I’ve been contemplating an overcoat for years, but the high cost and low priority have kept me from pursuing anything. Perhaps more importantly, the right cloth remained elusive. Then I took another trip to Naples this spring and Mariano Rubinacci showed me this vintage herringbone tweed.

Search over, wallet open.

Each segment of the herringbone pattern is more than twice the diameter of a euro coin–about five centimeters, or two inches, in width. Mariano tells me the cloth is 50 to 60 years old and somewhere around 18 ounces. Other than a similar piece in grey, it’s the last coat’s length available. I’d begun to think true large-scale herringbone overcoatings only existed in Apparel Arts illustrations and my imagination.

Cloth selected, it came down to discussing design–which was quite a bit more involved.

The overcoat I’ve had in mind is somewhat of a chimera: a military-style greatcoat with a storm collar, downward-pointing lapels, framed patch pockets, martingale half-belt, and a front that can be buttoned all the way up to the collar. The sleeves will have substantial cuffs, about 10 centimeters wide. Per usual Rubinacci practice, the sleeves will be set-in like shirt sleeves and the long center vent will be pleated over a buttoning closure. A detachable fur collar may or may not happen . . .

I understand that woolly tweed is not the traditional cloth for a greatcoat. In keeping with its military background, a grey or dark blue worsted overcoating is typical. But the tweed is a crucial element here. The ultimate goal is to capture the air of a military garment, without appearing costume. A tweed greatcoat won’t ever be mistaken for army surplus.

Anyway, I think you can be more eccentric with an overcoat than a suit. Proper overcoats are rare these days (at least in Manhattan), so there’s not much of an anchoring orthodoxy anymore.

Nonetheless, there is some true risk here, as I’ve really pushed Mariano outside his comfort zone. The above decades-old overcoat was brought out as a reference point for me. While, it’s not entirely off-base, but it is really more of a straightforward polo coat. Not what I’m looking for. Amongst other key changes, I’ve asked for the buttons to narrow in width toward the waist, creating a subtle ‘V’ configuration. This will create much wider lapels, but that’s okay by me.

 The plaid fabrics pictured represent the different wool lining choices available. While I’m not sure I need the added warmth, the middle cloth in brown and blue plaid looked too good with the herringbone tweed to pass up. Anyway, adding some color–even if only internally–nudges the coat a little bit further away from military uniform.

I don’t expect a fitting until this fall or winter, with delivery in January. The drawings above give some idea of what the overcoat should look like upon completion. The left and right illustrations are Mariano’s; the middle one is my take. Their rudimentary nature indicates just how much a client risks with the bespoke process. I’m only 51% sure of what the final coat will look like, and much of it will be a real surprise (hopefully pleasant). Let it never be said I don’t follow my own advice to trust your tailor.

Stay tuned. I’ll certainly keep you posted. In the mean time, would someone mind educating me on fur?

As some of you may know, I placed a special order for a breast wallet at Hermes back in December 2010. It was not a straightforward process.  As I personally experienced, even getting a salesperson to discuss special orders can be a struggle. But contrary to internet wisdom, it does not require spending millions of dollars or being an otherwise privileged client–just knowing what you want and some diplomatic persistence. I’m convinced that all the forum chatter about ‘establishing a relationship’ before a Hermes salesperson deigns one worthy of the right to merely ask about special orders is just a lot of hot air aimed at puffing up egos and boosting a perception of exclusivity.

Anyway, after seven months, I got an e-mail from the director of the Madison Avenue store letting me know the wallet is complete and ready for pickup. Much to Hermes’s credit, they delivered smack in the middle of the timeframe they estimated at the time of order. After dealing with a multitude of southern Italian craftsman, that sort of efficacy is downright revelatory.

