How to Archer (11 page)

3 ounces sloe gin

1 ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 ounce gomme syrup
⁷⁶

5 ounces soda water

Shake gin, lemon juice, and the ever-elusive gomme syrup over ice, in a cocktail mixer. Strain into an ice-filled collins glass, then splash in the soda water to create a light and lovely phoam.

There are very few people in this world whom I have a desire to meet. Mr. Collins, the creator of this refreshing and powerful libation, is one of them. He’s probably dead, though.

3 ounces gin

3 ounces freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 teaspoon gomme syrup
⁷⁷

Soda water, to top up

1 lemon slice, to garnish

1 maraschino cherry, to garnish

Fill a Collins
⁷⁸
glass with ice. Add the gin, lemon juice, and the syrup your valet is going to wish he had prepared, Top up with soda water. Garnish with lemon slice and cherry, on a tiny sword.

Oh my God. If I’d known that America had a gomme syrup–based economy, I would’ve invested in whatever stuff gomme syrup is made out of. I can’t do that, however, because I obviously have no idea what that stuff is. The only thing I know is that Woodhouse is in trouble.

3 ounces bourbon

2 ounces freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 ounce gomme syrup
⁷⁹

1 orange slice, as garnish

1 maraschino cherry, to garnish

Shake ingredients, over ice, in a cocktail mixer. Strain into an ice-filled old-fashioned glass, the rim of which it is acceptable to sugar. Garnish with the orange slice and cherry, on a tiny sword.

Okay. Hopefully, that’s enough to get you started.

This topic could
definitely
be an entire book unto itself. But it’s also a topic that, since HarperCollins wasn’t any too thrilled about the chapter on wilderness survival, I must now try to cram into
this
book. A book which, according to the word count silently mocking me from the lower left-hand corner of my computer screen, I have no idea how I’m ever going to finish.

Seriously, how do book authors do this? I doubt there’s enough laudanum in the
world
to make this not suck, And there’s definitely not enough in my penthouse.
⁸⁰

And so, in the interest of fulfilling my contractual obligations to (the ever-jealouser and increasingly more petulant man-haters at) HarperCollins, and because I may at some point run into you (though I can’t possibly imagine where) and have to look at your clothes, I will now attempt to explain to you
how to
not walk around looking like a complete and utter dickbrain.

Before we begin, please allow me to define a few terms: a butler—sometimes referred to as a majordomo—is a male servant who oversees a large household staff. A valet—sometimes clumsily referred to as a gentleman’s gentleman
⁸¹
—is the personal attendant to, as the latter phrase implies, a gentleman. It should be noted that
valet,
in the sense we will use it, rhymes with
mallet. Valet
rhymes with
ballet
only when referring to the sullen guy parking your car.
⁸²

I do not have a butler. I have a valet, In my case, this valet is an embarrassingly ancient Englishman and heroin addict, who—no matter how loudly or longly I berate him for it—reeks of mothballs. And also whom—if he weren’t personally responsible for seeing to my every waking, bathing, shaving, grooming, dressing, feeding, liquoring, re-feeding, re-liquoring, undressing, re-bathing, bottom-talcuming, night-capping, and tucking-in need—I would probably hate even more than I already do.

But, as they say, good help is hard to find.

And so, when you find a good valet, you should go to great lengths to keep him. Because this quiet, often inexplicably-depressed old man is going to be responsible for getting you out of bed and then out the door of the penthouse—every morning—looking and feeling and smelling like the stuff dreams are made of. He will also, not that you give it any real thought whatsoever, become the closest thing to a friend that you have in the world. A realization which…

(Please excuse me a moment. I have something in my eye.)

Okay, I’m back. Now that we’ve defined what a valet
is,
let’s discuss what a valet
does.

In a word:
everything.

In addition to preparing sumptuous repasts on which for you to feast (see
Recipes,
page 125, in the
How to Dine
section), your valet will ensure that your penthousehold runs smoothly: he will do the liquor shopping, the other shopping, the laundry, and the cleaning. He will run all the errands; provide your female guests with a lemon-scented moist towelettes and bag lunches as they tiptoe barefoot—having no idea where their shoes ended up, because shit got crazy in here last night—out the door in the morning; feed your lemur; and also pay all the bills (although he will probably pad these totals, to feed another monkey: the one on his frail, liver-spotted back).

He will—if you allow him to do so, which I do not—lay out your clothes every morning and every evening. He will remove bloodstains from anything: your sofa, your pique shirt, your sheets, even the flawless Pennsylvania Bluestone with which your breathtaking terrace is paved.

He will make you a grilled-cheese sandwich.
At any hour of the day or night.

