The Other Mrs. Astor Sale

Or, More Silver for the Entertaining Household

There was quite a hubbub in New York over the last several weeks among design, fashion, and society cognoscenti (as well as on the blogosphere) about the Sotheby's auction held in late September of the belongings of the thrice-married Roberta Brooke Russell Kuser Marshall Astor (1902-2007), the third and final wife of Mr. William Vincent Astor (1891-1959), also known as Brooke Astor.

Mrs. Astor's rather tarnished silver (plate),
just arrived at Darlington House

While the sale at Sotheby's on September 24th and 25th of the contents of Mrs. Astor's Park Avenue apartment and her Westchester country house, Holly Hill, elicited a storm of publicity, was heavily attended, and generated almost $19 million in proceeds (more than two times the high estimate), there was another, lesser-known sale of the dowager's effects on October 5th at Stair Galleries, an auction house in the Hudson River Valley.

I attended the preview of the Astor sale at Sotheby's in New York and was captivated by the elegance of the furniture, porcelains, objets de vertu, and art the society legend collected over her very long life.  Sotheby's did a beautiful job of arranging Mrs. Astor's many belongings in room-like settings, which brought to life and provided context for how lovely the spaces they filled must have been in their day.  I came away from the preview with the sense that I had just seen one of the last remnants of a fast-vanishing world of supreme comfort and elegance, exquisite formality, and measured order.  Mrs. Astor clearly lived a very lovely life.  At least until all that unpleasantness at the end, that is.

While there were any number of lots at the Sotheby's preview that caught my fancy, I didn't bother to leave a bid on anything as I suspected everything would go for dizzying prices, given the quality and provenance, and the hoards of souvenir hunters, too.  I was correct, as it turned out.  It all did.

However, I was not particularly bereft as I knew that I would have an opportunity to bid with greater likelihood of success (and at much more reasonable hammer prices) on some of Mrs. Astor's other effects in a week or two, at an upcoming sale of the society legend's lesser, mostly decorative things at Stair Galleries.  And again I was correct.

Stair Galleries is a regional auction house based in Hudson, New York, that does a very good and growing business in antiques, estates, and art.  In addition to a healthy business in direct consignments, Stair also partners from time to time with the larger New York auction houses in selling decorative-quality goods that come along with big-ticket estates but which are not the major houses' primary interest.  It is not unusual to find groups of objects at a Stair sale that are easily identifiable as coming from a known estate that was recently auctioned in New York.

The Stair sale of Mrs. Astor's effects held on October 5th was advertised simply and discreetly by the auction house as a sale of "Property of a Lady," with no mention made or acknowledgment of who the lady in question might be.  However, it was patently obvious from examining the 299 lots in the sale that the unidentified lady could only be Brooke Astor.

The Stair sale of the Property of a Lady was full of decorative goods, including soft furnishings, tables and chairs, lamps, china, silver, bibelots, linens, and clothing.  Unlike the heavily publicized Sotheby's Astor sale, most of the goods sold at the Stair sale went within their very reasonable estimates.  The lots that went above estimate—and there were several—mostly had some kind of clear association or identification with the Astors, such as a monogram or an inscription.

I was not able to attend the auction at Stair, held this past Friday evening, due to an inconveniently scheduled professional obligation at the Investment Bank where I work.  However, Boy and his assistant Nancie Peterson, along with two weekend house guests of ours, did.  All were successful in scooping up attractive bargains at the sale, and every one of them was delighted by their successes.

Boy came away with a large, silver-plated chafing dish, a silver-plated wine cooler, and four wine coasters.  We agreed in advance that he would bid on these items to add to our collection of silver we use when entertaining.  We wanted the chafing dish, even though we already own one, because we find that having more than one is useful when throwing a large buffet party.  We certainly could have used it at the brunch party for 35 guests we held at Darlington House the previous weekend.  Boy bid on the wine cooler because it is a near-match to one we already own that we use on the bar during large parties.  Footed wine coolers are particularly useful because they do not sweat condensation onto one's tablecloths, as do ice buckets.