The wallet is pretty much exactly as I imagined–with one minor, harmless deviation. I thought the ‘Hermes Pari Made in France’ text was going to be embossed gold, not silver. No real matter, but it totally derailed my plan to get my initials embossed in gold. For whatever reason, silver embossing in this context isn’t nearly as appealing to me. So, instead, I had them emboss the monogram without any gold or silver leaf. I’m not sure if I’ll leave it plain or later fill it with silver, but I can always make the call later on.

Obviously I had the monogram placed inside the wallet, rather than outside, which is perhaps more orthodox. I’m not sure if it was the right choice, but ultimately I erred on the side of discretion.

Unfortunately, I’m not well-versed in leather goods craftsmanship, so I’ll have to refrain from any detailed commentary. I will simply say that the stitching and edge-finishing appears completely faultless to my eye and is noticeably neater than what I’ve seen on things made by other companies. My last wallet was a hip wallet made by Swaine Adeney & Brigg in bridle leather, which is not worth comparing since the leather types are so different.

Speaking of the leather–it is very, very nice. Soft, smooth, and uniform. The embossed grain is the right scale. While I’m worried about durability, I would have stuck with Brigg if I wanted something more bullet-proof but less elegant. The director handling my order told me I can expect the leather to develop a patina over time, too.

For anyone interested, Hermes calls this particular grained calfskin ‘Evergrain’. The color is ‘Laurier’ and the wallet model is ‘Fleming’. Try asking a Hermes sales person for a ‘dark green, pebble-grained breast wallet’ and see what happens. I dare you. Trust me, or risk losing a good part of your day and too much of your sanity.

Anyway, I’m thrilled with this breast wallet. After the initial frustration of getting the special order discussions started, everything went very smoothly, with faultless service. Don’t let the Hermes snobs detract you. If I can successfully place a special order, so can you.

Patrizio Cappelli kindly sent me two fully unlined, unpadded seven-fold ties to contemplate before having my others de-padded. I haven’t had a chance to wear either, but at first blush they appear to be everything I originally expected.

Yes, they are both blue. Apparently, Patrizio noticed a subtle trend in my preferences!

As you can plainly see, there is absolutely no filler. It’s just silk folded on silk. Previously, I had understood “unlined seven-fold” to mean just that. However, when I received my order from Cappelli a few weeks ago, I learned that such is not the case. The ties are certainly unlined, as they lack any additional layer of fabric to cover the backside of the exterior silk. However, beginning halfway up each tie, two very thin layers of interlining (or ‘padding’, as Patrizio refers to it) are sewn-in, providing extra structure and stability. Hence, I had myself five unlined, but not unpadded, seven-fold ties. 

I don’t know if the miscommunication was caused by a mismatch between English and Italian nomenclature or simply due to my own technical ignorance (the far more likely explanation), but these two new ties are ’unlined’ in the way I originally meant.

A friend recently asked me what’s so special about the unlined seven-fold ties that I typically order. Truthfully, it’s not really a ‘better’ form of construction–a tie made in such a way will be no more durable or last any longer than any other well-crafted tie. It won’t even necessarily look different.

The closest thing I can come up with resembling an objective advantage is the increased comfort. Without any interlining or padding, an unlined tie feels particularly soft and light. Considering that you wear your tie all-day long, wrapped snuggly around your neck, the difference is more than neglible. That said, a very lightly lined four-fold can offer a similar feel, while better holding its shape wear-to-wear.

So, what gives? While I admit that there’s no direct aesthetic or functional benefit, a tie like the Cappellis pictured above is a beautifully crafted object that is pleasurable to handle and worth admiring on its own. To the extent personal enjoyment–and the confidence necessary to realize it–is essential to real style, the appeal of such a tie actually makes perfect sense.

While in Naples, I had the pleasure of visiting with Patrizio Cappelli, the renowned Neapolitan tiemaker. Two weeks later–presto! Five seven-fold, unlined ties appeared on my desk at work. Even if I had nothing else positive to say, I’d be throwing praise at the prompt delivery.

