Esquire’s second annual edition of The Big Black Book: The Style Manual for Successful Men should come with a warning label: Devout Marxists, or even emotional neoliberals, shouldn’t read this, as it’s been known to cause high blood pressure. discharge and, in some cases, serious heart attacks.
On the other hand, perhaps the welfare of leftists is not uppermost in the minds of those who, in the words of editor-in-chief David Granger, seek to help define “that fine line between chasing quality and indulging in extravagance.” . Because, as you will no doubt be surprised to discover, quality, as defined in this context, is extravagant, and in matters such as buying time on private jets or arranging for custom shoes to be made from the skins of exotic animals, the material here is to the politically correct like Dick Cheney is to Al Gore, or as he is now known, Saint Albert.
However, in that same note from Granger, there are hints that the sharp minds at Esquire are well aware that many readers will be more of the educated consumer Syms variety than the Gordon Gekko variety. Let’s put aside that the paperback version of the Great Black Book is red (“Yes, we know it’s red,” the cover notes, preempting wise men everywhere). “For the most part,” Granger writes, “we grew up in homes where someone worked hard for a living, and most of us had parents or grandparents who believed in one of the defining character traits of the last century: thrift.” Could Hearst’s secret marketing studies locked away in an undisclosed location indicate that at least a sizable portion of Big Black Book readers remain in those households? That there are fools like me looking through glass at the kind of people who will spend their next $2,450 left over on a deerskin bag instead of dividing it among their children’s 529 college funds but, at the end of the day, will be slipping that check to CollegeBoundFund into their cuckoo declasse mailboxes? I suspect they do.
And it is for this reason that I sat back and thoroughly enjoyed this elegant, clever, well-researched, sumptuous catalog of expensive items to come by.
The gurus of the good life ease us in little by little with the at least slightly plausible Hogan leather bomber jacket ($1,590) and the $1,295 Gucci wingtip shoes. Those are among “The Essentials”. And here I thought the essentials were my $45 loafers from DSW and my 15-year-old jacket from Members Only that my wife (I assure you, honey) plans to secretly give to a shelter the next time I leave town (she calls it my “Walter Matthau jacket”). The $998 Moncler jacket looks very comfortable, except for that pesky global warming thing that kept our air conditioner running well into October.
A $615 Mont Blanc Meisterstuck 149 Gold Plated Black Resin Fountain Pen ($615)? Unlikely, though fountain pens are the sort of pretentiousness I’m susceptible to, but duly noted items for the starched villain or eccentric hero of my next (meaning first) mystery novel. (“Undeterred, Herr Strechen uncapped his Meisterstuck and fingered his golden tip with ease. It was then, with a chill, that Samantha realized her fate was sealed.”) Should Herr Strechen wear a Kilgour wool “killer suit” ($1,790)? ? Maybe a silk Gucci pocket square ($110)?
Much of the pleasure of reading The Big Black Book comes from remembering that not everyone works in IT. I mean, there are still people like designer Taavo Somer and tailor Martin Greenfield who make vintage suits out of dead wool from around the ’40s and ’50s. Or Marcus Wainwright and Nathan Bogle, English immigrants in New York who make jeans out of denim produced on old shuttle looms. Or England’s 83-year-old Belstaff, which replicates Steve McQueen’s favorite waxed-cotton biker jacket. “Rumor has it that he ‘once’ spent a night with his then-girlfriend Ali MacGraw,” the book informs us, “to stay and wax his Belstaff. This was no euphemism.”
I enjoyed reading the history of the suit and the pictorial timeline that traces its lineage from Harold Lloyd through Benjamin Braddock, Mick Jagger, Elvis Costello, and Pee-wee Herman.
