One word a Gent should never use in conversation

Proper Reader,

I had quite the night on Saturday. I went to a Rock and Roll konzert with a friend (the band was Blitzen Trapper, and they put on a "rocking" show), which was followed by drinks at the birthday party for the esteemed film executive and Floridian land baron, Piete Kujow (last name pronounced "koo-hoah"). Many drinks were imbibed, and the following morning I was still feeling their effects. I phoned my brother, Allan the Gent IV, to see if he would be interested in going for a schvitz at the exclusive club that he belongs to and I don't. As he was equally as hungover, he agreed.

As we sat in the sauna for a scvhitz, a very vocal Bloke and his mate entered the hot fog, talking loudly about some digital business they were both in. They said hi to us and continued their vocal conversation, which was not as restorative as the hot steam.

Since my brother works in the digital trade, he struck a conversation with the Bloke about digital music subscription services. They both spoke fondly of Emusic, so much so that it lead the Bloke to say this:

"It's brilliant. You just pay $10.00 a month, and you can go in there and rape the shit out of their catalogue."

We politely disregarded that statement and continued the conversation. But it was not forgotten.

It was a good thing the sauna had no birds present.

"Rape" is a word a Gentleman should NEVER use in conversation (or, MOST IMPORTANTLY, perform). As there were no women present during this situation, his mistake is pardoned, although just barely. "Rape" is a terrible word and perhaps the worst act imaginable. There are better words to use when describing the great deal one gets when using the Emusic. For instance:

A) "... pillage the shit out of their catalogue"

B) "... despoil the shit out of their catalogue"

C) "... plunder the shit of their catalogue"

D) "... ransack the shit out of their catalogue"

E) "... take great advantage out of their outrageously cheap music selection!"

Each would works better than "rape." If I were you, Herr Gent, I would avoid using the word in public entirely, especially while conversing with strangers.

And to give you a better idea on just how uncomfortable the word can be to others:




Faithfully yours,

EtG

PS - A clip to make your day more musical:

A Gent does not fall back on nipple jokes

Fellow Gents,

Allow for me to introduce a scenario: You are at your good friend's wedding in Newport. You are thoroughly sloshed, the result of having many-a-beer-champagne-tequila-mojito-cutty sark-rakiya throughout this fun event. A DJ has put on Mr. C's "cha cha slide" and - since that's your "joint" - you begin to flail and holler. Your dance moves become more animated, and the mixed crowd of elders and young ones begin to cheer you on with the usual "WOOOOOS" and Arsenio hooting.

Then, as the song dies down and your dancing becomes less humorous and more disturbing, you begin to lick your hands and rub your nipples. This brings back the "WOOOS," although were I at that wedding, I would have roundly "booed" you for it.

Were you a lass doing the nipple joke, I admit, I would have "WOOO(ED)"

I fail to see the humor in the nipple rub jokes. Perhaps there are readers out there who do see it. But it is akin to performing the running man at a dance party: a last resort of a joke.

Sure, you see comedians like Will Ferrell and Conan O'Brien perform the lick-of-the-hands, rub-of-the-nips on a routine basis, but that is lazy on their part. It's done simply for a cheap laugh, and it is painfully white bread of one to do it, if not unsophisticated. A Gent could and should do better.

Disturbingly enough, there are 134 videos on youtube just like this.

And what could a Gent do in a nipple-rubs place? Perhaps goose the father of the bride? Pat the bald head of one of the waiters in a rapid, Benny Hill-esque fashion? Sure, that would be uproarious, but it would hardly be polite.

The point of my post is this: One doesn't have to revert to this tired form of a joke. A Gent hopes to get an honest chuckle out of his crowd. If he feels the need to get a cheap laugh through nipple hijinks, he will merely pass on the urge to do so. A Gent would much prefer receiving his laughs through an honest joke or a dry, semi-caustic remark.

However, if you like a good nipple-rubbing in your comedies, then by all means disregard what I just wrote.

A presto,
EtG

A Gent's Thoughts on Memes

Fairest Reader,

Let's jump to the point: I was recently tagged on a meme by both the inimitable Rickey H and the altruistic Herr Golch. As I am running slim on time for the moment, allow for me to jump into both.

For Rickey's:

4 Jobs EtG has had:
Chest model, hand model, thigh model, and an And 1 tour "baller" (I was known as "Kid Ascott Hopz.")

4 TV shows EtG watches:

The Hills (as evidenced by this week's slightly humiliating post), Democracy Now, Night Court re-runs, and my dvd box set of "Hart to Hart."