This was my fifth time in Naples, but I must admit I had trouble finding Patrizio’s shop. It’s located on Via Cavalleriza, which branches off of Via Filangieri, just off of Piazza dei Martiri and downhill from Via Chiaia. The surrounding area is one of the most pleasant in the city, and certainly the most upscale. So, getting a little lost actually turned into an enjoyable afternoon. Of course, I should’ve realized he’d be located in a courtyard, as so many of the fine men’s shops in Naples are. Mea culpa.

To my credit, all the internet photos of Cappelli’s shop suggest a one-room operation and therefore an on-the-street storefront. However, as I entered the courtyard and turned the corner, I realized that the atelier must be quite a bit more substantial than that. The gold plaque announcing “E. & G. Cappelli” is attached to a multi-floor, free-standing building.

After passing through a small foyer, the main section of the shop comes into view. It is dimensionally much deeper than suggested by all the photos that merely frame the glass table at the far end of the room. All along the left side of the shop are multiple shelves with loose silks and other tie fabrics to browse, organized by color and weave. To the right, some ready-made ties sit on display and a stairwell leads down to the shop’s lower level.

Downstairs, the main area is largely reserved for the display of finished ties. However, underneath the display tables are four or five wooden carts, each packed to the brim with every striped silk imaginable. All the most staid, traditional regimental patterns are available, but just as many less conventional configurations are included. I happened to find a particularly striking brown-and-navy striped repp for myself.

Out-of-view is a storage area and what looks to be  the actual workshop where the ties are made. One gets an idea of what the typical Cappelli customer prefers based on what is on view and what isn’t. Most of the displayed ties are four-fold and lined. Seven-folds are fewer, and the handful of ready-made unlined seven-folds must be retrieved from a box in storage.

Somehow, all five of the fabrics I picked for myself turned out to be navy blue. Shameful, I know, but what can I say? I know what I like. Anyway, the variety of silks available at Cappelli is mind-boggling, rivaling Marinella’s selection and exceeding it in some respects. Certainly, it is overall more interesting. There is not time enough in a day to sort through everything, so you’re better off coming in with a general idea of what you’re looking for. I just happened to be looking for navy blue.

I think they came out very well, but  I was expecting as much given the examples I’d already seen and which had lured me to the shop in the first place. They are exactly as ordered, but there was some miscommunication with respect to padding. While the ties are all seven-fold and unlined, they each have a layer or two of very thin padding sewn in. My Rubinacci seven-folds typically come without any padding whatsoever, so that’s what I was thinking of. I contacted Patrizio about it and he promptly offered to make the change for me. On that note, it is worth pointing out that Patrizio’s English is very good–a huge asset and not typical amongst Neapolitan tailors and craftsmen.

The workmanship appears comparable to Rubinacci’s. The distinction is in the material. Obviously, neither Rubinacci nor Cappelli produce their own silks, so much depends on the particular fabric one happens to pick from each shop. However, in general, Cappelli’s printed silks seem to be more substantial, but less soft. Not better or worse–but different.

By this point in time, I’ve tried multiple bespoke ties from each of Marinella, Rubinacci, and Cappelli. Marinella was my first experience. The ties most resemble the relatively thick, crisply finished, machine-sewn ties that one expects to find at a luxury department store in the States like Bergdorf. Not a bad thing, and Marinella executes that model exceptionally well. However, it’s the fabric selection that really shines. It is vast and absolutely unimpeachable, if not a little boring and slightly anonymous.

In contrast, Rubinacci and Cappelli both nix the standard luxury tie paradigm. Both unabashedly embrace the handmade nature of their product: dimensions will always diverge by some degree versus what is stipulated, edges will be soft and imperfect, and the little, irregular hand stitches will be readily visible. Rubbing the ties between your fingers, you can feel how purposefully light and loose the construction is. For many, the appeal of such a tie simply won’t calculate.

