How Basil Got His Name

When naming our new pug we wanted to choose a name that was appropriately dignified, but that also had a playful quality to it, like the breed.

"My name is Basil, and I'm here to inform you
how to pronounce it correctly!" 

As MD insisted many years ago when I consulted her as to what to name our previous pug, a dog's name should have dignity to it, and also be a good calling name.  She didn't approve of silly names for one's dogs.  And I respect her for that, as she was the one who came up with the name Pompey, after all.

"It is not pronounced Bay-zil,
like the leafy herb used to make pesto."

We initially thought of naming our new pug Bamboo, but quickly dispensed with such a choice because it wasn't properly respectful.

"My name may be spelled the same way as the herb,
but it isn't pronounced the same way.  Much like
someone from Poland is "Polish," and not "polish."

And, besides, Boy couldn't bear the thought of being a middle-aged, gay New York decorator walking through the showrooms at the D&D building with a pug named Bamboo.  It was simply too much.

"My name isn't pronounced the same way as
Basel, Switzerland is pronounced, either."

So we cast around to see what other names we could come up with for our new little fellow.  After lots of backing and forthing I suggested that we name him Basil.

"Basil is not pronounced the same way as Basel,
which is correctly pronounced Bah-zl."
Image courtesy of Amy Park Design

Basil seemed an appropriately dignified name to me, and I liked it because it was rather Wodehouse-ian, in an Englishy, drawing room comedy-ish sort of way.  Much like our own names, Reggie Darling and Boy Fenwick are.

"It is not pronounced Bah-zeel, either,
as in Giambattista Basile, the Italian poet."
Image courtesy of Bridgman Art Library

Besides, I had rather fond associations for the name Basil, as I have always admired the actor Basil Rathbone, and I adored the character Basil Fawlty played by John Cleese in the hilarious English television comedy Fawlty Towers.

"It is pronounced Bazzle, the same way
that the actor Basil Rathbone
pronounced his first name."
Image courtesy of the Basil Rathbone Gallery

For those of you who may not be sure how to pronounce the name Basil, at least in the way it is/was pronounced for the Messers Rathbone and Fawlty, it is pronounced to rhyme with razzle, or dazzle.

"And the same way that Basil Fawlty, of Fawlty Towers,
pronounced his first name, too."
Image courtesy of Wikimedia

And it most decidedly is not pronounced the way the herb basil is, which rhymes with hazel.

"So, don't even think of calling me Bay-zil, okay?
It's pronounced Bazzle!" 

And, unlike Reggie's and Boy's names, which are silly made-up ones, Basil's name is actually his "real" name.  He really is named Basil.  So please, Dear Reader, do him the favor of pronouncing it correctly!

Photographs of Basil (the pug) and basil (the herb) by Boy Fenwick.  All others as noted.

Introducing Basil

It is with pleasure that I introduce you, Dear Reader, to a new member of the Darling household.  His name is Basil.  He's really rather charming.

Basil Darling

As those of you who have lost a beloved pet well know, their absence creates a sad void in one's life.  After Pompey died Boy and I missed him terribly.  We still do.

Reggie, being the pragmatist that he is, decided that the best thing for us to do would be to get a new pug puppy and to embark on a new chapter in our dog-owning lives.  I missed having a pug around the house, and it was in my power to do something about it.  So I did.

But it didn't turn out exactly how I thought it would.

About a week after we put Pompey down I telephoned his breeder to place our names on a list for a  puppy in an upcoming litter, hoping that they might have one sometime this fall.  The breeder I called, Don Ayrton of Cado Pugs, is one of the most respected pug breeders in America and is well known for producing handsome and well-formed pugs, many of which have become champions on the show circuit.  We've kept in touch with Don and his wife Carol over the years, and there was no question in our minds that if we were to get another pug it would come from them.

Don Ayrton of Cado Pugs

When I called and spoke with Don I learned that they did not have any litters on the way, but they did have a fourteen-month-old fellow who was available.  They had kept him to show, but had not been able to do so because only one of his testicles had dropped.  In order to show a dog, Dear Reader, it must be what is known as "intact," meaning complete with all its bells and whistles.  So to speak.

The Ayrtons thus found themselves with a very handsome pug that was no longer a puppy (and therefore not easy to place) and unshowable.  Unless someone was willing to take him as a young dog, he would likely spend the rest of his days as a kennel dog with the Ayrtons.  A very well-cared-for kennel dog, that is, living happily among a dozen or more other pugs in a house in rural Connecticut, which is where the Ayrtons live.