Bless

4 places EtG has been to:
Bogota, Colombia (home to many-a-drug trafficker); Nakhichevan, Azerbaijan (home of the Nakhichevan People's Front); Palm Beach, Florida (home of George Hamilton); and Burger King (home of the Whopper).

4 foods EtG likes:
Canard, roast shoulder of lamb, Gravilax, and a Whopper.

And now onto Herr Golch's "meme," which requires I tell you seven arbitrary facts about myself:

1) The one band I would like to see live at some point in my lifetime: Tool.

2) The one word a man should never say to another woman: vagina.

2a) The one word a man should always say to another man: vahhhhhhheeena.

3) The one person to whom I owe most of my panache to: Oliver Reed.

3a) Some interesting facts on Oliver Reed, courtesy of the BBC online:

A) He once spiked snooker ace Alex Higgins's whisky with Chanel perfume, which was followed by Higgins squirting washing-up liquid in his creme de menthe.

B) His occasional habit of displaying the bird claws tattooed on his private parts, a performance which was once described as his "party trick."

C) He denied downing 104 pints of beer in a two-day session before marrying his wife, Josephine. "The event that was reported actually took place during an arm-wrestling competition in Guernsey about 15 years ago," he said. "It was highly exaggerated."

D) He once arrived at Galway airport lying drunk on a baggage conveyor

E) He once said: "I like the effect drink has on me. What's the point of staying sober?"

Bless

4) The ugly truth about my chest: the hair is not natural. It is actually the implanted coat of a llama. As for its cost, you are probably thinking, "Cor, Edward m'boy! You must have paid a lot of bread and honey (cockney for "money," for those of you not in the know)." And all I have to say is: in the Dominican Republic, you can get anything for a bargain.

5) The best culture to bed: Judging by that one time I worked as a PA for an international theater company, a Slovak. During my employment at this Dublin-based theater, I encountered a conflicted Slovakian Performance Artist with the body of Manet lass. One evening she asked me to help her with her costume - which was basically a tampon and bucket of milk (tasteless, yes), and before I could say "potrebujem pomoc!" she tore at me like an Elephant at a tree (she was the Elephant, I was the tree). I was later told that it was my slight resemblance to Rudolf Schuster that piqued her sexual wiles.

6) The one person I would most like to punch: no one. The one animal I would most like to admonish: an Emu.

7) The one person EtG admires the most: You, fair reader.

A presto,

EtG

Live blogging The Hills

OMG Reader,

Yes, I am doing something that betrays my duty to pleasing women everywhere while still appearing macho and debonair in the eyes of Gents everywhere. I am liveblogging the bloody "Hills" season premier. As you may recall from an earlier post in 2007, there is a lot to learn from this show.
Sure, no girlfriend is present (mine left me for my trainer, if you remember). But I have the essential provisions (a bottle of scotch and a box of ginger snaps (a self-professed weakness, next to the bloody "Hills")) to carry me through this strange and emasculating endeavor. Shall we commence?

9:50 - Just started my second glass of scotch, and lord knows that may not be enough. I turned on the telly to catch Lauren (aka "LC," or if she were mine, "pookie") informing her dimwitted slutfriend, Brody Jenner, that she was accepting an internship in Paris. Good for her. Paris will do wonders for LC, perhaps finally introducing her to some proper sophistication.

9:59 - Methinks this is the first time Mariah Carey has heard of "The Hills." She may also be on kolonpin, come to think of it. She may also be a sex addict. I would still bed her instantly, like an unruly minx.

10:00 - One word of advice: One should never relinquish the chance to live abroad out of respect for a loved one. Complete bullox to those who do, especially as you could always find a better and more foreign version of your love while abroad.

10:02 - The show begins with Whitney and Lauren being picked up by Stephane, a well-groomed French driver. Stephane has probably seen more female tushie than the backseat of his livery cab.

10:05 - The show cuts to Heidi skiing with her Mom in the hills of Colorado. Of all of those who "participate" in this "show," Heidi always fails to sell it off as reality. There is something cold and dead in her eyes. She is like a dead lemur made flesh.

10:07 - LC and Whitney just picked up their dresses for an evening function. I should probably go on record and say that I would like to court Whitney. However, I must admit that she strikes me as a lass who would insist on having separate beds for her and her husband shortly after their 3rd anniversary.

