Trad-Ivy Tuesday: The Kobe Beef Burger of Camp Mocs

I was sharing with a reader some time back that when I lived in Montclair New Jersey, the local cobbler, in his halting home-countried pidgin-esque English gave me the final verdict on my maiden pair of L.L. Bean Camp Mocs. He had just completed their third resoling. After twelve years of constant wear and now my third set of rubber–re-treads and new leather laces, he said that the leather was too worn-out to stitch another pair of soles securely to them. I was by then, vaguely urbane but upon hearing such news, I reverted back to my Horry and Williamsburg Counties, South Carolina roots and blurted..."Do what daddy?" I reckon that Montclair New Jersey hadn't and hasn't yet again, been host to a Southern boy declaring such.

There’s no question that I got my money’s worth out of my first pair. A pair that arrived in the mail at my mama’s house in 1979. You didn’t have such things sent to the KA house back then. And keep in mind that this was back in the time when I’d still not traveled anywhere to speak of so all of the Brooks Brothers and L.L. Bean things that I encountered were either through their catalogues or from seeing someone wearing them at a college boondoggle and declaring that I had to have “it.” My Florence South Carolina Trad Haberdashery didn’t sell shoes and my hometown Weejun source sold us our Topsiders, the only other non-Weejun shoe in my line-up back then.

So in 1979, if you walked into a fratty party down in the Southern backwaters with a pair of L.L. Bean Camp Mocs on, you were a curious outlier amidst a sea of Weejuns and Topsiders. And I liked that. Just as the Trad-Prep-Ivy style ethos should be a result, not an objective, I’ve always kinda reveled in the fact that for some reason, my whateverishness has resulted in me being a bit of an outlier. Five gets ten that I was outlying in my Camp Mocs in the photo above...replete with terrycloth Daks trousers. Shut up.

Surely it isn’t surprising to you that I still have my 1979 pair. If you’ve read more than two of my stories you know that I’m a mawkish-maudlin sentimentalist who with every passing day, spends more time with my head in the past as opposed to embracing the future. And I’m not resistant to casting off material things. I’ve shed and edited ruthlessly my stuff over these past few months and will continue to do so as I slowly-ever-so-slowly, get around to moving. But the 1979 Mocs have too many memories. They’ve been on three continents as well as in every decent and indecent honky-tonk and barbecue joint in the contiguous forty-eight states. Oh, and I had them on when I peed atop a volcano in Hawaii. We drank beer all the way up and …

Here I am. Hung-ed-over to the point of bleeding out of my eyes one morning…in the summer of 1979, at my sister and brother-in-law’s first house in Birmingham Alabama. They were in their mid-twenties and my sister had just delivered her first child, a little boy, about three months earlier. My brother-in-law, the KA fratty boy who I idolized and considered the older brother I never had, was desperate. As much as he was overjoyed to be the father of a new born son, he was also twenty-six years old. And the domestic dynamics coupled with his day job, had him itching to hit the streets with me when I was there. Nightly.

And I was THE perfect excuse for going out. Every. Damn. Night. “We can’t let little ole undergrad fratty boy ADG just sit around here” he’d say to his wife and new mom, my sister. So my brother-in-law, along with my L.L. Bean Camp Mocs and I would hit the street every night for such low-brow places as Tant's, The Plaza (upside down) and once, against my wishes we went to Sammy’s. He was the coolest guy I knew at the time and he drove a great, albeit unreliable British Racing Green Jaguar. Peer pressure...family dynamics...impending liver disease and L.L. Bean Camp Mocs. 

I even used Shoe Goo on them when the leather was so worn that it just began giving up-out-around the stitching and the rubber sole. My 1979 made in America version, as I and others have written about, were different than the current L.L. Bean Camp Moc that’s made in El Salvador. I won’t bore you with the precise differences. Go back and read the old posts. But even with all of my complaints about the current version, they are, at just under eighty bucks, a decent value.

I wore my original pair ten-fold more frequently than my Bean Moc replacements so I’ll never know if the real difference is in longevity. My Salvadorian replacements will outlive me. Same goes for my Maine Hunting Boot—Shoe version that I replaced a few years ago. Still, I can’t get rid of the old ones.