After much discussion amongst ourselves and with friends, Boy and I decided to adopt the little fellow and give him a home.  One week later we drove over to the Ayrtons and picked him up.  We've now owned him for over a month.  Although it all seemed a bit rushed to us (it had only been three weeks since Pompey died), the timing was optimal because we were leaving shortly for a two-week vacation on Nantucket that would be the perfect opportunity to bond with our new little guy.  And that's what we've been doing ever since.

Boy and Basil greet for the first time

We renamed him Basil (he was known by a different name by the Ayrtons), and he seemed almost instantly to know his new name.  He is distantly related to Pompey, whose father is Basil's great-great-grandfather.  Coincidentally Basil and Pompey share the same birthday of May 12th.

Basil is a darling little fellow, Dear Reader, and is very well mannered and easy going.  We are all still adapting to each other, and I am happy and relieved to report that it is going swimmingly.  I have to give the little guy a lot of credit for making such a radical (and for him entirely unexpected) transition in his life with what appears to be a considerable amount of grace and aplomb.

Well done, Basil!

Next: How Basil got his name, and—more important—how to pronounce it correctly

Photographs by Boy Fenwick and Reggie Darling

Rest in Peace, Dear Pompey

It is with sadness and gratitude that I write today's post, a tribute to my dear sweet Pompey, who died two weeks ago after fourteen happy, play-filled years.  Pompey's amusing antics graced this blog many times since its inception, and he was a great favorite of many of you, Dear Reader.

Pompey Darling
May 12, 1999 to July 8, 2013

As I reported in an earlier post, we almost lost Pompey a few short months ago.  We were fortunate that we didn't, though, and the time we had with him since then allowed us to cherish him all the more, loving him every moment we were blessed with his company until it came time for us to say our final goodbye.

At the kitchen door at Darlington

Funny, faithful, and loving, Pompey was all that I could have ever hoped for in what I truly believe is "man's best friend."  He certainly was mine.  I did adore him so.

In my arms on Nantucket

I fell in love with Pompey the day we brought him home to Darlington House as a wee puppy, fourteen years ago.  I've been besotted with him ever since.  So good natured, so friendly, such a fond companion Pompey was.  I called him my "little one" and my "little man."  Boy called him his "sweet familiar," a name that always made me smile.

Snug in his bed at Darlington

I knew that when we retrieved Pompey from the animal hospital after his scare in May that we had him on borrowed time.  Although enfeebled by his ordeal, Pompey rallied over the ensuing weeks, and there were times when he almost resembled his old playful, darling self.  A week before he died, though, he started to decline, and it became clear to Boy and me—at first individually and then acknowledged between the two of us—that our sweet fellow was beginning to check out.  The evening before he died Pompey went into a spiral, and no amount of painkiller medicine that I administered to him was able to alleviate his suffering over a long and sleepless night.  Poor, dear little man.

By four in the morning I knew that his time was up.

In a pensive mood

I woke Boy, and the two of us got out of bed with Pompey and carried him downstairs.  We took him out to our screened porch, where the three of us had spent many happy times over the years.  We waited there together as the dawn broke, Pompey lying on the sofa between the two of us, breathing slowly.  A calm settled on us as we sat there quietly, our little family close together for the last time, listening to the sounds of the birds waking and calling their early morning songs.

Happy as a clam with Boy on Nantucket

I telephoned the vet's office as soon as it opened, and arranged to bring Pompey in later that morning.  His end was merciful and swift, and Pompey died with dignity, sheltered in the embrace of those who adored him most, bathed in our tears and love.

I shall miss my dear sweet darling for the rest of my days.

At the Four Seasons in Baltimore

I am truly blessed, Dear Reader, to have had the privilege of Pompey's loving friendship for fourteen years.  I am grateful that Boy and I were able to raise and nurture him with love and care, and that he lived with affection his entire life.  And I am fortunate to have known the devotion of Pompey's faithful companionship for more than a quarter of my own life.  I know I am a better person for it.

On our bed at Darlington

Thank you, dear Pompey, for all the joy, laughter, affection, and fun you brought to me and to those who loved you over the years.  You were a very special, very much loved friend.

May you rest in peace, dear little one.  I will always love you.

Photographs by Boy Fenwick and Reggie Darling

Pompey at Fourteen

What with all the excitement these past several weeks, I forgot to mention that our dear little Pompey turned fourteen.  He is an old dog.

We had a scare on his birthday weekend, Dear Reader, when we had to rush him to the hospital, for emergency treatment.  You can see where the vet shaved his arms for the IVs.