The 1938 Astor wine cooler (shown on the right) is similar to the 
early-nineteenth-century one we bought years ago (on the left)

Another reason we decided to bid on the Astor wine cooler was because it is amusingly engraved "For Wince from Minnie and Carlo 1938."  "Wince," I am convinced, refers to Vince (as in Vincent) Astor.  The "Minnie" is (or was) Mary Benedict Cushing Astor Fosburgh (1906-1978), one of the famously well- (and frequently) marrying Cushing Sisters, including Betsey Maria Cushing Roosevelt Whitney (1908-1998) and Barbara "Babe" Cushing Mortimer Paley (1915-1978).  Minnie Cushing became the second Mrs. Vincent Astor in 1940, two years after she and "Carlo" gave the wine cooler to her future husband.  I have not been able to identify "Carlo," but Boy suspects that the reason that Vincent Astor is referred to as "Wince" on the cooler is that this Carlo may have had difficulty in pronouncing the "V" in the beneficiary's name.  It's all a play on pronunciation, Dear Reader.

The wine cooler's amusing inscription

I am quite pleased to have the additions of these Astor silver (plate) objects to our collection of silver for the entertaining household at Darlington House, and I look forward to using them at our next large party.  I am confident that they will benefit from a polish quite nicely.

Should anyone reading this essay know the identity of "Carlo," I would be most grateful if you would please share it with me so that I can fill in the missing piece of this engraved puzzle.

Photographs by Boy Fenwick and Reggie Darling

The Salts of Darlington

The subject of today's essay is the vessels we use to hold salt.  As I wrote in last week's post, we do not shake our salt at Darlington House, but rather we pinch it and sprinkle it with our fingers.

A Regency-era cut-glass salt cellar

Although we have a collection of small silver spoons to scoop up salt from our cellars, we gave up using them years ago.  Too fussy and "genteel," in my view.  Besides, I like using my fingers to pick up the perfect amount of salt to season what I'm eating or cooking.

A jumble of unused silver salt spoons

At table in our dining room at Darlington we mostly use cut-glass salt cellars.  Some of them are from the Regency period, and some of them are later, in the Regency style.

We have them in various shapes and sizes.

We have other salt cellars, too, some of which are made of Sheffield silver . . .

. . . and some of which are made of mercury glass.

Boy found this tall mercury glass footed salt that we sometimes remember to use.

At our kitchen table we use heavy glass cellars for "every day."

We also use an antique horn pepper and salt cellar, from time to time.

I found this little milk glass chicken-in-a-basket salt cellar in one of the cabinets at Darlington House after we bought it.  It was left behind by the previous owners, the Procters.  I like to use it at breakfast.

For cooking we have glazed earthenware containers to hold different types of salt.

We fill our cellars with a variety of salts, including fleur de sel, kosher salt, and assorted flavored salts.

Tell me, Dear Reader, do you pinch or do you shake?

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Bring Me the Rubirosa!

There was a time, not so long ago, when certain louche men of café society rather naughtily referred to a pepper mill as a "Rubirosa."  I'm not going to explain exactly why, Dear Reader, but if you're curious to know the reason, it's easy enough to find out why by doing only a modest amount of Internet searching . . .

But that's not the subject of today's post.  No, today's post is about the pepper and salt containers that we use at Darlington House.  Not quite so thrilling a subject, perhaps, but certainly a more appropriate one for this blog and for its readership.

When we first bought Darlington House and began to entertain in earnest, we used at table the silver pepper shakers that I grew up with, a wedding gift to my mother, MD.  They are in the shape of miniature eighteenth-century silver sugar casters, and they hold finely pre-ground pepper.  I paired them with an early set of Sheffield salts that I found on eBay.

Over time, though, I traded MD's silver pepper shakers for silver-banded ebony pepper grinders that I found at Scully & Scully on Park Avenue.   We pair them with unmatched Regency cut-glass salts.  This is what we use at table today at Darlington House.