10:09 - Stephanie, Heidi's sister, just walked into Spencer's flat to find it in disrepair. But bloody hell, that was an obvious staging. I've seen better entrances and mise-en-scene in East German porn.

10:13 - I have nary a clue as to what Alicia Keys' video show is about, as I was booing it throughout its entirety.

10:14 - Did Spencer just refer to his Father-in-Law-to-be "Tim"?! Wanker! If I were in Heidi's Father's shoes, I would have taken off a ski glove, slapped him on the face and called him "upstart." Then I would have ran around, rummaging for a shotgun while trying to fend off Spencer's furious blows (the man looks like he can fight back).

10:17 - Phwoar! Those Debutantes Teen Vogue are photographing in Paris are 18 and hideously overdone, which means one thing: My father would like to meet them right this instant.

10:20 - The "Eiffel Tower" these foppish French rockers would like to "show" to Lauren involves two of them and one of her in the back of their Peugot. And yes, they will insist on as much sodomy as humanly possible. The French are so predictable.

How an Eiffel Tower commences...

10:27 - LC just said she needed a "rebound" in French. I suppose that's better than her insisting for a "a rake with a Clydesdale in his trousers" (does anyone know how to say that in French? If so, leave in the comments section). As she is in Paris, there is one man who could meet her demand...


10:31 - Spencer and Heidi fight about their pre-marital woes in front of her dimwitted parents. Despite their utter thickness, Heidi's parents at least deserve the respect of not being included in a public fight in a nice restaurant. But I suppose they signed the waivers to appear on TV, so fight away...

10:32 - Rockers Vincent John and Matthias look alike. Matthias is too touchy, swarthy even. He is dim, short on conversation topics, shallow and puerile. Perhaps he's Franco-Chilean? I should add that his utter lack of chest hair is worth noting. Pansy. He just ran and grabbed LC from behind and asked her to kiss him twice on the cheek. In Paris, they refer to that move as a "near-rape."

10:38 - An Under Armour commercial is on, the one where that inmate addresses all his fellow inmates and tells them that the "Future is Ours." Under Armour strikes me as apparel for those who don't mind a good snitch-shiving every now and then.

10:39 - Female guests at the live Gotham premier of the show in NYC are being treated to champagne. I believe I am owed a fourth glass of scotch and fifth fistful of ginger snaps.

10:40 - The girls just realized that Lauren has a stain in her ball gown. Methinks Matthias had his way with it as they were sleeping. The Franco-Chileans are known for those kinds of spooge-shenanigans.

10:45 - Spencer and Heidi are fighting in another public venue. Keep it simple: Fights are meant for outside public places, like in an an apartment or at a subterranean fight lair.

10:46 - Phwoar! I believe I will court Whitney, who looks like a lady wrapped in a frock of unbridled sex appeal. She will accept my advances. Separate beds be damned!
FYI, if Allan the Gent were present at this Debutante Ball, he would have punched the knob in the bell hop outfit, plucked the virginity and the clutch purses of seven debutantes, and slapped a French man in the name of the Queen. Bless.

10:50 - Matthias calls and asks Lauren to join him on his Vespa for a ride around Paris. She hesitates, but Whitney encourages her to do it. Little did she know, this is precisely the reason why Matthias bought the Vespa in the first place: so he can lure naive Americans onto the back of his scooter, where he would drive them to his shack in Clichy-sous-Bois for a night of forced sodomy. The man is so predictably Gallic.
Also, a lesson to you Gents: when Matthias drops Lauren off at her hotel, he hugs her and then, as she pulls away to leave, gently holds on her arms to lure her back into a kiss. Lauren wisely breaks free. As a Gent, if a lady does not kiss you that instant and is quick to leave your embrace, let her do so. Holding on to her as she tries to return to her home will land you four months in La Santé Prison.

10:59 - In a fitting conclusion, Stephane drives them to the airport in their symbolic drive to reality. The soaring emo music drowns out the frame as the hour-long premier finally comes to a close, and your humble author is finally off the hook.

Now, why did I do this? For your sake, of course. But at what cost?

Shite, a Puerto Rican hooker is performing on MTV. Wait, nevermind, It's Mariah again. I would still bed her, perhaps even doing as her song suggests, "touch (her) body, lay (her) on the floor," and do her Franco-Chilean style.