We almost lost him.

It really took a lot out of him, and he is noticeably diminished.

Every day with Pompey is precious to me.  I don't know how many more of them we'll have, but I know that I shall treasure each and every one of them.

Photograph of Pompey in Reggie's arms taken today by Boy Fenwick

Reggie Revealed . . .

"Who is that man behind the curtain?

Wait a second—could that be Reggie Darling at the controls?
Image courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

"Is his name really Reggie Darling?  What kind of name is that?

"And who is this Boy Fenwick person?  And that adorable pug that Reggie sometimes shows on his blog—is his name really Pompey?

I suspect they'd be able to figure out who Reggie really is pretty quickly . . .
Image courtesy of CBS Television

"Where is Darlington House?  Is that its actual name?  Who names their houses, anyway?  Why is it that they never show full rooms, only vignettes?  Do you think they even live there?

"And all those stories about Reggie's family, do you think they really happened?

Same with this crew.  I'll bet that Reggie couldn't fool them, either!
Image courtesy of CBS Television

"How much of this stuff is made up?

"I can't find out anything about these guys when I Google them.  That's pretty strange, I think.  You can almost always find something about someone these days with a simple Internet search.  Not these two, though.  Except that blog—there are lots of links to that . . . but not to them.

"It all sounds kind of fishy to me . . ."

Well, Dear Reader, it has come time for me to answer some of these questions.  For, you see, Reggie has been revealed.  There is a certain design magazine on the newsstands now that spills the beans.  Reggie has been outed.

The magazine in which all is revealed . . .

And that's just fine with him.  Because, Reggie actually outed himself.  He agreed to use his "real" name in the story in the magazine because a lot of people already knew that Reggie wasn't the name he was born with, but rather a nom de plume.

Darlington House, as seen in the June 2013 issue of AD

Besides, he was quite pleased to have Darlington House featured in the magazine, and he thought it would be silly not to have his "real" name associated with it.  He's very proud of Boy Fenwick for appearing in Architectural Digest's pages, a coup for any decorator.  It doesn't get any better than that, Dear Reader.

Mr. Boy Fenwick standing at the front door
of Darlington House

"So," you may ask, "If you use made up names in your blog, Reggie, is everything else made up, too?"

Won't you please come into the front hall?

No.  Well, not really.  Other than coming up with playfully Wodehouse-ian names, most everything Reggie writes about is true, and actually happened.  From time to time, though, he does admit to playing around with some of the minor details (such as writing that MD drank scotch when in reality she drank Canadian Club).  But he does so mostly to perfect the voice in his stories.

Do make yourself comfortable in the drawing room.
Would you like something to drink?  A cocktail, perhaps?

"But why, Reggie, do you use a nom de plume?"

Because, Dear Reader, I prefer to keep this blog—a lifestyle one—separate from my very busy and demanding professional life in the financial services industry.  I have a whole "other" life that I prefer not to co-mingle with what I do here in my off hours, for fun.

Reggie is upstairs in the master bedroom straightening his tie
at the moment.  He'll be right down to meet you!

And I plan to keep it that way, too, Dear Reader, even though Reggie's secret it out.

Won't you please play along with me?

Photographs: Unless noted otherwise, all images courtesy of Architectural Digest magazine

A Very Reggie New York Saturday

Reggie had an unexpected New York weekend, Dear Reader.  At the last moment he wound up staying in Manhattan instead of running up to Darlington House, due to rather tiresome work commitments.  So he made the best of it!

Casa Lever Restaurant

On Saturday, after a morning spent chained to seemingly endless conference calls and tedious document reviews, Reggie decided that enough was enough and treated himself and Boy to a tasty lunch at Casa Lever, located in Lever House, the iconic Skidmore, Owings & Merrill designed masterpiece of modern architecture on Park Avenue at 53rd Street.

Lever House, shortly after its completion in 1953
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

Casa Lever is a "scene" restaurant during the week, what with full-throttle "power" breakfasts and lunches full of Type-A deal makers and their clients, busily one-upping each other.

The after-work bar scene and dinner crowd at Casa Lever can be truly assaultive, with bar stools and tables packed with desperate 30- and 40-somethings looking for the next best thing.  Or at least the next better thing.

The view into Casa Lever when one enters the restaurant

But on weekends Casa Lever is a delightful place.  One practically has the restaurant to oneself, at least during lunchtime.

One enters the dining room through this
"futuristic" tunnel

Casa Lever is part of the Sant Ambroeus empire, which has other restaurants in New York on Madison Avenue on the UES, in the West Village, and in Southampton.