In our kitchen, though, we use more humble vessels for salt and pepper.  When cooking, we use a latch-grinding pepper mill, and we have several earthenware salt containers to dig in to for pinches.

We keep white pepper in this white metal grinder:

At our kitchen table we use the Peugeot grinder shown at the outset of this post, along with a heavy glass salt cellar.  They are both very satisfying to use.

Interestingly, we haven't a single salt shaker at Darlington House.  We only use salt cellars, the subject of a subsequent post, Dear Reader.

Tell me, do you administer your pepper from a grinder or a shaker?

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

The Perfect Cocktail Jigger

As I wrote in my previous essay, Reggie is partial to the joys of a gin martini.  Reggie is not only fond of gin, Dear Reader, but of spirits in general, and he enjoys consuming such liquids regularly, if not daily.  Although he adores the imbibition of spirits, he is careful to regulate the amounts he pours down his gullet by measuring his portions in a silver jigger designed specifically for said purpose.

The perfect cocktail jigger

In his opinion, there is no more delightful jigger with which to measure (and in Reggie's case limit) the pouring of devil booze into one's glass, and ultimately down one's throat, than the vintage silver "STOPLIGHT JIGGER" once made by the Gorham Manufacturing Company, and shown in the above photograph.

Standing but two and three-eighths inches tall, the silver jigger is conveniently divided into three portions of one ounce, two and a half ounces, and three and a half ounces, and provides a most useful and clever correlation with a street stoplight.  The smallest portion, identified by an image of an enameled green stoplight, is equivalent to a single shot ("Go ahead!"); the middle portion, with a yellow stoplight, is equivalent to a double ("Careful!"); and the largest portion, with a red stoplight, is hefty enough to get one snockered when administered in a single dose ("Stop, you fool!").

Reggie has been a fan of the Gorham silver stoplight jigger for many years, having first acquired one several decades ago.  We keep (and faithfully use) one at Darlington House and another in our city apartment.  The one at Darlington can be seen sitting on a cocktail tray featured in my Lenten Ashes post last year.

Reggie likes the stoplight jigger enough that he bought two more of them this past weekend at the large antiques show he attended in New York.  Now he has on hand said jiggers to give as gifts to fortunate friends when circumstances call for doing so.

The pair of silver stoplight jiggers I picked up
at the Pier Show last weekend

The Gorham Manufacturing Company is today but an unfortunate shadow of its former self and long ago ceased making its stoplight jiggers.  However, these delightful little measuring devices can readily be found at antiques shows and online, and in Reggie's view are a worthy (and appreciated) addition to any household's cocktail tray.

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Thank Goodness I Gave Up Such Foolishness . . .

. . . as giving up martinis for Lent this year.

As some of my Dear Readers may remember, last year I struggled with forgoing the pleasure of a daily gin martini in observation of Lent.  Not so this year, I'm relieved to relate.  At my (advancing) age there aren't all that many vices that I have left in my much-deplenished arsenal, so the prospect of giving up one of the few remaining ones that I have was sinply too much for me to bear.

My "new" vintage Reed & Barton cocktail shaker,
taken in front of a portrait in our city livingroom

Not only am I no longer all that interested in most other vices (that was then, this is now), but the physical toll (not to mention the impact on one's dignity) of engaging in such activities (particularly in public) these days simply doesn't have the appeal for me that it once did.  Ah, well.

But I still drink alcohol (and coffee for that matter), and I plan on continuing to do so until it isn't pleasurable for me anymore.  And I can't imagine that happening any time soon, either—absent an unwelcomed intervention of some sort (perish the thought!).

This past Saturday, while attending a large antiques show at Pier 94 in New York City with Boy and his divine assistant, Nancie Peterson, I found this charming silver-plated Reed & Barton cocktail shaker.  Priced very attractively, it was probably made in the 1950s and is whimsically constructed in the shape of an old-fashioned milk can.  Which is entirely fitting, I might add, as an ice-cold gin martini (very light on the vermouth, please) is—as they say—mothers milk to this particular writer.

