dandy with a suit or with a polo shirt and a pair of shorts.

There is a school of thought that sunglasses of any kind simply do not go with formal clothes. To me, this is the placing of form far too far above function. Sunglasses are useful items, and to shun them on the grounds of aesthetics seems to be cutting off one's nose to spite one's face (after which it would be very difficult to wear sunglasses anyway). Care must be taken, of course, unless one cultivates the image of a Secret Service agent, but the feat is perfectly possible.

At this point I must make a declaration. I have a great loyalty to Ray Bans, and my taste in sunglasses is somewhat traditionalist. The Sybarite does not wear Killer Loops. So, rather that overreach myself, I will put before you my tastes from which you may, if you wish, extrapolate wider lessons.

One of the most iconic types of sunglasses is, of course, the aviator. It is of long standing, too, having been pioneered by the US Army Air Force before World War 2. If you are going to choose aviators (and there is no reason why not - I have a pair), you need go no further than Ray Ban, in my opinion. They did it first and they did it best. But perhaps one or two considerations. Make sure they fit your face shape. The slender of visage might do well to avoid them, for fear of looking top-heavy and bug-eyed. I also have a vague sense that they simply do not go with a suit. (If you have Navy whites, then that is a different affair, but then, if you do, you are either in the Navy or looking at the wrong sort of website.) With a blazer and chinos, I think they can look very well, so it is not an out-and-out matter of "Not with any kind of formal clothes".

Ray Ban's Wayfarers enjoyed their first heyday in the 1950s, before falling heavily out of fashion until revived by Hollywood in the 1980s (think The Blues Brothers or Risky Business). For myself, I am very fond of Wayfarers. I have a mild preference for tortoise shell over black, but either can look very elegant. I also think they are pretty much multi-purpose, as they will not look out of place with informal clothes for a back yard barbecue, but can also be worn with a suit without being incongruous. (Here preference might be given to tortoise shell, lest onlookers think you believe you actually are Jake or Elwood. Much will depend on the suit.)

A more obviously retro style, though one which my youth advisers tell me is enjoying a renaissance, is the Clubmaster. The frames (though without tinted lenses) were sported by Kevin Costner when he played Jim Garrison in Oliver Stone's (actually rather tedious and self-important) JFK. Here I must confess that I own two pairs, one in black and one in tortoise shell, and they are perhaps my favourite sunglasses. I think they are positively ideal for more formal wear, and set off a suit beautifully. I have even worn them with morning dress, and I think I got away with it.

Dear readers will already by aware, I think, that I favour "classic" designs over the modern. A final mention in this category must be the folding Persol sunglasses worn by Steve McQueen in the original version of The Thomas Crown Affair. Now, these are indeed iconic, but two words of caution. Firstly, while they are very convenient the hinge between the lenses can look a little odd at first when they are worn. More importantly, though, if you are going to 'reference' Steve McQueen in a sartorial way, you need either the looks or the balls to pull it off. This is not to say that anyone who wears Persols must be an action man, but do not cower, or apologise. Hold your head up high, and perhaps even swagger a little. The message must be, "Yes, Steve McQueen wore these. And what of it?"

Doubtless you will not all be devotees of Ray Bans. But think about the shapes and styles of the sunglasses I have mentioned. Doubtless other manufacturers produce similar products. Most importantly, just think about sunglasses as part of your outfit. You will have deduced from what is above that I have several pairs of sunglasses. You may think this is extravagant. But, really, is it? Good sunglasses can be had for less than a good pair of shoes. And three or four pairs will broaden your horizons so much. A bit of care and thought will have you looking the compleat gentleman.

(A final word to reader who wear spectacles. Prescription sunglasses will restrict you considerably. For this I am sorry, but I think you only really have two options. Sit this dance out, or, as I did, switch to contact lenses.)

Guest column: What the well-dressed schoolmaster is wearing

From time to time, dear readers, you will have the opportunity to absorb the thoughts of some of my acquaintances, on a range of topics. This time, my friend Didaktikos offers some advice on "What the well-dressed schoolmaster is wearing", for your entertainment and (ha!) education. Take it away...