The interior of Casa Lever is very "modern" in a 1970s Italian looking way, at least to my eye.  It is all sort of a jumble, as if Muriel Brandolini decorated it, or Miuccia Prada.  Not exactly coordinated, Dear Reader, but not unpleasant, either.

The dining room at Casa Lever

The food at Casa Lever is transcendently delicious.  We had one of the tastiest lasagnas there for lunch that I've eaten in ages—at least not since the one my dear friend Lindaraxa made for me several years ago.  Casa Lever's lasagna is made in the Milanese style—not too cheesy, but rather creamy, savory, and yummily divine.  Heaven!

The flowers at Casa Lever are lavish and beautiful.

And the restaurant's lighting, particularly in the bar area, is very flattering.

The bar is usually very crowded after work on a weekday evening

After lingering over coffee and a plate of delicious buttery cookies we decided to head over to Fifth Avenue, as Boy wanted to buy a new pair of Gucci loafers.

Paley Park, named after William Paley's father

We genuflected as we passed Paley Park, the hallowed former site of the legendary Stork Club.

The Stork Club, back in the day
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

I wish that I had been a Manhattan-living grownup when the Stork Club was in full throttle.  But it closed in 1965, when I was only nine years old.  I would have loved to have gone there in its heyday.

Reggie's Stork Club ashtrays

I've consoled myself, though, by collecting a number of Stork Club ashtrays over the years.  I used them back when I still smoked cigarettes.  Even though I quit puffing years ago, I can't bear to part with the ashtrays.  Not yet, at least.

Judy Garland and Fred Astaire strolling down Fifth Avenue
in the 1948 movie of Irving Berlin's "Easter Parade"
Image courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Fifth Avenue in midtown on a Saturday afternoon is clogged with tourists gawping and milling about.  I don't begrudge them their fun, and I appreciate that they spend their hard-earned dollars in our city, helping our economy.

The Fifth Avenue Easter Parade it ain't!

However, I generally try to avoid this stretch of Fifth Avenue, as it can be unpleasantly crowded with people bumbling about.

Sometimes one has no choice, though, and one must push forth with one's errands . . .

The Gucci store in the Trump Tower was off-puttingly full of under-dressed boors, most of whom didn't appear to have any intention of actually buying something.  Mostly they were there to clock the goods and waste the sales staff's time.

Most of the shoes on display were, um, not to our taste.  Given the mayhem in the store it was challenging to find a salesperson to help us locate the classic horse-bit moc in brown leather that Boy was there to buy.

There were lots of loafers available, though, in pastel ice-cream colors that Gucci has issued in honor of the 60th anniversary of the launch of this, their classic shoe.  However, these shoes were not quite what Boy was there to take home . . .

Gucci's horse-bit loafer, now available in plastic

I rather liked the loafers Gucci had on display, though, shown in the preceding photograph.  They were made entirely of plastic, with the exception of the metal horse bits.

I wear these muck boots during wet weather at
Darlington House, where they are a godsend!
Image courtesy of the Original Muck Boot Co.

I think the plastic loafers Gucci is selling would make a terrific (and amusingly stylish) alternative to Muck Boots.  So useful to wear on a muddy morning when supervising one's pug's constitutional!  On second thought, though, they might be perhaps a bit hot on the foot, given what they are made of . . .

Frustrated by our failed mission at Gucci, we headed out the door, back onto Fifth Avenue.  The next time I'm in the market for a new pair of Gucci horse-bit loafers, Dear Reader, I'm going straight to their outpost on upper Madison Avenue, far removed from this tourist fray.

Our next stop was Tiffany & Company, so Boy could replace a worn-out belt strap to go with a gold buckle I bought him there years ago.

The main floor at Tiffany & Company

We never made it past the ground floor.  Tiffany was so crowded with tourists that we decided such an errand there was as foolhardy on a Saturday as the one we tried at Gucci, so we bolted again.

We hurried past the nearby Nike Town sneaker store.  I've never been inside of it, and something tells me I never will.

The sidewalk in front of the Nike Store was littered with trash.

Turnbull & Asser is, fortunately, a mere block beyond the Nike store.  It is a haven amidst the hubbub of midtown these days.

The crowd-free interior of Turnbull & Asser

Turnbull was blessedly free of the crowds that thronged Gucci and Tiffany.  Other than an attractive young couple selecting ties, we were the only people shopping there.

I was quite taken with the selection of colorful umbrellas.

They come in both solids and stripes.

