It’s not the first time I wished I lived in a grand English Country House—or at least a few rooms that looked like one. The Colefax & Fowler book came out in the 1980s, just before I bought my first ever apartment in New York, and I was obsessed with Nancy Lancaster’s famous “buttah yellow” room (Lancaster, although a Virginian, worked with John Fowler to create the firm’s signature English style). My own living room had much the same dimensions (but unlike Nancy’s pad, it was pretty much the whole apartment) and I was determined to replicate those glazed yellow walls. I held lemons and butter up to the walls in search of the perfect shade; I bought Jocasta Innes’s “Paint Magic” and learned to mix burnt umber and sienna and the all-important black into a glaze. I have to say, my moonlighting Irish painter and I came pretty close. I was even lucky enough to inherit some Downtonesque furniture after we’d finished: a pair of Adam consoles, a Chinese Chippendale sofa, an enormous portrait of a cricket player. But as lovely as those items were—and as grateful as I was for them—the thing I could never exactly replicate was the Lancaster room’s great charm and seemingly incongruous livability.

Part of it, like the interiors at Downton, is the mix. Slipcovered armchairs and skirted tables share space with far finer pieces. Renaissance portraits are in the same room as rush baskets for logs. It remains one of the finest rooms I’ve ever seen, but it was clearly meant for hanging about in. Those upholstered chairs are slapped right next to each other (in an almost awkward way we would never dream of doing) near the fire. There’s a desk that’s obviously something good, but you can tell that someone actually uses it. Lancaster must have had some kind of strong British DNA, because the rest of us Americans are not nearly as natural when it comes to creating environments of such effortless and down-to-earth grandeur.

This was a lesson brought home to me when my English friend Sarah Giles bought the apartment two floors above me just after I moved in. Her living room had the same dimensions as mine and she covered its walls with a creamy Colefax stripe; her curtains were trimmed in a longish fringe (I was so terrified of screwing up such a pricey investment, I lived with simple silk shades for years before I bit the bullet). She pulled off seemingly daring mixes of fabrics like Colefax’s Bowood glazed chintz in blue and red with no less than two Bennison linen prints. Oriental paintings and English prints covered the walls, a fire surround was covered in an old Kilim. On coffee tables and ottomans and garden seats, there were stacks and stacks of books and all manner of artifacts from her trips to India and Vietnam and Thailand. She’d artfully arrange decorative postcards and invitations on her mantel, and when I did the same, it came out looking like a mess. Even her bathroom was to die for—it had faux-bois paneling and Czech & Speake period fittings long before Waterworks copied them.

I had never heard of faux bois. I had barely heard of Bennison. I did know about about Colefax—mainly because I’d spent more money than ever before in my life on curtains and a dressing table skirt in their Roses and Pansies chintz in a previous apartment. As great as they were on their own, they never looked right in the setting I’d tried to create. Sarah’s setting, on the other hand, was perfect. It was riotous and interesting and somehow extremely tasteful all at the same time, and most important it was comfortable. I loved my own apartment and miss it to this day, but truth be told, I spent a lot more time at Sarah’s, sprawling on her deep George Smith sofa, drinking wine, gossiping, ordering in sushi and Chinese, than I did at home.

This is the English gift.  Of course, Van Dykes (like the one in the Downton dining room) and piles and piles of things like my very favorite Chinese export porcelain don’t hurt. They’ve also had a few hundred more years of practice in regard to living well and messing around with all that good stuff.  But we’re catching up. Decorators like Bunny Williams and Suzanne Rheinstein, Miles Redd and Jeffrey Bilhuber are genius at translating and updating the philosophy behind the look on this side of the pond. And then of course, there’s everyone’s favorite show that serves as our current touchstone for the way we’d all secretly like to live.

The Downton phenom has sent 21^st century designers scurrying back to rich damasks and sumptuous velvets, to fine porcelain decorative bits and massive potted palms. We are unrolling Granny’s aubussons and reacquainting ourself with Orientals. Tasseled lampshades and fringed pillows are suddenly making our own clean interiors seem a bit, well bare. The Downton look is all about texture, about layering and mixing and generally piling it on—but only in the most tasteful way. Above, we have some things to get you started.

Pictured above, clockwise from far left:

Carson with the lovely ladies of Downton.

This generous pillow is made from a bit of Renaissance era tapestry in what the Brits call “petrol blue.” Its luxury is further enhanced by its down filling, velvet backing, and fine silk tassle trim.

Every British house like Downton (or indeed, Highclere Castle, its actual setting) has some lovely odds and ends picked up on de riguer Grand Tours through Europe. This Italian lamp base from Ann Koerner is a perfect example.

There is not a fine country house in England that isn’t embellished with piles of Chinese Export porcelain. The Granthams would have been proud to own this rare Imari Barber’s Bowl, circa 1725, and it will give your own interiors some immediate provenance.

