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.
Sunday, 18 September 2011
Friday, 2 September 2011
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.
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.
Friday, 26 August 2011
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...
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...
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
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...
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...
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
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.)
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.)
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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