However, it was for shirts that we visited Turnbull.  Boy selected several rather attractive ones to add to his wardrobe . . .

An explosion of colorful knotted silk cuff links

. . . along with several pair of knot cuff links, including a pair in orange, his signature company color.

His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales

Prince Charles is a customer of Turnbull & Asser.  The New York store proudly displays his royal warrant, along with a signed photograph.

I couldn't decide which one I liked best . . .

I was crazy about the silk dressing gowns at Turnbull.  I might have been tempted to buy one if my darling Pompey wasn't so inclined to rub his face on my clothes, which he does at seemingly every opportunity.

Mr. Charles H. Cash of Turnbull & Asser

While we were at Turnbull, Boy was assisted by the very helpful Charles Cash.  I recommend that you look him up if you find yourself in the store.  Tell him Boy sent you, please!

Charles helped Boy select this handsome bow tie, along with other purchases.  Boy liked the tie so much that he wore it out of the store; his other acquisitions are to be delivered.  Having one's purchases sent 'round to one's apartment, rather than having to carry them away in shopping bags, is one of the great pleasures of living in New York.

Well, it is transportation . . .

After leaving Turnbull we hopped on the M3 bus up Madison Avenue.  I long ago learned that trying to find a taxi on Madison Avenue in midtown during rush hour or on a Saturday afternoon is an utter waste of time.  Buses are a far more efficient and reliable means of getting on one's way uptown, away from the maddening hordes clogging the streets of Midtown.  

Our destination was Bemelman's Bar, in the Carlyle Hotel.  It is one of our favorite watering holes in the city.

Prossie Trotters at Christian Louboutin

Before slipping in to Bemelman's, though, we decided to look in some of the store windows on upper Madison Avenue.  I had to photograph these stiletto platform, open-toed Prossie Trotters that were in the window of the Christian Louboutin boutique.  I ask you—who wears such things, and where?  Are there really that many transvestite Louisiana hayride-themed galas?  Seriously, I thought they were vulgar beyond belief.  Apparently I'm in the minority, though, since we heard the doorman at the store inform a middle-aged woman trying to gain entry that it was full with customers and that she should wait on the street or come back at another time.  I mean, really!

A lovely dress for a lovely lady, at Vera Wang

Fortunately my nerves and sensibility were soothed by this beautiful confection of red tulle a few doors up the Avenue, at the Vera Wang boutique.

Home at last!!

With cocktails beckoning, we made for the doors of the Carlyle Hotel.

Mr. Bobby Short's portrait at the Carlyle Hotel

Of course one must pay one's respect to the portrait of Mr. Bobby Short that hangs in the lobby there.

The view into Bemelman's Bar at the Carlyle Hotel, as one enters it

And then to Bemelman's Bar!

The divine bar at Bemelman's

Bemelman's is one of the most appealing and comfy bars in the city.  The amber lighting is flattering, to say the least.

Ellis, Bemelman's bartender extraordinaire

Our favorite barman, Ellis, was on duty and at the ready to serve us the perfectly made martinis he knew that we wanted.

Note the extra vessel of gin on ice, waiting to replenish one's glass

Bemelman's martinis are rather wicked, as they are delivered along with a little vessel filled with another glassful on ice, so one's single martini is, in reality, a double.  I suppose that is one of the reasons we are so fond of Bemelman's!

The Carlyle's swizzle sticks

Ellis gave me a trio of swizzle sticks so that I could feature them in this story.  The Carlyle is managed by the Rosewood Group, which owns and manages hotels and resorts all over the world.  One of our favorites is Little Dix Bay on Virgin Gorda, where we've stayed three or four times over the years.  While I've stayed at other Rosewood properties as well, Little Dix Bay (and the Carlyle) are my favorites. 

Boy and Pompey, happily sleeping it off . . .

After fortifying ourselves with martinis and an order of mini hamburgers at Bemelman's we wobbled our way out the door and into a taxi for the journey home to our apartment.  Pompey was quite pleased to see us when we lurched through the door.  After a quick tinkle and his dinner, he was more than amenable to spending the rest of the evening snoozing on a supine Boy, who was completely tuckered out after his busy day taking advantage of what New York City has to offer.

The closing caption of "Easter Parade,"
looking up Fifth Avenue in midtown Manhattan
Image courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Tell me, how did you spend your Saturday, Dear Reader?

Please note: Reggie has received nothing in return for mentioning the stores and other establishments named in this post, nor does he expect to.   He has written this post solely for the amusement of his readers, which is the reason he writes this blog in the first place.

All photographs, except where noted, by Reggie Darling