Injecting texture and color into your room is as easy as tossing Hollyhock’s paisley Kashmir throw over the arm of a chair or back of a sofa.

Can’t you just see this French blue opaline and gilt powder jar, circa 1860, adorning Lady Mary’s dressing table? Don’t you want it too?

This fabulous tobacco velvet armchair with casters from Found would be right at home in Lord Grantham’s library.

Be creative this Valentine’s day and wrap your sentiments around the wrist of the man or the woman in your life.

Pictured above, top row, from left:

This one of a kind, handmade Italian resin bracelet is flexible, modern, and durable—just like the perfect love!

Any heart would soar at the sight of this Pippo Perez bracelet featuring a white gold and diamond wing strung on a braided black cord.  It adjusts to any wrist size and is finished off with white gold beads

Each of Peter Nappi’s handmade curved leather cuffs is uniquely distressed—sort of like your own fingerprints. We love the idea of giving something so individualized and so intimate to the man or the woman in your life.

Bottom row, from left:

Made by hand from a vintage fishhook cast, the white brass hook has a silver finish and is on a hand-knotted nylon cord. Perfect for the fisherman in your life—or anyone to whom you want to send the message that you’re hooked.

The aptly named Sexy Handcuff Bracelet by Borgioni is made of solid 14K white gold with champagne diamonds. Who wouldn’t harbor a handcuff fantasy if it involved something as totally cool and completely gorgeous as this?

Send someone you love (or indeed yourself) off in safety and style. This Catherine Michiels piece features a silver charm featuring a gypsy caravan known as “La Roulotte” on one side and the words Lachto Drom (Bon Voyage) on the other. La Roulotte’s message is “safe journey,” but it also exhorts you to be a traveler and not a tourist.

But the subject today is men and gin, preferably in the form of a martini. Few things make a man more elegant than having one in hand. A case in point: the Slim Aarons photograph of Clark Gable, Van Heflin, Gary Cooper, and Jimmy Stewart at Romanoff’s on New Year’s Eve 1957. They are all in white tie, they are all cracking up, they all exude a masculinity and a coolness that is utterly breathtaking. Gary Cooper is holding what looks like a straight-up martini. It may well have been champagne, but I’m sticking with gin. Anyway, all four of those guys spent a lot of time in Chasen’s, the much lamented Hollywood landmark that closed in 1995.

Chasen’s was famous for its chili (Liz Taylor had several quarts flown to the set of “Cleopatra”) and a martini called “Pepe’s Flame of Love.” Created by Chasen’s bartender Pepe Ruiz, it was made with Stolichnaya vodka, sherry instead of vermouth, and orange peel rather than lemon. It was allegedly made for Dean Martin, another extra cool fellow, after he complained that he was bored with regular martinis. I can attest that it is excellent.

In today’s Fetch Bar column, our intrepid correspondent Brooks Reitz writes of the perfection that is on offer from the Connaught Hotel’s martini cart. I agree with Brooks that some of the finest martinis in the world are made in London hotel bars—usually by Italian bartenders. I am partial to the bar at Duke’s, where bar manager Alessandro Palazzi starts with a frozen glass and garnishes the finished product with either the peel of an Amalfi lemon or olives from Puglia. James Bond creator Ian Fleming drank at Duke’s—he is said to have written part of “Casino Royale” there. But you should ignore the awful Fleming 89, made with vodka infused with Tonka beans and chocolate bitters, in favor of Bond’s own favorite, a martini he named the Vesper after the novel’s gorgeous female lead, Vesper Lynd.

The Vesper is served—according to Bond’s instructions to the bar man in Casino Royale—“in a deep champagne goblet” (which means that my boy Gary Cooper could indeed have been drinking one), and is made with “three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet.” It is then shaken “very well until it’s ice-cold” and garnished with a “large thin slice of lemon peel.”

My father is partial to Gordon’s, but in a plain old fairly wet martini garnished with an onion, which technically makes it a Gibson. He is also partial to other martini drinkers. So it was that when he spied Bill Blass in the bar at the Jockey Club in Washington, D.C. with a straight-up martini happily in hand, he introduced himself and they became fast friends. On the face of it, they were an unlikely pair: a world-famous dress designer and a businessman and politico from the Mississippi Delta. But Blass was at least as cool as Gary Cooper and Clarke Reed could easily have held his own with that bunch at Romanoff’s. Because they both knew/know how to hold their gin, in every sense of the word.

So far, the movie has gotten abysmal reviews, but everyone raves about Andrea Riseborough’s performance, as well as her clothes, which are shown in some of the images above.

Top row, from left:

Andrea Riseborough and James D’Arcy as the Duchess and Duke of Windsor in “W.E.”

The Duke tried to make up for the fact that his wife could never be referred to as “H.R.H.” by commissioning a boatload of very royal baubles. Almost every piece was made by either Cartier or Van Cleef & Arpels, who crafted this stunning dogwood brooch, available at Richters Jewelry, above.