"I am most grateful to The Sybarite for allowing me the space for this niche area of dress and good living. Schoolmastering is something which involves a certain amount of teaching, a substantial amount of sport, a significant number of weekends and evenings, and rivers of gin. You see those specimens in polyester and short-sleeved shirts? Teachers (or, more likely, learning facilitators), not schoolmasters.

For the teaching

This could vary depending on your age, position and location/tradition of school. The closer one gets to London, the more likely that a lounge suite will be the clothes justes for daily wear, especially for younger masters, Heads of Department and senior leadership team. One's best suit should be kept for important occasions, such as parents' meetings, ends of term, interviews and such like. The other(s) can be worn daily, although this will mean that they require constant repair (the same goes for shoes). Charcoal or navy is best, with a light stripe or maybe birdseye/houndstooth/Prince of Wales. Strenuously avoid light grey (just generally) and anything which makes you look like a pupil. A collection of suits will require the budget of a few promotions; alas for our monk-like poverty. Saturdays are different (often blazer/tweed) because of the fewer lessons and sports fixtures. Some colleagues wear linen suits in the summer term. Hmm… white makes you the man from Del Monte; blue may be forgivable (and smart), but only after half term.

When I am a Housemaster, I shall wear tweed.

Shirts and ties are vexed questions. Oddly enough, I've had better success at interview with neutral ties, rather than ones for a particular organisation or group. Having said that, it's very important that pupils recognise the ties of the major public schools, Oxbridge colleges, ancient universities, London clubs, the MCC, Hawks, etc. A nice selection of jolly and sober ties is always the key; one certainly shouldn't wear the same tie twice in a week. Equally, one shouldn't always wear the same tie with the same shirt. Keep them guessing. Cuff links should match in some way, but not as if they were bought together. For shirts, anything beyond plain, striped or checked does rather betoken an art master. I would wear cotton poplin (or sea-island), even with tweed, during the week. Flannel is more appropriate for the festival atmosphere that can overtake Saturdays.

I am rather louche on socks, but plain or hooped is safest. Bright, though. Children enjoy it.

There are the problems of waistcoats and hats. Waistcoats may well be worth it, especially during the winter months, but only for real suits or tweed. Instead of a waistcoat, a plain coloured slipover adds a welcome splash of colour and is good for the warmth, while still allowing the wearing of a jacket. Hats, again and alas, betoken the art master. Silk handkerchiefs are a matter of personal taste. If you doing any of this, don't do it once, get made fun of, then refuse to do it ever again. Either go for it or don't; be brave!

As for the shoes, bear in mind you are moulding the leaders of the future: black lace up Oxfords or brown brogues. Maybe suède in the summer.

For the sports

Unlike many of my friends, I rather like organised team sports. For the coaching and refereeing of these, sports kit is rather necessary. Many places give you a uniform kit; others don't and, especially for refereeing, the kit of your old school/ college/ university /club is the best. I tend to find this smarter than the uniform kit. For the managing of teams in matches, a solid tweed and chinos/moleskin are the best in the winter, with blazer and chinos/linen in the summer. To go with the winter sports (rugby, soccer, hockey), wellies, a tweed overcoat or quilted jacket, and a tweed cap are the appropriate accessories. For midweek fixtures, these can team a lounge suit in a strange marriage which says: 'I've just come from the classroom, but I would rather be shooting.' I'm not a cricketer, but I gather they have rather good stuff to wear, such as MCC ties and blazers; tennis requires a blazer, white chinos and a panama (the same goes for croquet, except with a boater). I don't have the first clue what rowers wear, nor am I particularly interested.

For formal occasions

Not enough at your school? Make them up.

'Of course the --------- society dinner is white tie, why shouldn't it be?'

'I'm Common Room social secretary and I say the dress code require two lines of braid on the trousers!'

There will normally be many black tie events, such as leavers' balls, House dinners, Common Room dinners, etc. The trick is to show that you know how to do it better than everyone else, while making them feel that they want to be you rather than want to kill you. Make sure you have a black evening waistcoat and patent lace-ups (or pumps, as The Sybarite would have it). Ethnic variations (trews) are particularly smart, but beware of kilts if there's a danger of more than usual intoxication. You can imagine why.