And then someone called my attention to Rancourt and their Mocs. Rancourt...holdouts not unlike Alden, amidst the fifty-year mass exodus of New England shoe makers. I got Rancourt Venetian loafers from Leffot and loved ‘em. I even picked up a pair of Quoddy Venetian Camp Mocs and loved the idea of them…and certainly the quality of workmanship was there…but I couldn’t get the darned things to stay on my foot so some Trad kid, courtesy of ebay, got ‘em for a bargain. But what appealed and still appeals to me about these makers is their ongoing commitment to turning out the kind of goods that L.L. Bean was known for before the slow decline. You know...when they sourced more of their stuff from domestic producers and when American consumers weren’t so punch drunk from the unit price discount goat rodeo that’s so much a part of retailing today. You remember don’t you? It was when the likes of Orvis, that little operation up in Manchester Vermont, used to rely on Hulme to make their iconic Battenkill green canvas gear instead of some sweatshop out of State. Literally. On all counts.

And speaking of green…I finally decided to spend some and make some. But in typical ADG Fuzzy Diced style, I couldn’t be happy with the table-grade standard, tasty goods that Rancourt offered in their Camp Moc line-up. I reckon you could say that I was jonesing for some strange. So I sent Kyle Rancourt an email and asked him if I could bespeak something off the menu. And he said… “Do what?” and I said “Yep” and he said “Really?” and I said “Yep” and then after eleven more clarifications, guess what? Kyle said “Yep” too.

So what I ended up creating is the Kobe Beef Burger of Camp Mocs. Anthony Bourdain rants entertainingly about the absurdity associated with posh restaurants offering patrons with too much money and not nearly enough breeding, a beef patty made from ground Kobe. Here’s an excerpt from Bourdain’s rant…“Enterprising restaurants are now offering the “Kobe beef burger,” enticingly priced at near or above $100 a pop. And if there’s a better way to prove one’s total ignorance of all three words – Kobe, beef, and burger – this, my friends, is it. It’s the trifecta of dumb-ass. …you are asking the chef to destroy the very textural notes for which Kobe is valued by smarter people. …for an eight-ounce Kobe burger, you are paying for the chef to feed you all the outer fat and scrap bits he trimmed off the outside of his “real” Kobe so he can afford to serve properly trimmed steaks to wiser patrons who know what the hell they’re doing.”

So Bourdain is calling out the stupidity and absurdity manifest in both the creator and consumer associated with using such sublime raw material for such a pedestrian outcome when more standard-fare beef would suffice to the point of being indiscernible. Well that kinda sums my ass up right there now doesn’t it? My love of shell cordovan is well established. I won’t bore you with my horse flank devotion and its genesis…just go here and refresh yourself if you want the contextual antecedent under your skirt before grinding through the rest of this story. But a shell cordovan camp moc? Why not?

And while we’re at it…while we are using sublime, Kobe Beef caliber raw material, let’s really tart it up. Let’s do it in green shell cordovan. When I asked Kyle Rancourt about it, he said “Do what?” and I said “Yep” and he relented. And then I asked how much and he told me and I said “Damn.” And then I paid the man.

I speculated that their arrival would be dramatic…either good dramatic or bad dramatic. It could go either way. Listen, if you always play it safe the drama will be minimal…on both ends of the spectrum. And for me, the Fuzzy Maximalist, I take my chances and they’ve not always yielded good outcomes. My Flusser mistakes story is here.

But my Rancourt Green Cordovans are sublime in every way. Replete with the specifically requested brick red rubber bottoms and stainless steel silver eyelets—it’s the little details that often make or break these things. Brass looking eyelets woulda sunk this ship from the get-go so I bet I sent Kyle Rancourt nine-zillion emails clarifying my specs for these.

And they already have some up-front patinated character depth that only Horween genuine shell cordovan can offer. I can’t wait to see how these babies' patination evolve...lift wise and otherwise as their Horween secret-sauced remoulade-ed impregnations give up some secrets.

Are these Mocs a folly? Perhaps. Am I pleased? You bet. And let me say this about Rancourt. I’m over the top happy that they are thriving. They're a small business so they aren’t without their process hiccups and predictable challenges of trying to remain consistent in quality while attempting to scale up their business to meet thank goodness, demand…and the somewhat-free-market allowance for a decent net-net margin. No margin—No mission. And suffice it to say that I received no discount on these shoes. Kyle Rancourt isn’t even aware that I’m a blogger and he won’t be ‘till I send him a link to this story.

Onward. Green. No envy.

ADG-2-Vert

ADG: The Battenkill Poseur or Stick it Tumi

“Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Travel Kit...Again": Battenkill luggage is for the sportsman. If you're not toting a double-gun or a fly rod with it then you're posing. And even then, you're missing the boat because Simms makes a better product for that purpose. For business travel, Tumi is the road warrior's choice because it's well designed and indestructible.”