A presto,

EtG

A Gent Shows You How to Roast a Chicken

Healthy Reader,

Perhaps this is a reflection of the looming economic crisis, but I have been forcing myself to eat healthier and cheaper during these unsure times. For instance, gone are my nights of ordering kobe steaks cooked in foie gras wherever I dine. Now, it's simply borsch and a whatever scraps I can get my hands on at the 92nd Y soup kitchen.

I jest. A man can still be healthy while keeping his finances in check. For instance, whole chicken can be purchased for under $10 wherever you go and can last a Gent a few nights of dining. Besides, there are various ways to cook the chicken, be it in lager, salt, wine, or foie gras. Below is a simple recipe that is a slight variation of the Tom Colicchio recipe I shared with you a few months back. Allow me to demonstrate:

One 3-3.5 pound free-range chicken
kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 sprigs of fresh rosemary
2 sprigs fresh thyme
1 tablespoon peanut oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 lemon
2 cloves of garlic, unpeeled

1. Heat the oven to 375F. Rinse the chicken and dry thoroughly with paper towels. Cut off the last joint of the wing and discard. Season the chicken liberally inside and out with kosher salt and pepper. Place the rosemary, thyme, and garlic inside the cavity. Using a fork, prick the lemon several times hard enough that it breaks through the rind. Place the lemon in the cavity and, if you know how to do so, truss.


2. Heat the oil in a larg, heavy ovenproof skillet over medium heat until it moves easily across the pan. Place the chicken on its side in the skillet and brown, about 7 minutes more. Place the chicken breast-side up and transfer the skillet to the oven. Roast for about 20 minutes, then add butter. Continue roasting, basting occasionally, until the thigh juices run clear, about 30 minutes more. Remove the chicken from the oven and cover loosely with aluminum foil. Allow the chicken to rest for 10 to 15 minutes, then carve and serve sprinkled with coarse sea salt.

3 (optional). You can deglaze the pan with a 1/2 glass of white wine and cook until it has reduced by half. Season with salt and pepper and put in a bowl or pour over a carved piece of chicken.

In addition to this, I cooked a simple Chinese broccoli dish that is healthy, cheap, and easy to cook. As I live in Chinatown, this vegetable comes cheap and widely available. I don't know if this will be the case in your neighborhood. Nevertheless, allow me to demonstrate once again:

12 Chinese broccoli
1-2 garlic cloves, depending on your preference
2 tablespoons olive oil
pinch of red chili pepper flakes
salt and pepper


1. Wash and trim each broccoli. Boil a pot of heavily salted water while setting aside a bowl of cold ice water. Working in bunches, blanch the broccoli for 1 minute in the boiling water and then remove with tongs, putting the broccoli in the ice water. Repeat until all batches are complete. Set aside the pot of boiling water while draining the broccoli from the cold water bath.


2. In a pan or separate pot, heat the oil with the garlic and pepper flakes and stir around until the garlic is brown and tender. Toss in the broccoli and give it a good coating. Sautee for four minutes, putting a tablespoon of the boiling water if needed. Serve immediately.


There you have it, a healthy meal that did not cost you your shirt. Enjoy and I shall return soon.

A presto,

EtG

A Proper Introduction

Devoted Reader,

I have been attending to this online journal for nearly a year. At times, I have given you laughter. At times, tears. Sometimes, I offer you helpful advice. Other times, I have wasted your day with failed storylines (remember the imp?) and infrequent posting (remember these past few months?).

Throughout EtG's online lifespan, I have used a photo of George Hamilton - the uber-tawny paramour - to pass as my own. Well, I shall admit: you have been hoodwinked. This is not to say that I'm a dead-ringer for Franck Ribéry or, even worse, Pete Wentz. Deception aside, I still remain a presentable Gentleman.

So that you will not feel cheated, I recently commissioned Harold Hancock, the sublime English portraitist and Latin Scholar, to draw - nay, capture - the essence of your humble author. I am quite pleased with the final result, as I trust you will be as well.

Behold:



Stay chivalrous,

EtG

A Gent's Backpocket Treasure

Humble Reader,

The title is not in reference to my majestic buttocks. Rather, it is in reference to a silly gaffe that happened to me yesterday, one that damn near cost me my identity and the money in my bank account.

Yesterday was a slow day on the "hooker" reporting front - Governor Paterson's dalliance being a non-fiscal affair - leaving me some free time to run errands. One of those errands was to deposit a check of an undisclosed amount for a thigh-modeling gig I did for Turnbull and Asser.