For Speech Day, I wear my Scottish formal day wear, otherwise your best suit will do. I would love to wear morning dress, but this contravenes the golden rule which follows…

Never blatantly outdress the Headmaster. Do it subtly.

For informal occasions

You can never have enough chinos or sports jackets. As above, slipovers are a smart winter piece. Unless it's the holidays and one might walk to the Porter's Lodge in dressing gown, I do think a certain decorum around the place is necessary. Take the time to change, dressing up or dressing down. It's boring wearing a lounge suit all day; equally, don't be one of those people who wears a tracksuit into Common Room.

Hopefully this may be of some guidance to those in my profession. It may even have tempted some of you into it…

Didaktikos"

Cocktails in pubs?

I recently had brunch in a branch of Balans, which I generally find to be a perfectly acceptable bar for the occasional refreshment and relief from the trials of everyday life. I opted for the steak and eggs, laughing, as I tend to, in the face of cholesterol, and when I cast my eye over the drinks menu, I noticed a modest cocktail selection. Now – and this is something of a digression – I would normally say that cocktails are not to be taken with food, but I have a little weakness for a martini (or two) with steak, as it conjures up (for me, anyway) a glorious but lost world of Sixties America, in which Brylcreemed men in sharp suits lunched heroically. Watching Mad Men has the same effect on me.

But, as I say, I digress. I decided to give the martini a go, and asked the (very pleasant) waiter for “a very dry gin martini with a twist”. I suppose alarm bells should have begun to sound when he read the order back to me as “a martini with a twist”, but I was not in a suspicious mood and so let it pass without note. The drink, when it arrived, was, perhaps predictably, disappointing. So far from being “dry”, it must have been approaching equal measures of gin and vermouth, so lacking that bite and instant rush of warmth that a good martini can bring. In addition, while obviously shaken over ice, it was cool rather than cold. It came with a perfectly reasonable twist, it is true, but was generally rather dull and uninspiring, and not at all what I had wanted with my steak.

Yet I did not complain. There are two components here: the first is that, being British, I am very bad at complaining. When asked how something is, whether it be a meal, a haircut or a recent amputation, there is no force of nature which is sufficient to drive me to say anything but “Fine” or, if especially moved, “Lovely”. So I probably wouldn’t have complained if the martini had come in a dirty plastic glass with a side order of cat-sick. The second element, however, is that part of me thinks that maybe it was own fault. I ordered a cocktail in a run-of-the-mill bar/pub, and should have known I would be disappointed by the result.

So here, dear readers, is the central question. Should pedlars of intoxicating liquors be encouraged to impose on themselves a self-denying ordinance of sorts, and only offer cocktails if they can do them properly? On the face of it, this seems an odd thing for a cocktail proponent to say. Better, surely, that they are available as widely as possible, and I do find that a lot of bar staff are willing to take instruction if they look initially perplexed (though I remember the reaction of a Polish barman in an hotel in Donegal when I asked for a cardinal; after explaining it was red wine and crème de cassis, he looked at me and asked, sceptically, “You want in same glass?”). However, as often as not, there is not the opportunity to conduct an impromptu seminar, and instead you are brought something which is, frankly, just not what you wanted, even if it might, strictu sensu, be what you ordered.

This is, I realise, a pipe dream. No publican or bar manager is likely willingly to forgo a product which sells. And the sale of cocktails can give ambitious gastropubs what is, in their eyes, a veneer of additional sophistication. The more I think about it, though, the more it represents that trend in the modern world of seeking to be everything to everyone. If you go to a pub, you expect beer, wine and spirits. If you go to a wine bar, you expect wine, and do not be disappointed if their range of ales, for example, is limited. Likewise, if you want to enjoy a cocktail, go to a cocktail bar. This is not a rule I always follow myself – witness the attempted martini in Balans – but perhaps it should be behaviour we should seek to cultivate in ourselves. Then, perhaps, proprietors will get the message.

The Sun has got his hat on - but not flip-flops

It seemed to me, dear readers, that the recent and welcomely-extended spell of warm weather offers a good opportunity to put before you a few thoughts on the attire of the average Briton at play when the sun is out. I admit, before voices of accusation and vituperation are raised against me, that this weather has been unexpected and unseasonable, and so many may have been caught unawares by the clement conditions - but not everything can be so excused.