Well thanks for the update, Sporty Road Warrior. You’ve called me out and put me right where I belong…in poseur land. It’s interesting that neither Hulme nor Orvis have a vetting process in place to assure that their goods go exclusively to the double-gun/fly rod toting crowd. Perhaps Simms, your choice for such things, runs a tighter commercial ship than the cats who source me my stuff.

And Tumi? It is virtually indestructible. So much so that I understand they offer refunds, replacements and guarantees that are second to none. I wouldn’t know first-hand because I wouldn’t be caught dead with a piece of Tumi luggage. Then again, what do I know? It seems that all of your information and rules-customs would only be known to those high falutin’ Sportsmen and Road Warrior cliques. Perhaps I’ll be less ignorant of Road Warrior choices when I become one. Maybe when I become a real business traveler, the Tumi Troops will recruit me. How many nights out per year must one have to avoid Tumi poseur-essence?

Tumi is durable and it also reeks…of your gold bracelet and your Acme Distributors President’s Club ring…Mr. Eleven Time Winner with the cubic zirconia surrounding the fake center stone…one zirconia per win. I also get a waft of Tiger Eye pinky ring—when of course, you aren’t wearing your President’s Club ring. Even you know when to not over-overdo it. Tumi boy. I understand that other colors are now offered in addition to the standard Tumi black. It makes no difference to me. The Tumi taint is irreparably seared into my psyche. In black...Nylon noir. Shut up.

Tumi is the spandex biking short of luggage. Functional and ugly as shit. Tumi says Hilton Honors Points bragger and Airline VIP boarding preener—with a holster for your Blackberry. And Dockers…size 40x29…riding a tad high in the back…tucking just a bit into your ass-crack cul de sac while diving rapidly south in front…to accommodate your Tumi boy belly. The midnight buffet on the eleven President’s Club Carnival Cruise to Nowhere Award Trips has always been just too much for you and your wife  to resist. “And the old lady loves it too” you’ve been known to declare. You call your wife “the old lady.” Classy, you. Just like your Tumi. 

So here’s to you, Sporty Road Warrior…Tumi boy with a timeshare at Wildwood Crest…inappropriate business conversation on the phone haver while sitting on the tarmac. We’ve all loved listening to your only-you-know-what-they-mean company acronym laden too loud phone conversations while standing behind you and your Tumi(s), trying to get to our seat. Congratulations on getting the exclusive supplier contract for Sam’s Club and Costco. Everyone on the plane now knows about it. Something tells me that you, the old lady and your Tumi(s) are headed for President’s Club number twelve.

Onward. Tumescently.

ADG II…Poseur

And When I Finished My Astonishing Sandwich…

I realized that Orvis was just across the street. And with thirty seven minutes remaining, I ambled my vinegary handed little a_s over there. Not much time to spare once I rolled in and engaged the predictable but comfortingly consistent construct of Orvis offerings.

Tried on a Barbour Beaufort for size…knowing that I was a 38 but still wanting to smell the new wax and flex a forearm against the yet to be broken-in paperesque sheathing. I left it there, comfortable in the knowledge that I’d win one on eBay for less dosh. The Beaufort is a want not a need. I gots me the shorter version sans game pocket...the Bedale I think. But I need a game pocket...for hooch and women.

But then a Liddesdale jumped me. Rather like the Cheeto on the rat this time. Colour and all. I tried to fight it off mama. Honestly I did. And at just south of $150.00 I pounced. I kid you not when I say that it really does fill a void in my outwear lineup. I had a cotton quilted version that I literally wore to shreds. The shoes...Weejuns...had 'em since college.

Looky at the bag they sent me home with.

And I like the way the Liddesdale adequately covers a sportcoat for an added layer of incremental warmth and just enough shrouding to fend off a flake or drop. Shut up.

I'm digging the chain-gang/work release orange.

Listen. Y’all pool your money and buy me this Barbour vest. Seriously. A waxed shell quilted down vest. The onliest thing I’m tentative about is the dilemma of re-waxing this baby with the downy under layer just below the surface. I’d call my Brazilian friends at the Bush Cleaners on Newbury Street. Oh, and size extra smug please.

And Merry Christmas to all. I finally found a spot on the LFG dance card tonight and we manifested enough Yule-ness to adorn our tree. Late I know but it’s been one of those (blessed) years. Just like last year, if you want a Christmas card from us, shoot me an email with your snail mail address and we’ll send you one.

Onward. In orange. Much to LFG’s dismay.

ADG, II