But for the converted, it’s hard to enjoy anything else. I’ve never returned to Marinella since my first order. They make a great tie, but not one that feels very special to me.

Between Cappelli and Rubinacci, the differences are more nuanced. Cappelli does default to a more moderate weight and thickness than Rubinacci, though Patrizio will make you what you like–lined, unlined, padded, unpadded, etc. As one might expect, Rubinacci is more single-minded. Even their padded four-folds don’t appear to have any innards. You have to peel each tie halfway open to expose even the slightest sliver of paper-thin padding. If you want something else, Rubinacci is not for you, but such ties are their speciality and they may be the best at making them.   

Yet, from my observation, the most striking distinction is in fabric selection. Cappelli’s is more broad, with far greater depth in standard patterns, such as stripes, dots, and micro-forals (the sort that dominate at Marinella). It is the better shop for finding the perfect stripped repp or exactly the right printed dots. On the other hand, the selection at London House is more edited and eccentric. You are less likely to like everything, but perhaps more likely to find a one-of-a-kind fabric that you absolutely must have.

I, for one, am happy to use both. At first blush, any difference in construction or material quality appears marginal. In this case, I think that’s high praise for each maker.

Apologies for the long delay since my last post. What with traveling to Naples and catching up with work after getting back to New York, I’ve been short on time. However, I managed to collect a lot of material on my trip that I hope will make up for it.

Of course, I spent a lot of time at London House. What with fittings for two new suits, hashing out overcoat ideas, and taking advantage of Mariano Rubinacci’s good company, it’s a wonder I got around to going anywhere else. There’s a lot to share, but I’d like to start with an inside look at the new laboratorio (well, new since my last visit in 2008).

The new space occupies the entire second floor above Rubinacci’s London House shop on Via Filangieri. Upon first impression, one cannot help but draw a contrast with the dark, cramped basement workrooms that many Savile Row tailors are confined to. London House is located at the top of Filangieri, where the street turns into Via dei Mille, so the work floor’s numerous floor-to-ceiling windows are well-situated to let in an immense amount of sunlight and fresh, sea-scented air.  

Mariano emphasizes the benefit of such a pleasant environment on worker morale–the tailors joked with me that they avoid venturing into the dark, street-level shop whenever possible. Yet, the practical utility is also immediately obvious: the space by every window is reserved for use by those who need the most light, including seamstresses sewing buttonholes.

The new laboratorio was also necessary to accomodate a broad expansion of the Rubinacci tailoring team. In my conversations with Mariano, he is always straddling the present, with one foot in the past and the other in the future. Even as he stresses the essentiality of preserving the traditions and knowledge of older, more elegant eras, he yearns to extend his family’s legacy beyond his own lifetime. It’s clearly a delicate balancing act.

Today, over 30 tailors work at London House, including trousermakers and shirtmakers. By my rough count, at least half are still in their 20′s. Such numbers bode well for the future, particularly with respect to the patronage of younger clients such as myself. One pays a considerable sum for a Rubinacci suit, so it is of great comfort that the firm is well-positioned to continue providing its services as the decades wear on. After all, as many bespoke clients can attest, the process is a very personal one and the thought of forced change is dismaying. For Mariano, the stakes are also close to the heart. As we walked the floor, he beamed fondly at what he’s created, remarking that he can now retire in good conscience, having properly prepared London House for his son Luca.

As Mariano and I chatted, it dawned on me that I didn’t have to raise my voice over any thrumming, clicking or buzzing. The only sounds one hears are the snipping of shears, interspersed with the occasional stomping and hissing of irons. Essentially every stitch in a Rubinacci jacket is done by hand. In fact, exactly two seams are machine-sewn: the one running down the length of the sleeves and the center seam of the back panel. Even those are hand-finished afterward. Utilizing such time-intensive labor, London House can produce only 1,000 suits per year.