I’m not the kind of person who could, with a straight face, wear David Yurman’s handsome stud profile ring, but it’s something to aspire to, I realize as I look at Lendon Flanagan’s splendid signature photo. That’s in a section called “The Little Things,” which also links vintage with voltage with lavishly arranged collections that pair, say, a $125 Yves Saint Laurent leather bracelet with a Motorola Motorazr V3i phone ($290). . I was enjoying the whimsy until I came across the $3,200 Ralph Lauren Purple Label Crocodile Skin Mouse Pad. Note to HR: Any associate using one of these is clearly embezzling.
“The Long Road” presents a fun little essay on how and where cashmere is produced. “The Leather” is a subtly fetishistic play through shoes, gloves, and handbags made from a variety of skins, from traditional calf to eyebrow-raising goat, Russian reindeer, ostrich, and peccary (a cousin of the wild boar). ), the creepy lizard, the stingray, the python and the crocodile.
Items get heavier midway through the book. The Land Rover Defender 110 (starting at $39,365) looks a lot more useful and considerably less objectionable than the Hummer you might see strutting down Deer Park Ave. in North Babylon, Long Island, as long as you leave the purple lights on. And the Ford Focus ST ($36,247) seems downright sensible. Is it in the wrong post? Ah, there’s the kicker: you can only get it in Europe, so there’s that little add-on. The Alfa Romeo 8C Competizione ($184,289) really does make people drool, and I say that as a guy who isn’t too into cars. I think I’ll have Herr Strechen’s embittered wife, Gerthe, call her, take one to Dresden. (“As she revved up her 4.7-liter V-8, she experienced sweet sixth-gear torque that gave her all the pleasures not available to her overbearing orchid-obsessed husband.”)
The eco-resort in the Maldives seems too laid-back for the Stechens ($540 a night off-peak), but let’s get them flying, okay? In an eight-passenger Dassault Falcon 2000 ($25 million).
I’m in love with Zenith’s Grande Chronomaster Open XXT watch ($21,500), but I’m afraid it won’t hold up as well to sweat and sunscreen on my runs as my Timex sports watch ($35, Sports Authority).
“The Bespoke Life” hints at the world of tailoring, and the distinctions involved in peak lapels, shrunken suits (sorry, Pee-wee, but it still seems a bit restrictive, albeit modern), and so on. . . The range of hunting-themed outdoor clothing is a bit aggressive: surely one could want wellington boots without the double-barreled accessory. But the etiquette and history behind various long coats (Chesterfield, evening, tweed, etc.) are illuminating.
Even the Marxist might secretly skip to page 153, as the “The Facts” section has valuable guidance on such matters as organizing closets, folding shirts, tying shoes (straight vs. cross vs. under), caring for hands and foot massage (oh come on, you know you care about the former even if you won’t admit to wanting the latter), the organization of the Dopp kit, barbering terms (thinned, layered, choppy, shaved, textured), the elimination of both body hair (a thankfully laissez-faire approach) and stains (I paid particular attention to that one, given my sad history with sauces, dressings, toothpastes, and baby spit of all kinds).
Keep close to you the practical guide on how to combine suit, tie and shirt patterns; distinguish between natural, corded and quilted jacket shoulders; the subtle variations between the Windsor, half Windsor, four-in-hand and Pratt tie knots; and textile prints (crystal, houndstooth, bird’s eye, etc.)
The “6 Drinks Every Man Should Master” is also helpful, but while I’ll buy the dry martini, hot old-fashioned whiskey punch, and possibly even Hemingway’s daiquiri, when was the last time a dinner guest demanded? unconditionally a pigeon? or a caipirinha? Perhaps the idea is that you are supposed to be the type of man who presents these delicacies to the guest? I’m not that kind of guy, and if you want a caipirinha, you’ll have to go somewhere else because I’m just out of cachaca.
The Diplomatic Marxist could rate this year’s Big Black Book using its own guide to compliments without strings attached. “You’ve done it again!” “What can I say? It’s really, really something.”
But I’ll take a tip from the “How to Negotiate a Party” box, head to the couch (“Pick the medium…you’ll look more gregarious”), drink my fall-appropriate punch, and say with fake designer-drunk reactionary zeal, “Nice show, guys.”