I filled out a deposit slip for my handsome bank ("chase," in other words) and endorsed the back of the check with my signature. Then, I folded both pieces of paper and placed them in the back pocket of my trousers.

Before I continue, I would like to bring up an axiom once taught to me by Ash Sunder, a former professor of mine at the RJWSFTDH: "Never put treasure in your back pocket." I should add that he meant this quite literally at the time, as he was nearly executed for trying to smuggle seven pieces of gold in his back pocket out of a Filipino pirate's treasure lair.

This warning resonated with me, moreso than just "don't put twenty pounds of gold in your back jean pocket, lest you want to be beheaded." As I learned yesterday, belongings of value belong in secure trouser areas, not thrust in one's back pocket like a flask of hooch.

But I failed to remember Professor Sunder's forewarning - which we are wont to do in our advancing years - and I thrust the check and the deposit slip in an insecure area, free to fall out or be plucked by the wily hands of a gypsy.

On my jaunt to the bank, I had this unerring suspicion that the check was somehow missing. I stopped and checked to learn that yes, it was indeed missing, as was the deposit slip with all my account information on it. I retraced my steps five times with no luck. You see, I still reside in Chinatown, and to lose a check (already endorsed with my signature) and a deposit slip is like a young female waltzing into an Athens discotheque wearing only a C-string thong and a bikini. So, my concern was palpable.

"Me, you, bathroom, sex, now. No?"

I returned to my flat and furiously searched for the papers, only to come up with nothing. I was going to grab a baseball bat and begin threatening any Here is what I did, should you find yourself in this spot:

1) Call you bank and ask to either suspend or cancel your account. If you choose the latter, ask them to assign you a new number in its place.

2) Contact Equifax and have them monitor your expenses for anything fishy.

3) Call the employer who signed the check to void it and send you a new one. Luckily, I saved the stub that the check came with, which featured my employee pay number and other pertinent information.

4) Call your local Bobby (or "precinct") and say you mistakenly lost your check. You should leave your information with them in the rare event a good soul finds the check and slip and hands them to the police.
I asked an operator what was the worst case scenario with this, to which he said that if, found, a person could do these few things:

A) Make fake checks that he assigns to your bank account info. He signs them using duplicating your signature.

B) Make direct payments using your routing number and account info.

He did not say if or how a person could conceivably access your other personal information - such as your SSN # - but I have erred on the side of being "slightly doubtful one would be able to."

Btw, should you see a Chinese Man trying pass himself off as EtG, I would contact the authorities immediately.

A presto,
EtG

A Gent Should Know Better

Fairest Leser,

Last Tuesday was Dame Renata's birthday, an event that so many of you kindly honored last week (big it up to Ricky, Bipolar, Golch, Bob Condo (who's back and blogging, btw) and LL)). Dinner was to be held that evening at Le Bernardin, a gorgeous Manhattan restaurant whose dress code I was wholly unfamiliar with.

Before I get to my solecism, allow me to explain. The majority of my day that Tuesday was spent covering the Spitzer Hooker scandal for Bargain Binn. However, in place of trying to interview one of the outed coquettes, Herr Binn was having me peruse legal records to see if there was any mention of his name or his alias, Sheikh Archibald von Zucker Fader.

Binn in disguise

I returned to my apartment, exhausted from my labor, at around 7pm. The dinner was set to begin at 8. Be it carelessness or my aforementioned exhaustion, I did not think to check the restaurant's dress code. Believing it was casual, I opted for a pair of jeans, a nice pair of shoes, a pink shirt, a pocket square, and a navy corduroy blazer. I jumped on the subway to the restaurant and arrived to learn that I was dangerously underdressed. Those in my mother's birthday dinner party were wearing gorgeous frocks of fur and silk, whereas I looked like a Grecian delinquent in my jeans-and-blazer and combo. My Mother, the forgiving lady that she is, simply told me not to worry about it and to, "at least button that third button" (I do have a gorgeous, Baldwin-esque mane on my chest that I am not afraid to advertise, I must admit).

Ladies...

I fielded a few doubting glances from the wait staff and their clientèle , but I ignored them as a fine supper was to be had. At one point the hostess asked that I wear my overcoat over my outfit as to not offend my fellow diners. However, this enraged my father, Allan the Gentleman, to no end, prompting him to raise his cane and to "flog any Gallic garlic muncher or Latino toad on sight." The hostess apologized and sent us each a complimentary flute of champagne, but not before having the police escort my father to his "car" (read - rickshaw; Allan's gambling returns have slowed as of late).