We Britons are an odd lot (and, if I may say, we Scots the strangest of all). The slightest breath of sunshine instills in us a near-fanatical determination to sit outside, whether the conditions are favourable or not. And yet, despite this addiction to drinking or eating al fresco, we seem utterly unprepared for the contingency, and dress as if we have taken a running jump at our wardrobes and hoped for the best. (I include myself in this for reasons of proper British modesty, but, it will not surprise you to learn, have a better handle of what to wear that than.)

I do not wish to be too prescriptive. I am not in the business of laying down RULES (well, I am, but I will spare you for the moment. All I would ask, beg, implore, beseech of you (and this applies to ladies as well as gentlemen), is that you might cast your eye over a certain number of entreaties, and perhaps allow them to filter into your consciousness.

1. Whether you are Cary Grant or Grant Mitchell, Audrey Hepburn or Audrey Roberts, I DO NOT want to see your feet. This means no flip-flops. At a push, wear them on the beach - I will likely not be there - but anywhere else they are beyond the Pale. Not just because they tend to stain the feet; not just because they induce a foot-dragging shuffle; not just because they expose the tender parts of true podiatral hygiene pirates; but mostly because the pulling-away of the sole from a sweaty foot creates a sucking noise which is the most horrific on God's green Earth. Just don't. There are myriad types of footwear available in the wide world - don't wear flip-flops.
2. The simple fact of the sun shining does not necessarily mean that it is mandatory to expose every last square inch of pasty white flesh to all and sundry. Modesty and, let's face it, self-awareness have their place. Look at it this way. If you have second thoughts about what you're about to wear, there's probably a reason. And your third thought should be "Do you know, I think I won't". Chalky, pipe-cleaner legs, veiny thighs, bingo wings, mottled calves - none adds to the sum of human happiness. And, for (any?) female readers - if you believe yourself to have "alabaster" skin or a "pre-Raphaelite" look, that's all very well, but, really, summer is not your season.
3. On a positive note, I do not hold with the view that shorts, for gentlemen, are unacceptable. Frankly, better a man wearing shorts than a man turning his trousers into an amusing test of how much sweat cotton can absorb. But, please, observe a few basic decencies. They should be mid-thigh, at least; they should be of a modest colour (to wear white shorts you have to be very, if you will forgive the phrase, ballsy); they should not be figure-hugging; and they should make some nod towards the rest of your outfit. (I saw a "gentleman" today who had found it amusing to team a linen jacket and a T-shirt with camouflage combat shorts and flip-flops. His continuing survival is a testament to my tolerance.)
4. Wearing shoes without socks is a perfectly acceptable option when the weather turns warmer, but, again, just think of context. Deck shoes or plimsolls with bare ankles can look quite appropriate and, perhaps, even stylish, but brogues on bare feet will only induce nausea and feelings of vicarious discomfort. Those low-cut socks which sit inside shoes without revealing themselves are no sin, and may contribute to the sum of human happiness. Just think wisely, is all. No gentleman wants his interlocutor to inquire whether he has been to the cheesemongers, if, in fact, he has not.
5. A final note on sunglasses (a subject to which I will return on another day). It is a mistake for a gentleman to assume, as so many do, that one pair of sunglasses will serve all his needs, all the time. It is no more likely to be true than assuming one pair of shoes would be adequate. The usual considerations of face-shape and the like apply, of course, but the style of sunglasses should match the style of the outfit. There are formal, semi-formal and casual styles, and any number of sub-styles thereinbetween. Just think about it, that's all.

Here endeth the lesson, for now. I hope you all enjoy the glorious weather, and long may it continue. But, if you have any ambition towards elegance, do not imagine that sunny weather is a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Review: Q Club at Austin Reed

Well. Yesterday I called into Austin Reed after a very good lunch at Gaucho Grill, intent on sampling the new(ish?) bar on the third floor, called the Q Club (apparently after the character in the James Bond films; there were at least two photographs of Desmond Llewellyn in evidence). I don't shop at Austin Reed a great deal - it's a little modern for my tastes - but I thought it was worth visiting the bar, in case it proved to be a hidden central-London gem. Alas. So nearly a win, but actually a fail.

