1 vague amount of some type of citrus fruit (although I’ve had luck with raisins)
1 small mound of sugar (turbinado is fine)
2 slices of bread
3 ketchup packets (optional, and actually surprisingly hard to come by)
1 quart tap water
1 plastic bread bag
Force a weaker prisoner to combine all the ingredients in the plastic bread bag and store in the tank of the toilet in his cell, due to risk of random searches, for 14 days. Serve at room temperature in either a tin can or half a coconut shell. (Note: A gratuity of two cigarettes to your “pruno punk” is customary.)
Sidecar
Why doesn’t anyone drink sidecars anymore? Or, for that matter, ride around in them? Because I can’t think of a single thing I would rather do than get totally ripped on a thermos full of these babies while somebody motorcycles me around town and country in an actual sidecar.
2 ounces cognac
1 ounces Cointreau
1 ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 lemon twist
Shake ingredients, over ice, in a cocktail mixer. Strain into chilled cocktail glass. (Some people prefer their sidecar served with a sugared rim, but those people have vaginas.)
Singapore Sling
Invented in the Long Bar of that timeless jewel of the Orient, the Raffles Hotel. From which I was banned after an entirely unfortunate altercation involving two prostitutes, a lemur, a rickshaw (and driver), and several members of the Singapore Police Force’s Gurkha Contingent. And let me just say this about that: if you ever want to get the absolute shit kicked out of you—and want it done in a precise and professional manner—the Gurkhas are the shitkickers for you.
Anyway, it’s lame the Raffles banned me, so I’m not including their stupid drink.
Sloe Gin Fizz
Chances are you’ve been misspelling this your entire life. I know I have. And now that I think about it, I actually will probably continue to do so. Because “phizz” just looks cooler to me.
3 ounces sloe gin
1 ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 ounce gomme syrup76
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.
Tom Collins
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 syrup77
Soda water, to top up
1 lemon slice, to garnish
1 maraschino cherry, to garnish
Fill a Collins78 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.
Whiskey Sour
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 syrup79
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.
SECTION THREE
HOW TO STYLE
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.
VALETS
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 gentleman81—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.
1. Jeeves
2. Kato
3. Alfred Pennyworth
4. Mr. Belvedere
5. Passepartout
6. Every other butler/valet in the history of mankind (tie)
∞. Woodhouse
ARCHER BY THE NUMBERS: WOODHOUSE
• Age of Woodhouse (in human years): 150 (estimated)
• Weight of Woodhouse (naked and crying, in pounds): 103
• Height of Woodhouse (in feet and inches): 5’3”
• Height of Woodhouse (in hobbits): 1.3
• Amount I would pay to see Woodhouse fight a hobbit: $100,000.
. I would earn all that back by betting on the hobbit.†
† Shit, but who’d bet on Woodhouse?‡
‡ Oh. I’ll just make him bet on himself. Duh.
CLOTHES
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 handwoven (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.
BESPOKE TAILORS
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.
SUITS
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.
FORMAL WEAR
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.
SHIRTS
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.
ARCHER FUN FACT: THIS BOOK
I only have to write twelve thousand more words. Blah blah blah blah. There’s four of them.
NECKTIES
Neckties should always be handwoven of Thai silk from the wild Saturniidae silkworm, and thus frightfully expensive, They should also be neckties. You should only wear a bow tie if the rest of the clothes on your body are a tuxedo. You should only wear a string tie if you invented fried chicken. There is no reason whatsoever to ever wear a bolo tie. None, not one.
The width of the lapels on your bespoke suits will determine the width of your neckties. The collars on your custom shirts and—to a somewhat lesser extent—the shape of your face will determine the knot you should use. I personally prefer the full Windsor or the Pratt, for example, but a double Windsor may look better on you. With that big fat pumpkin face of yours.
ACCESSORIES
Belts: The belt loops on your bespoke suits will determine the width of your custom belts, which should be handcrafted from some type of animal hide that you’re embarrassed to even say out loud (a fawn, a newborn calf, a koala bear, etc.).
Cuff links: As with all choices concerning personal style, you should strive for understated elegance. Tiny snow globes are neither understated nor elegant. Tiny silver skulls are neither. Anything related to hunting and/or fishing is neither, And unless you’re going to a black-tie function on an Indian reservation—which I bet they probably don’t even have—avoid cuff links made of turquoise.
Pocket squares: This is the handkerchief that goes in the breast pocket of your suit, and there is a reason it’s called a pocket “square” and not a pocket “frilly shitwad.” That’s because the only fold you should ever use is the square fold—also known as the Presidential—which should extend exactly three-eighths of an inch above, and perfectly parallel to, your breast pocket. Any other fold—the Two-Point, the Dunaway, the Flute, and don’t even get me started on the Puff—is an abomination.
Note: In addition to your pocket square, always keep a separate clean cotton handkerchief folded in the pocket of your trousers. Because at some point in the evening, through no (or some, or total) fault of your own, your date is probably going to start crying.
&
nbsp; Jewelry: Sure, pick some up on the way home from your gender-reassignment surgery.
ARCHER FUN FACT: NECKWEAR
Neckties were invented by the Croats during the Thirty Years’ War in the sixteenth century. In fact, the word “cravat” comes from the Croatian word Hrvati, which I thought was a kind of cheese but is apparently what Croats call themselves. I guess because they’re too busy losing wars to learn English.
SHOES
So, you’re out buying shoes, huh? Neat! Seriously, that’s great; I’m sure you’re pretty excited. But before buying them, take just a brief moment to look around: Are you in Italy?
If not, stop what you’re fucking doing.
Because the only place you should ever buy shoes, in the universe and beyond, is Italy. And that’s not even accurate: you shouldn’t even buy shoes. You should have them made. By a cordwainer. And, if possible, that cordwainer should possess the strong yet supple hands of the irascible yet avuncular Signore Antonio Carbone of Casa di Scarpe Carbone, in Firenze.85
Because Antonio—which I can, after fourteen years, only just now call him—will bring you into his well-appointed shop just off the Via Tornabuoni and talk with you—over an espresso followed by a grappa or two—about what it is, exactly, that you’re looking for in a shoe: Day or evening? Lace-up or slip-on? Do you foresee driving while wearing the shoe? Dancing? Lovemaking?
He will listen intently. And perhaps even nod gravely. He will then beckon for you to follow him to the back of the shop, where you will—in addition to being utterly seduced by the buttery aroma of hand-softened cordovan—be measured for a pair of his sublime footwear.
Each foot will be measured separately, at no fewer than twenty-six points—during which Antonio may even inquire into your dietary habits and/or family medical history. These measurements will be related to Antonio’s positively ancient assistant, who will silently enter them into a well-worn ledger, bound in the softest calfskin and containing the foot measurements of kings, dukes, princes, viscounts, captains and/or titans of industry, and also the world’s greatest secret agent.86
How to Archer Page 6