AtG's new limo and driver.

The dinner as a whole was delightful. But I came out of it with a simple lesson: A Gentleman should always dress appropriately for occasions like his Mother's birthday. With that said, a word to the wise: A Gent should always call the restaurant in advance to see if it has a dress code or not. I'm not suggesting you do this with every restaurant, as I believe the Olive Garden does not require proper trousers. Any time the restaurant has a solid French name and is the venue of a special occasion, it would be best to err on the side of caution and to throw on a tie and jacket. This Gent should have done so.

A presto, and my apologies for the absence.

EtG

A Gent's Absence

Devoted Reader,

My unfaithfulness knows no bounds, apparently. I have been spending far too much on my job and far too little on my dearest journal for my dearest readers. You see, the Spitzer scandal has stirred quite a fit in my boss, Bargain Binn, as he is eternally intrigued by anything with the words "infidelity" and "hooker" in its subject field. So, I have been forced to cover the "Sptizer and his Hired Coquette" fiasco for Herr Binn, not for the purposes of his publication; but rather, to assure that his name is not implicated in any of the federal reports.

I will return shortly. Please accept my humble apologies in the meantime.

Yours faithfully,

EtG

From a Gent to a Dame

Fairest Reader,

One of the principal tenets of the "EtG Code of Chivalry" is that he never forgets to thank his dear mother, Dame Renata the Gentleman. More importantly, a Gent never forgets his Mother.

It is Dame Renata's birthday today. She is turning 46 (give or take). As a small token of my inexhaustible appreciation, I would like to extend to her the happiest of birthdays today. From the moment she gave me my first tweed jacket to when she called my Argentinian girlfriend a "strumpet," Dame Renata has never once left my corner. A Gentleman does not become a Gentleman without the love and guidance of a proper Mother. I was fortunate enough to have the most regal Mère in all of Europe to raise me.

Devoted readers, please join me in wishing my dear mother the happiest of birthdays.

A presto,

EtG

A Rummy Gent

Fair Reader,

A Friday night at the close of winter is best spent in the company of a woman or your beautiful self in the comfort of your own home. As my former lady has long since absconded with my Umberto, my thigh trainer, I resigned myself to a pleasant night alone in the EtG abode.

Allow me to introduce to you my new and highly loyal thigh trainer.

I threw on my favorite dickie and gold-buttoned blazer, poured myself a stiff glass of Woodford Reserve, and put on Althea & Donna's Uptown Top Ranking as I cooked myself a quick grilled chicken with sauteed swiss chard. This was capped off with a viewing of "Michael Clayton" on demand (top film, and not just because I have a longstanding and peculiar fancy for Tilda Swinton*).

EtG admits: he has a thing for aging hipster lasses

By film's end, I still felt quite peckish and restless. I concluded that the best way to satisfy both of these energies was to cook a desert, which I seldom do. But which desert should a Gent prepare? Well, in the EtG fridge were a dozen eggs, a carton of milk, butter, a bottle of Dom Pérignon with two flutes by its side (the dom is on chill, Ms. Swinton) and a large bottle of rum.

As luck would have it, I had just the right ingredients to make a rum soufflé. It's a very simple desert to make, and should you choose to make this soon, I am sure your lady's tummy will appreciate the tasty gesture.

Rum Soufflé
From the Silver Spoon cookbook


Serves 4
- Sweet butter, for greasing
- 1/4 cup of all-purpose flour
- generous 1/2 cup of superfine sugar
- scant 1 cup milk
- 3 eggs, separated
- 1 egg white (in addition to the three separated eggs)
- 1/4 cup of rum (the darker the better, such as Myer's Dark Jamaican Rum).

1) Preheat the oven to 350F

2) Grease either a cake pan, several ramekins, or several oven-proof bowls with butter

3) Combine the flour, sugar and milk in a pan and bring to just below the boiling point, stirring constantly. Remove the pan from the heat as soon as the mixture thickens.


4) Stir in the egg yolks, one at a time, then add the rum and let cool.


5) Stiffly whisk the egg whites om a grease-free bowl until the egg whites form peaks. Fold into the mixture.

6) Spoon the mixture into your pan or bowls and bake for 35-40 minutes. Serve immediately.