It should be great. From the third floor of the building, the floor-length windows give a splendid view of Regent Street, and I was able to gaze at the protest marchers hemmed in by police (something to do with the Democratic Republic of Congo). There are comfy armchairs and sofas, some splendid 1930s AR posters on the wall, and the bar is a spacious area which could provide a welcome respite from the rigours of shopping. If you pay £275 you can also join the Q Club itself, which gives you discounts on clothing, a half-price bespoke suit and sundry other attractions; seems a lot, to me, as it's not far off the fees for my club on Pall Mall. But I digress.

Oh, the missed opportunities. Firstly, the staffing. I stood at the bar for a good five minutes until a very apologetic man bustled over; I suspect his day job is working in the adjacent hire department, as his skill as a barman was not particularly evident. But he was very polite. I had looked at the rather limited drinks menu with a sense of disappointment, and asked if they made cocktails. No, he said with a sad shake of the head. Hmmm. To what use, then, are the cocktail glasses on a shelf behind the bar put? Or the bottle of orange bitters, for that matter? Oh well. One cannot have everything.

The drinks were eventually rustled up, and were fine. They had two white wines on offer, but one was sold out, and, to be honest, the riesling I had was fine but was hardly worth £9 for a 175 ml glass. The Pimm's was, I am told, underpowered. Taittinger by the glass for £8.75 is not extortionate, for which they deserve credit. But in truth the menu was just very pedestrian. Tea and coffee are available for those who do, and the Earl Grey (the inevitable Twining's) was palatable, I am told, though the slices of lemon which were produced on request did not provide the taste sensation for which my companion had hoped; they might well have been preserved.

Again, in fairness, the service bucked up a little bit. The original, apologetic gentleman was replaced by a very cheery young lady who was solicitous, even if she gave little more indication than her colleague of this being her metier. But the bar was never busy, yet even dealing with three or four sets of customers left the staff breathless with the effort. It was not that we felt unloved, just that we were asking of the staff more than they could deliver, which is surely not right.

A few tweaks would transform the place. This is a famous gentlemen's outfitter on Regent Street, for God's sake. A bit of elegance and dash is not too much to expect. And the decor is there, ready to provide. Get a decent barman, a cocktail menu and some more wines, and maybe knock a pound off each of the prices, and it would be a real find, a haven of calm and sophistication in the middle of London's shopping district. Until then, however, I won't be going back. And that, I have to say, is a real shame.

The Sybarite's favourite martinis, part 1

Behind the Royal Courts of Justice, on Carey Street, you will find the Seven Stars, one of London's oldest pubs. Run by the inimitable and indomitable Roxy Beaujolais, it is a gem of a place; narrow and oddly laid out, to be sure, and often very busy, but wonderfully idiosyncratic and beloved of regulars. The beer is very well kept, I am advised by people whose expertise in such matters is greater than my own, the food on offer is superb, and the range of wines is by no means miserly. However, the Seven Stars has a secret weapon up its sleeve.

Roxy's Perfect Martini is old-school. There are no cocktail-shaker pyrotechnics, no "magic" ingredients, no rare or quirky spirits - simply three shots of ice-cold gin (or vodka, if you must), a whiff of Noilly Prat, and your choice of an olive, a twist of lemon or a cocktail onion (which, strictly, turns the drink into a Gibson). It is prepared swiftly and served simply and conventionally. What makes it so good? It is hard to pin down, exactly. Certainly, the surroundings and the atmosphere contribute to the experience. The straightforwardness of the drink is also pleasing. It would also be disingenuous to deny that the extraordinary value of £7 is also an attraction. But my best advice would simply be to go, and try. Any of the staff will do the business for you (though Gillian is especially dexterous with the gin bottle), then try to find a seat, or stand outside if the weather is fine, and enjoy that characteristic rush of warmth through the body which is the hallmark of the first sip of a good martini.

One word of warning: as with any martini, quantity control is important. Do not expect the staff to monitor your intake for you. I once had five Perfect Martinis, and felt a little queer afterwards. But a) it was my own fault, and b) goodness, it was fun getting there.

