Restaurants, Charlemagne, a Beautiful Woman—all in one post!

And Jackets, too! May as well admit that sartorial faux pas right up front. In a previous post, on overcoats, the term “jacket” somehow snuck in. How? I’ve no idea. Sometimes posts get written and edited at 11:00 pm or later, when my hands continue to type long after I’ve fallen into sweet slumber. Anyway, an alert and knowledgeable gent brought this to my attention—not the part about me sleeping and typing at the same time, I mean the other thing, using the term “jacket” to describe—yes—an overcoat. He’s right of course—a jacket goes to the hips or waist, and an overcoat goes far beyond that, unless you’re 12 feet tall and they don’t make jackets in your size, in which case a jacket and an overcoat become one in the same. But no, let us not blur the lines of precise sartorial terminology with hypothetical what’s-its.

Rather, consider this—and I think I must have mentioned this before, at least in passing, but last night’s trip to a fairly decent restaurant brought it to my mind again; it was hardly possible for it not to come to mind again, because it’s maddening, astounding, and laughable all at the same instant—there sits a beautiful woman, dressed beautifully besides, and across from him sits some guy wearing a t-shirt, and if she is particularly lucky, he is wearing pants of some sort rather than shorts. His whole demeanor is that of a child out to dinner with his mum (or in Egypt, his mummy). And I can’t help but think—what is taking our food so long? Once the carpaccio and shrimp and drinks arrive it's then that the old brain restarts, and looking about I realize there's not just one couple like this, there are bunches of them! And then I think, what the heck is wrong with these guys? Where are all the gentlemen? And—lest we be deficient in our terms—we should always remember that a gentlemen is no ninny, and he's not someone whose gentlemanliness is simply found in his fine and dapper attire. A gentleman is a man. I know, I’m missing a good bit of the definition of “gentleman,” but bear with me—I’ve recently received a complimentary copy of The Compleat Gentleman in exchange for a review, and there are splendid definitions of “gentleman” in this book. So far it is a magnificent read, and I'll be sharing some of these definitions sometime soon. Anyway, for our purposes, I stress a gentleman is a MAN, not a ninny, not a immature boy whose development has been delayed by a few decades, not a chap who has no respect for his appearance or for the lady who is sitting across from him ,enduring all with womanly patience and restraint.

Perhaps, however, these fellows are all severely vision impaired, I don't know. Or maybe they want to dress like men did circa 800 AD, when baths were far and few between, they had just come in from fields at 9 in the eve, and being exhausted with honest toil hadn't the energy to put on the tails and topper. Granted, they dressed a bit different back in 800 or so AD; their t-shirts sported pictures of Charlemagne rather than their favorite baseball team. But I'm sure you understand what I'm saying--these modern guys have no reason to dress like slobs.

To make matters worse, some times these lads even refuse to take their (usually baseball) hats off at the table! Now, if anyone has a right to keep his hat on at the table, it would be me--these guys almost always have dashing heads of hair under those hats, whereas I now have a dashing head. And no one will find me wearing a hat at the table.

I'm afraid I've no solution to the problem either. Maybe--just maybe--if on the way out of the restaurant we walk by those tables, and, looking at the beautiful lady, say something like, "You have a very well-behaved son," or "Your friend here looks like an ass," things will change. It may of course not be the change you want--it could well be the badly dressed bloke will change your face for the worse. Maybe, though, a discreet sympathetic look towards the lady would do the trick.

And now, I must take off the old overcoat jacket thing, put on the pajamas and head to bed before my hands start typing about baseball Fedoras...