"We're saving the best for last," my friend and mentor, Parichat, quipped as we were whisked to the 52nd floor. "In the whole city of Bangkok, these are the guys to know."
Since arriving in the (original City of Angels) I had been wended through a merciless covey of meet-and-greet affairs with the top brass and owners of the finest hotels in Thailand. It was a humbling arrangement in that each one of these guys was what my late mother would have called a "British peacock", When it came to making a good impression she implored me to "dress British; think Yiddish." An odd maxim of style and good sense that somehow was stuffed away deep in my gray matter for ages to come. And so on a raging hot February afternoon in 2015 my counterparts were all ensconced head to toe in high-twist super 170'sh Tasmanian wool, elegant cravates and hand-turned Oxford lace-ups.
As the elevator door faded open a phalanx of hostess girls guided me with a knowing hand to Mr. R, a dandy from Delhi who served as the demure "No. 2" in the operation. We retired to a well polished cocktail table replete with views of the majestic Chao Phraya River. Highballs of Chivas Royal Salute and bowls of fist-sized Thai cashews were presented. With nourishment at hand, we eased into the round robin of small talk before a figure emerged from the elevator hall. Unlike all the other members of the hotelier power elite, Mr. D, the No. 1, was clad in an impeccably tailored, whimsically rumpled linen sports blazer.
It was the coral hue of your grandmother's wine, blushing zinfandel, with perhaps a drop of red food coloring for emphasis . Mr. D carried the look with idle grace. G. Bruce Boyer takes a page from Castiglione and coins it as " . . . a certain nonchalance
[sprezzatura] which conceals all artistry and
makes whatever one says or does seem
uncontrived and effortless.”
In contrast, I felt like a prized idiot sporting my "start-up" uniform of overpriced heritage loom dungarees "complimented" by a rather affected striped shirt. Despite a rosy commercial outcome to the whole Chivas and Cashew Summit I sensed I had let my mother down but not playing a more dapper part, even amidst the oppressive heat of the early Adaman Spring in Asia.
So on the auspicious occasion of my daughter's sixth birthday I secured an audience with Mimi Lee, the legendary haberdasher of 37 Tran Hung
Dao Road in Hoi An, Vietnam. A dedicated
Padawan of linen for more than 15 years, Mrs. Lee shepherded me through the array of swatches before confirming a subtle blonde-stone starter blazer (sprezzatura indeed and approving glance from my wife) and a more dubious royal blue jacket (a slightly raised eyebrow from my wife followed closely by a knowing smile).
. . after all, we peacocks need to spread our tail feathers every now and then.