What will Wills wear?

With the days counting down until the Royal wedding on 29 April, there has – understandably – been a great deal of speculation as to what the bride will wear. The Sybarite hears that the smart money is on white… There has also been a flurry of excitement over the past two days as to whether the Prime Minister will wear morning dress, and, happily, it now seems that he will do the decent thing and don his tails. But in all of this hullaballoo there has been little attention paid to one of the most interesting aspects of the ceremony – what will the groom wear?

One of the more satisfying aspects of being a senior royal, I would imagine, is that you have an extensive dressing-up box with which to play. Accordingly, there are many outfits which HRH could choose for his wedding day. I think we can rule out plain morning dress; although his father chose it for his second wedding, that was a (relatively) low-key affair. The Earl of Wessex also wore morning dress for his marriage to the then-Sophie Rhys Jones. Although Prince Edward holds several honorary military appointments – he is, for example, Colonel of the 2^nd Battalion, The Rifles, and Colonel-in-Chief of the Saskatchewan Dragoons – it may well have been thought that any references, however slight, to his own time in the military were best omitted.

One obvious choice for Prince William would be his uniform as Colonel of the Irish Guards. It is an appointment which he has only held since February, but the Foot Guards will be much in evidence on the day of the wedding itself, and I daresay His Royal Highness would look very dashing in scarlet, though the bearskin might be deemed to be something of an encumbrance. Moreover, as Colonel of a Guards regiment, he is in the company of his grandfather (Grenadiers), his father (Welsh Guards), his aunt (Blues and Royals) and his first cousin twice removed (Scots Guards).

However, the Royal family also has long-standing and very close connections with the Royal Navy, the senior service. The Duke of Edinburgh, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York have all served in the Navy, and Prince William trained with the RN for a time. He is Commodore-in-Chief of the Royal Navy Submarine Service, and of HM Naval Base Clyde, and would follow his grandfather and father in walking up the aisle in dark blue.

However, it seems likely that he will appear on Friday week in his service dress as a Flight Lieutenant of the Royal Air Force. That he has invited all of his comrades from C Flight, 22 Squadron, to the wedding indicates that his current position means a great deal to him, and he has appeared at public functions in RAF uniform before. It is a shame that RAF full dress is no longer worn (except by bandsmen), and that Prince William therefore will have to make do with tarted-up service dress (white gloves, dress belt, sword); a shame in particular as his great-grandfather, George VI, was married in RAF full dress.

A light-hearted little item in the Sunday Times Style section recently described Prince William as “accessorising” his RAF uniform with “a peacock-blue sash”. Hardly. It is his insignia as a Knight Companion of the Order of the Garter. But on a purely superficial level it is true that the Garter riband, in kingfisher blue, does not sit especially well with the blue-grey of RAF uniforms, and is much more striking against the scarlet of the Army or the dark blue of the Royal Navy.

Nevertheless, one should not be churlish. If he has, perhaps, more stylish uniforms available to him, Prince William should be saluted for wearing the dress of his working life to his wedding, assuming my hunch is right. The other branches of the military will be well represented, not least by the Royal family themselves, so maybe the focus on the blue-grey is not such a bad thing after all.

Hat-tip to Mr Laithwaite

I recently received from Laithwaite's (http://www.laithwaites.co.uk/) a half-case of McPherson Family Vineyards 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon under the charming label of Jock's Vineyard. I admit freely to being a fan of robust Australian reds, and have no time for the all-too-common, namby-pamby, hands-thrown-up-in-horror reaction which so many people demonstrate. This is not, of course, to say that a full-bodied red will suit every occasion, or that there is no place for more delicate flavours, but a good, chewy wine is a joy to behold.

I digress. The Jock's Vineyard cab. sauv. is a delight. A rich, spicy, fruit-laden bouquet leads in to a smooth-but-deep mouthful of berries and smooth tannins. An excellent, warming glass on its own, it also provides a marvellous partner for a good steak (I can attest), or, I dare say, a game or beef stew. Alas it appears that the bin end has run out, but if you can find any, grab it. I paid something like six pounds a bottle, but this is a tipple that can hold its own in the company of wine twice or three times the price. Simply delicious.