He will personally shave you. And not only your face: whatever area of your body you feel may benefit from a moment’s attention with a razor and a dollop of homemade shave cream. This may seem strange—or even frightening—at first, but don’t worry: a taste of his spoon-cooked Burmese medicine and those arthritic old hands will be steady as a rock. And besides, this kind of blindly devoted, utterly personal attention is exactly what you’re paying your valet for.

Although, now that I think about it, I’m not even sure that Woodhouse
gets
paid. I certainly don’t write him a check every two weeks. In fact, also now that I think about it, I don’t even
have
checks.
⁸³

So yeah, I don’t know: I guess he just does it out of love.

Hi. Look down. What do you see?

I am hoping—against all hope—that you see a necktie. If you do not, please put this book down and get back to work: that drainage ditch isn’t going to dig itself. If you
do
see a necktie, but its color is lighter than—or, God forbid,
the same as
—the color of your shirt, please put this book down and get back to work: you’re probably late to a Mafia staff meeting.

If you see a necktie which is
darker
than your shirt, please continue reading.
⁸⁴

Are you still reading?

Great. Hi again. Now please allow me to point out an uncomfortable truth: you should be spending more on clothes.

I don’t care what you’re wearing, if it’s not what
I’m
wearing—and, mind you, I’m not talking about the actual
garments:
I’m talking about the
fibers
that were either hand-picked or hand-shorn from a variety of plants and/or animals, then hand-woven (or hand-knitted) into the
cloth
that was then purchased by a buyer, on behalf of your bespoke tailor; and then cut into the
fabric
which was then, after numerous fittings and refittings, sewn into an actual
garment
—then you might as well just be buying your bullshit off the rack.

From whatever men’s outlet is closest to the drainage ditch you’re currently digging.

But once you’ve saved up enough of your hard-earned ditch-digging wages, follow me to a select few bespoke tailors on—and actually just
off
of, for those in the know—Savile Row.

Which is in London. Which is in England. Which is a country that I normally consider laughably incompetent in every other single facet of every other single thing—from cuisine to cocktails to architecture to espionage to fighting world wars to having hot women—but is the only country in which you should ever have your suits and shirts
made for you
. By a bespoke tailor.

Because even though England pretty much sucks at everything else, by some miracle, it breeds the best tailors in the world. It also breeds the best butlers, valets, chauffeurs, footmen, charwomen, and many other incredibly servile professions. Spies, obviously, not so much.

And while I don’t have the space—not to mention the inclination—to thoroughly explain every single facet of men’s fashion to you, here are some basic guidelines to get you started.

Go to London and stop a rich guy on the street (he’ll have a bowler hat and an umbrella) and ask him who his tailor is. Then make him take you there.

Although I don’t recommend it, you can probably squeak by with twelve. Three for each season, though obviously you can adjust that ratio depending on the climate where you live. English, American or French cut; pleats or flat fronts; cuffed hems or plain; lapel widths; double or single vent… I can’t tell you what you need, because I don’t know what your body looks like. That’s why you’re paying your bespoke tailor thousands and thousands of dollars to fuss around and take all those measurements and get chalk everywhere and sometimes touch your genitals: no matter how ridiculous your body type, this little hobbit of a man is going to make you look good.

The French call a tuxedo
un smoking,
which for some reason totally delights me. And as with your suits, it may seem like a lot, but the minimum number of tuxedos you need is this: two, Plus two white dinner jackets on top of that, which—somewhat confusingly—should never actually be white, but rather ivory or bone. I prefer a shawl collar on my formal jackets, but you may wish to choose a notched or peaked lapel on yours. The peaked lapel is generally considered the more formal option, but it really doesn’t matter which style of lapel you choose: everyone, including your date and/or wife, will probably be looking at me.

The tuxedo is worn with a bow tie, which should be no more than one-and-a-half inches wide. This is so it looks cooler when it’s untied later in the evening (or now, or whenever) when you’re shitfaced. It’s also worn with “braces” (not “suspenders,” unless you’re Uncle Jesse) and a cummerbund, the pleats of which should face upward. This is so you can stash some Goldfish crackers in there.

If your invitation says “black tie,” that’s what it means: your tie and cummerbund should be
black.
If your invitation says “white tie,” that’s this whole other thing, but I wouldn’t even worry about it if I were you, because you’re probably never going to get an invitation that says that.

Your bespoke tailor will recommend a bespoke shirtmaker. Go there. With fabric swatches from your (minimum of twelve) new suits. Get measured. Laugh heartily when your shirtmaker asks, “Button cuffs or link, sir?” But then get serious when he asks, “Single or French?” because the question of single cuff versus French cuff is no laughing matter. After discussing each type’s strengths and weaknesses with your shirtmaker, just order about thirty of each. And throw in about a dozen tuxedo shirts because these inevitably get stained by red wine and/or prostitute fluids.