All the usual suspects that one expects to see out at such shows were there, including well-known decorators, magazine editors, fellow collectors, and smart antiques dealers shopping for inventory.  It was fun stopping and speaking with a number of them, albeit briefly and in passing, as none of us had much time to gab, since we were all there determined to hunt for treasures among the rather mostly dross-like offerings.  One must move fast at these shows, right out of the opening gate, as the offerings tend to get picked over very quickly by eagle-eyed, early-bird arrivals.

The underside of the shaker still retains
its original label

Fortunately I found this cocktail shaker on one of my early rounds of the pier, and I scooped it up with nary a second thought nor a dither.  As I said, one must move fast under such circumstances.  What a delightful and welcome addition this shaker is to my small and frequently used collection.  With but a little bit of silver polish and a modest amount of elbow grease it will soon gleam anew.

Tell me, Dear Reader, do you have a favorite cocktail shaker?

Next: the perfect cocktail jigger

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

The Barrels of Darlington

This Christmas Boy gave me the present of a miniature screw-top barrel, only an inch and a quarter tall,  carved from whalebone by a sailor in the mid-nineteenth century.  Boy bought it (as I learned) from Angus Wilkie at his elegant antiques shop, Cove Landing, on Lexington Avenue.  I suspect the vessel was originally made to hold snuff.

I was absolutely charmed when I opened the package and found the tiny barrel in it.  I love it.

And it got me thinking . . . I have always been drawn to barrel-shape objects, and I have collected a number of them over the years.  I'm not alone in having an affinity for barrels, either.  There was a mad nostalgic vogue for them in the first half of the twentieth century, when all sorts of barrel-shape objects were made out of glass, ceramic, silver, and other materials.

Here is an early twentieth century silvered glass barrel-shape ornament in our collection, hanging on this year's Christmas tree.  We found it in an antiques group shoppe a number of years ago.

Over the years we've collected vintage glass barrels in various sizes to hold Pompey's kibble, biscuits, and treats.  We've found them in group shoppes, at yard sales, and in junk shops.  Most of them were made by the Anchor Hocking Company in the 1930s and 1940s.

We use a vintage glass barrel in our laundry room to decant powder.  It is a much more attractive alternative to the powder's original and rather ugly packaging.

In the mid-twentieth century American glass manufacturers, such as Libby and Corning, produced drinking glasses in the form.  We have a set—a great favorite of mine—decorated with bands of sanded white and gold, that we use for summer cocktails on the screened porch.  We found them in a long-closed group shoppe in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, a dozen or so years ago.

Ratcheting it up a few notches, I leave you with an image of a smart old Sheffield silver wine cooler, dating from the first quarter of the nineteenth century, that we bought last spring from Spencer Marks, Ltd. at an antiques show at the Park Avenue Armory.

The cooler was a "must buy" purchase for me as soon as I laid my eyes on it.  I loved its simplicity and the fact that it was in the form of a barrel.  (Notice that it appropriately holds a decanter rather than a new bottle of wine.)

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Winning Bid: Directoire Bouillotte Lamp

Several weekends ago, in pursuit of yet more silver for the entertaining household, I attended a weekend auction in the neighboring town that included several pieces of silver I fancied.  The auction featured the contents of a number of what once must have been rather sumptuously decorated Fifth Avenue apartments of days gone by, along with the contents of several country estates (quite possibly belonging to the same city dwellers also featured in the sale) spread across northwestern Connecticut and along the Hudson River Valley.  I came to the sale to bid on a large silver punch bowl and a silver cigarette box (a weakness of mine, even though I gave up smoking years ago), both of which I am pleased to have won.  I won't be posting on either of those winning bids, however, as each prominently (and beautifully) displays the engraved names of the fortunate couple who received them as wedding gifts more than fifty years ago, and who—I have since learned from a mutual acquaintance—are still alive, but no longer have much use for such possessions.  I respect their privacy.