When Sotheby’s auctioned The Duchess’s jewelry in 1987, it brought in more than $50 million, setting a record (broken by the Elizabeth Taylor auction late last year). Another auction of more personal pieces in 2010 brought in an additional $12 million.

Andrea Riseborough as the Duchess in one of her signature black veils. Get the look with Susan van der Linde’s oh-so-chic black satin draped pillbox with large diamond French veiling.

Channel the Duchess’s look by leafing through “The Thirties in Vogue.” She snagged the King in 1936, and among the items in her trousseau were 18 pieces from the summer 1937 collection of designer Elsa Schiaparelli, a Vogue favorite.

Bottom row, from left:

De Corato’s dashing straw fedora is almost identical to the ones once sported by the Duke—and the Duchess too, at times.

In “The Heart Has Its Reasons, The Memoir’s of the Duchess of Windsor,” the much maligned Duchess finally gets to tell her own story. This hard-to-find collector’s item is not only available at Nick Harvill Libraries, it is signed by the author herself!

These Retro Super Future glasses in a Panama Frame are almost exactly like the ones sported by the Duchess in the movie (see above), and in real life.

In “W.E.” Andrea Riseborough wears a vintage waist-cinched Dior dress, Get the look with a similar royal blue frock by Plein Sud, available at G. Gilbert.

Among the countless stellar creations is the signature gin martini, which, if memory serves me correctly, came wheeled to our table, accompanied by a white gloved barman who deftly pulled a bottle of Tanqueray 10 from beneath, and proceeded to offer us a selection of the finest dry vermouths and house-made bitters. Carefully poured, artfully stirred and gently presented, it was, in a word, perfect: this was not drinking, this was living (like the other half, I might add.)

What I took away, aside from a burning jealousy that they were so damn good, was that a bar cart, no matter how simple, can elevate anyone’s home cocktail experience. We are in the process of constructing one for Jack Rudy based on a design found in my great-grandfather’s basement, but in the meantime, there are great finds to be had at thrift stores across America. Your guests will be pleased, no doubt.

For my own martini quaffing, I prefer Plymouth Gin, an incredibly subtle gin distilled from only 7 botanicals, including that stalwart of the gin world: juniper. I love it because it’s not only quite smooth in a stirred martini, but also because I once was told that it was Benjamin Franklin’s favorite gin – that was enough reason for me, taste be damned. For dry vermouth, I prefer Dolin, produced in France. I’ll take mine with a lemon twist; for a different take, try a peel of grapefruit, about the size of a half-dollar, and squeeze it over the cocktail to finish. Drink what you like, remembering only this rule: stir, never shake.

2 ounces Plymouth Gin

.75 ounces Dolin Dry Vermouth

Add ice, and stir.

Strain into a martini glass, and garnish with a peel of lemon.

Brooks Reitz

Shop Heirloom Books on Taigan.com for Brooks’s excellent Jack Rudy Small Batch Tonic.

Rogers, born in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, came to Manhattan in the 1950s and started his own ad agency in 1974.  In the next three decades he created some of the most memorable slogans of the century: “If you don’t look good, we don’t look good” (for Vidal Sassoon); “Danskins are not just for dancing;” “Demanded by and created by perfectionists” (for Baccarat). He did ads for Arnold Scaasi (“Me and my Scaasi…”) and for his friend and Connecticut neighbor Bill Blass. But his most famous campaign remains “What becomes a legend most?”

That tagline was for ads that included pretty much every female legend on the planet swathed in nothing but Blackglama mink. Among the women delighted to pose were Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Crawford (a good friend Peter always referred to as simply “Crawford”), Claudette Colbert (another close friend) Rita Hayworth, Marlene Dietrich, Lauren Bacall, Eartha Kitt, Lillian Hellman, Diana Ross. The list goes on and on.

These days I am thrilled to report that Peter has moved back South, to a divine house in the French Quarter of New Orleans, which means that I am spoiled by his proximity. He is the most generous guest in the world, toting over a case of some wonderful wine every time he’s asked for dinner and reciprocating with relaxed suppers featuring his justifiably famous chili or a Brazilian feast cooked up by his right-hand woman Rosa. He is also a fabulous portrait painter, a great patron of good causes (I’m happy to say his latest is the Ogden Museum of Southern Art, where I’m board chair), and the world’s most loyal friend.

I love going to Peter’s house because it is so beautiful and light-filled—but also because I can ogle all the Blackglama portraits for the fiftieth time. The originals are in the Smithsonian and they deserve to be—they transport the viewer to a lost age of genuine glamour. Those legendary women might have been happy to wrap themselves up in a luxurious fur (part of the deal was they got to keep it), but the last thing they needed was a stamp of approval in the form of anyone else’s initials.