I can assure you that the end result is subtly sweet and very nourishing. Should you doubt me...



A presto,

EtG


*I have to note: not only does "Caddyshack's" Michael O'Keefe have a prominent role in "Michael Clayton" as a wanker of an attorney; but so, too, does Robert Prescott, better known as WASP renegade Cole Whittier in "Bachelor Party." Perhaps unsurprisingly, he plays a hitman of sorts in "Michael Clayton."

What Every Gent Should Be

Dear Reader,

I shall be back with more in a short while. In the meantime, allow me to introduce you to the world's most interesting man.




More anon,

EtG

A Terminal-yet-Perfect Gent

Fairest Reader,

These are indeed somber times for a Gent. First, Gentlemen of Luxury across the globe have been forced to curb their extravagant ways due to a woeful economy (that is, unless their wives have tv shows).

And now this piece of news which I am sure you have heard by now: Patrick Swayze has pancreatic cancer.

I am sure you are saying to yourself "'Patrick Swayze'?! Isn't he too girly to be considered a Gent?" And I say to you, "Haven't you seen 'Next of Kin'?! The man was a Southern Gent (albeit an ass-kicking Southern Gent). And need I bring up 'Road House?'"



Speaking of "Road House": This has been a tough week for fans of the fabled film. First, blind Canadian bluesman Jeff Healey (who played "Cody" in the film) passed away from his bout with lung cancer last Sunday, and now this grim news. But weep not, dear friend, for Patrick is still perfectly with us.

Sure, his dance moves may have aroused a few suspicions; but, as John Travolta once put it, "me and Patrick Swayze put the beef back in ballet."



As I am one to honor all of those Gents who are struggling during these tough times, I ask you to send your Handsome thoughts and prayers towards this handsome and nimble-footed Gent. There was once an honorary Swayze website called "Perfectlypatrick.com" that exists no more. May Patrick be perfect in health and spirit, and may we all act a little Swayze from now on. As the Road House trailer perfectly put perfectly Patrick:

"He's the Best Friend a Good Time Ever Had."

Swayzely yours,

EtG

An Uppity Gent

Tender Reader,

If there is one thing a Gentleman cannot tolerate, it's boorish and inconsiderate behavior. If there's another thing the Gentleman cannot tolerate, it's harping on one's inconsideration. Sadly, for the purposes of this post, I am going to focus on both.

You see, just because a man dresses like a Gent, or a lass dresses like a Lady, this does not necessarily guarantee that they will behave like Gents or Ladies.

Allow me to explain: On Saturday eve, our old friend Luke Wormgold and his lovely fiancee were in town on visit. They arranged for everyone to have dinner at Tortilla Flats, the Ernest Borgnine-obsessed Mexican restaurant that often resembles a Chicano Dorian's. The restaurant was filled to the brim with clean-shaven preppies, which made it appear as though it was a Pomfret alumni function than a busy restaurant. Nevertheless, we shared a solid dinner, filled with many margaritas, tequilla shots, and overall buffoonery.

Sadly, this was one Margherita that was absent from our evening.

Just as we were finishing our entrées, a large crowd of well-dressed (some would say overdressed) older yuppies congregated around our table, making for a slightly uncomfortable dining experience. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the restaurant: it is a small venue that is often packed with "fratty" types. There is little room for anyone - be they garçons or patrons - to maneuver around.

But the gang of yuppies - who I will refer to as "the rustres" -began putting their glasses on our table. When they audibly asked the maître d' when we would be finished with their table, we started taking their company as being rather impolite.

What the louts and loutettes in question resembled

When a member of our dinner party left for the lady's room, one of the female rustres took her seat - before asking our permission to do so, mind you - and asked us how our night has been. As I had consumed my fair share of the "Mexican gasoline," I started to chide this woman for her intrusion. Also, please note that I am not particularly proud of this behavior.

EtG: "Ah, I see our shot girl has finally arrived. We'll take a full round for the table."

Female boor: "I'm sorry?"

EtG: "Oh, you're not the shot girl. Well, as I am sure you are familiar with the old rule, the one in which uninvited guests who sit at a stranger's table must buy said-stranger and his company a shot each."

Female boor: "I never heard of that rule."

EtG: "Oh, well unfortunately for you, those who are unfamiliar with that rule must leave the table."

Female boor: "How about this: why don't I buy you a shot and you can leave the table?"

EtG: "Wait, let's look at your logic: you arrive to a table, uninvited, and imply that I must leave my own company? ¡Que tonto!