My recently acquired Bouillotte lamp,
lit with candles, and reproduction
18th-century playing cards at the ready

While at the sale I found myself bidding on, and winning, a silver-plated Bouillotte lamp of the Directoire period.  Just as I have a weakness for silver cigarette boxes, so have I weakness for Bouillotte lamps, which I consider to be the perfect occasional lamp for one's household.  Well, at least our household.  With the addition of this latest acquisition to our collection, we now have six Bouillotte lamps scattered about Darlington House.

So, what is a Bouillotte lamp, you might ask?

The Bouillotte lamp, with unlighted candles

A Bouillotte lamp is a type of lamp that was used to provide light during night-time games of Bouillotte, a card and counter gambling game popular in France from the late eighteenth century well into the nineteenth century, supposedly similar to the modern game of poker.  The lamps feature a dish-shaped base, designed to hold counters (chips), a central shaft with a movable candelabra attached to the shaft with a key, a movable metal or tole shade, also attached to the shaft with a key, and a ring at the top of the shaft that can be used to pick up the lamp or hang it from a hook.  Because both the candelabra and the shade are movable, and slide up and down the lamp's central shaft, Bouillotte lamps are a highly versatile form of lighting, and can be adjusted to shield the game players' eyes from the candles' flames as they are burned.  Bouillotte lamps provide a most pleasing, directed form of light to one's table.

A detail of the key that is used to fasten
the candelabra to the shaft of the lamp

Most Bouillotte lamps are electrified today.  Old ones made before the days of electricity, such as the one I found at auction, have in many cases been subsequently electrified.  Newer ones are routinely made as electricified lamps (and oftentimes as a result do not have as many movable features as the original ones do).  Half of the Bouillotte lamps that we have at Darlington House are old and were originally made to hold candles.  The other half are of a more recent vintage and were electrified when made.

Here the lamp is shown with the candelabra
and shade at the low end of the lamp's shaft

Most of the Bouillotte lamps we own are electrified, but a few of them are not.  We like to use a candle-burning Bouillotte lamp on our dining table at night when it is just the two of us for dinner.  When lit with candles a Bouillotte lamp casts a most lovely and intimate light.

Although one wouldn't normally slide the
candelabra and shade to the top, I am showing
it here to demonstrate the lamp's versatility

Bouillotte lamps have been popular forms of lighting since they were first made, and they are frequently seen in photographs of chic, classic interiors of upper class tastemakers of the latter half of the twentieth century, such as those of Brooke Astor, Jacqueline Onassis, Bill Blass, and Cy and Alessandra Twombly.  Bouillotte lamps work well in both traditional and modern interiors.

A detail of the key used to fasten the tole
lampshade to the shaft of the lamp,
and the ring used to carry or hang the lamp

When I attended the auction on the day it was held, my sole purpose for doing so was to bid on the silver bowl and cigarette box.  I did not go expecting to buy a Bouillotte lamp.  Not only did we not "need" another, but lamp buying was simply not on my radar screen that day.

The discarded candle-form electric sockets

I arrived at the sale well before the silver bowl or cigarette box lots were up, in the middle of the auction's household furnishings section.  I noticed that there were probably five or so Bouillotte lamps of varying quality in the sale, some first (pre-electrification) period and others later.  The first two lamps were hammered down at remarkably good prices (Bouillotte lamps tend to be rather expensive), which perked up my interest (Reggie being one who appreciates a bargain), and I found myself bidding on the sole Bouillotte lamp that I had admired at the preview, a diminutive silver one with an old tole shade.

Residual evidence of the lamp's later electrification

Within a minute or two I found myself to be the owner of the lamp.  I was relieved when I picked it up to bring it home with me that it appeared to be first period, made in the late eighteenth century.  While it was catalogued as Directoire style, I am convinced it is of the Directoire period, dating from 1795-1799.  This was confirmed to me by Isaiah Cornini, the architectural historian we work with at Darlington House, who is an expert on early period lighting and whose opinion I trust in such matters.