This gave everyone an uncomfortable chuckle, and then she asked why we were all here. I explained that we were here to celebrate the impending marriage of Luke and his gorgeous lass. The female boor - who was wearing a fur sweater of sorts - was about to shake his hand when I interjected:

EtG: I must warn you, he works as an attorney for PETA.

She shook his hand and then left the table. But her fellow boors remained, hanging around in our immediate proximity, like vultures around a drifter's carcass. As the maître d' was having his hands full with this group as well, he approached our table and apologized for their inconsideration. He then had the waitress bring us another round of shots, which we enjoyed at our own leisure.

When we eventually stood up to leave, the throng of boors ambled their way to the table, and we took our time putting on our jackets before departing.

Luckily, no punches were thrown, no knives were unsheathed, and no knees were thrust into unsuspecting groins. But it was an unpleasant experience, one that I probably could have handled a tad better.

For instance, I could have pulled aside one of the boors and asked him/her politely to let us enjoy our dinner without their pestering. But the problem with the Mexican Gasoline is that it transforms a Gent from being Clark Gable to Charles Bronson.

EtG at meal's end.

Will speak more on the matter of dealing with rudeness in future posts. Until then, stay chivalrous and considerate.

A presto,

EtG

A Gentleman's Betrayal

Devoted Reader,

I must make this admission, as it has been torturing me since nightfall: I have betrayed you. I have even betrayed my own handsome ethos. My sin: I purchased a hooded sweatshirt from American Apparel.

The potential benefit of these clothes is that my lasses will now begin to look like attractive cocaine addicts.

It wasn't an attempt to appear "hip" or "youthfully exuberant." Rather, it was out of sheer necessity. And I'm afraid my decision may forever transform my appearance.

To explain: ever since Bargain Binn, my publisher, lost a sizable wager - somewhere in the range of $400,000 and $400,001 - when I placed fifth in the Handsome Man Games last summer, he has been an intolerable brute, forever blaming me for putting him "out on street, like Czech beggar whore." As a form of repayment, he has been sending me out on assignment in the terrible cold to cover stories that no man would have interest in reading. For instance, yesterday I covered the heartwarming tale of a puppy that was left in the backseat of a yellow cab, and the driver who had the good sense not to sell it on the black market or eat it. As I spend most of my days in the bitter cold, I was in need of an additional warm layer, as my corduroy blazer, cashmere Loro Piana sweater and camel's hair coat were not cutting it.

I was walking around Lower Manhattan the other day, shivering in my LL Bean Duck Boots, when I noticed an American Apparel shop on the corner of Orchard Street and East Houston. Intrigued and benumbed by the weather, I entered inside to ask the passive-yet-attractive female staffer where a Gent could find their warmest men's sweatshirts? She limply lifted her arm and indifferently directed me to the men's section, where I found a rack of their flex fleece zip-up hoody, their most thermal sweatshirt. I grabbed a navy one (navy being the most neutral and regal of all colors) and tried on the garment. It's effect on my appearance and mind state was instantly transformative.

I suddenly felt vapid, angry, sarcastic, and eager to see the film "Juno." My face lost its gorgeous tan color and was replaced with a pallor that was covered with stubble. My hair became tousled, and my trousers became tighter. In short, I became a hipster ghoul.

EtG BEFORE


EtG AFTER


You would think that a man, in his right mind, would tear off the sweatshirt and throw it on the floor. But no, the power of this hoodie overpowered my good judgment. So, I ended up purchasing three of them.

When I returned home, I shaved and combed my hair and threw on my silk robe. But a strange power took hold of me. The sweatshirts in the bag were telling me to try them on again, to go on itunes and download Vampire Weekend and Goldfrapp, and to apply to Columbia's Architecture School. Frightened, I grabbed my sweatshirts and threw them into the nearest fireplace. However, as I do not have a fireplace, I threw the sweatshirts out the window, praying to never see them again.

But one remained. I've been meaning to discard it, but you know what? Having one ironic article of clothing wouldn't hurt, no? ("No, it wouldn't," mumbled the sweatshirt to me...)

A presto,

EtG

EtG BRB!

Fairest Reader,

I know, I just used abbreviated text speak, something that I intrinsically abhor. However, due to pressing work commitments, I am left with few options.

Ed the Gent and his dashing adventures will return (dare I say, "ASAP") later today!

A presto,

EtG