The Bouillotte lamp, restored to its
original functionality

Since we didn't "need" another Bouillotte lamp, Boy decided to de-electrify my purchase so that we could use it with candles.  He pulled out the lamp sockets and wiring, and in so doing restored the lamp to its original functionality.  Although the lamp was unfortunately (but discretely) drilled in a number of places when electrified, it is easy to have such holes plugged by knowledgeable silversmiths, which I shall do at some point.  Or not.

Tell me, do you have any Bouillotte lamps in your house?

Antique Wine Coasters, Why So Wide?

Several months ago we found a pair of antique silver wine coasters in a shop in the town near Darlington House.  They were being sold by a family of pickers whose offerings have been a fertile hunting ground for us in the past, and whose threshold we cross regularly in search of the treasures within.

A handsome early cut-glass wine decanter
fits perfectly within the well of the coaster,
and looks far better than a mere wine bottle,
no matter how lofty the vineyard

The coasters we found are rather large, measuring six inches across, with a silver galley standing two inches high.  The galley is pierced in a manner suggesting the Gothick taste.

When we found the coasters they were a bit the worse for wear.  The galleys were bent and/or dented in several places, and the wood of the bases had lost its finish and was dried out, and bleached from having been submerged in soapy hot water many times over the years.  They had lost their protective felt backings, too.

Our Ball, Black & Co. wine coasters in "as found" condition

We were attracted to the coasters because we found them handsome and admired their substantial scale.  We have collected antique coasters over the years, primarily papier-mâché ones, but we did not have any period silver and wood wine coasters in our collection, only modern reproductions.  We were confident that the coasters we found would once again look their best once they were attended to by a specialist we know of in Manhattan who could refurbish them appropriately.

An 1864 newspaper advertisement for
Ball, Black & Co.
Image courtesy of the Silver Forum

The coasters are marked "Ball, Black & Co." and also "STERLING."  Ball, Black & Company was a high-end retailer of jewelry, silver, and objet de vertu in New York City from 1851 until 1874, when it was reorganized as Black, Starr & Frost.  In its day Ball, Black & Co. was more prestigious than Tiffany & Company, which is the closest comparable today.

The former Ball, Black & Co. building today
Image courtesy of realworldhouses

Until 1860, Ball, Black & Co. marked its silver "950," which is a particularly high content of pure silver, and higher than the 925 amount (meaning that 92.5% of the metal is pure silver and 7.5% of it is an alloy) required to be marked "sterling."  In 1860 Ball, Black & Co. began marking its silver as "sterling," as our coasters are marked.  Consequently, I date our coasters as having been made anywhere between 1860 and 1874.

Even a simple blown-glass decanter is preferable
to place in one's coaster than a wine bottle

Many people today don't know that wine coasters were not originally intended to be used to hold bottles of wine, but rather carafes or decanters of wine.  Until fairly recently, it was common practice to decant one's wine from a bottle into a carafe or decanter.  Doing so promoted the aeration of the wine and also allowed for leaving sediment behind in the bottle, to be discarded.  Now that modern wine making techniques have largely done away with sediment in bottles, relatively few people decant their wine anymore.

Except we do, of course.

Over the years we have collected a handsome array of decanters and carafes that we use to pour wine at table.  They range from very basic, simple blown-glass ones to elaborate cut-crystal ones.  Their bases are larger than a typical wine bottle's, and they fit comfortably in the period wine coasters that we have in our collection.

Our Ball, Black & Co. wine coasters after refurbishment

It is far more pleasing to use a pretty decanter to pour one's wine at table than to pour it from a bottle, and it is most appealing when said decanter stands within a handsome coaster when it is not being used to administer one's wine glass.

And that's how we do it at Darlington House.

All photographs, except where noted, by Boy Fenwick