Even as the team has grown larger and younger, it is assuring that age and experience are still privileged. The most difficult and important sewing is around the armhole, attaching the sleeve to the jacket’s body. Thus, the work is designated to the most experienced tailors and completed in a dedicated workroom. 

On the matter of recruiting talent, Mariano is blunt: he keeps his ear to the ground and goes after whoever garners a reputation for doing the best work, wherever the work is being done. He is all too aware that his prices are more than twice what other tailors in Naples charge, so the workmanship in his suits must be the absolute best. Toward that end, he has successfully taken tailors from some of the best competing firms in Naples, as well as from  the larger ready-to-wear/made-to-measure opertions, such as Kiton. In fact, many of the Neapolitan tailors I’ve met have openly admitted that Rubinacci’s quality is top-notch in the city.

Up until a few years ago, Rubinacci outsourced its trousermaking, as remains typical in Naples and amongst tailors elsewhere. Today, all trousers are made in-house by a dedicated trousermaking team. For me, this development turned out to be particularly fortunate.

In keeping with the more casual spirit of my summer suits, I made a last minute request for lapped trouser seams. The head trousermaker executed the change on the spot. Considering I had to catch my flight back to New York the same morning, it would have been impossible if my pants had to be sent crosstown.

Despite the significant expansion in operations, Mariano, Luca, and their four head cutters in Naples continue to take a hands-on approach to managing each individual order. When a client first starts with the firm, he is assigned a head cutter, who is responsible for drawing up and refining his pattern. From thereon, the assigned head cutter works on the garment himself, to whatever degree his time allows, delegating to the rest of the team as necessary. One head cutter might even pitch in for another, in the event of illness or uneven workload. Nonetheless, at the end of the day, your own head cutter is responsible for your order.

Mariano or Luca closely engage the tailors throughout each order’s execution. I was surprised that even an order for a single shirt was not too insignificant for Mariano to discuss in detail with the head shirtmaker. But then, the Mariano/Luca role is fairly unique in the tailoring world. They are neither front-of-the-shop men, nor business managers, nor designers, nor tailors. Rather, they are required to do a good bit of everything. As Mariano puts it, he considers himself an expert on style and the history of Neapolitan men’s dress, with a very good knowledge of tailoring, but depends on his tailors for technical know-how. He tells them what he wants to see; they let him know if it’s possible.

My tour of the laboratorio corresponded with the completion of two summer suits I ordered a month ago, both of which I expected to fly home with the same morning. My head cutter, Gennaro, and a team of five to six other tailors worked heroically through the weekend to get the order done on time.

I was admittedly a little panicked as the clock wound down to my departure time, but mostly I marvelled at the team’s speed and coordination. At any given point in time, there were at least two tailors working on each of my suits. Buttons had to be sorted and attached, holes had to be measured and cut, and hems shortened, lengthened, then shortened again.

With minutes to spare, I was rushed down to the front desk of the shop to fill out VAT forms as my suits were getting packed up. Luca and Mariano hailed a cab as I paid, and I was on my way in moments.

The ride to the airport was terrifying, but then every cab ride in Naples is terrifying. Still, I had my suits in hand, folded neatly into a large black shopping bag. It’s difficult to calculate the impact of my experiences in Naples over the past few years on my appreciation for the products, but I can certainly say that the experiences themselves are worthwhile. I heartily recommend you avail yourselve of similar opportunities–if your tailor is like Rubinacci, you don’t have to be a V.I.P., just a client.

It’s too bad it’s rainy in Manhattan today. Otherwise, I’d be wearing my new aviators from Randolph Enginnering.

These are a substantive upgrade over my old Ray-Ban 3026′s. First and foremost, I like the design better. The lenses are spaced further apart by a wider bridge, which better suits my broader face and flatter nose, and their angled shape is more flattering to my block of a head. Also, since each pair is made-to-order, I was able to specify the exact combination of frame (polished chrome, aviator style), lens (tan polarized, 58mm), and temples (bayonets). 

Second, the build quality is clearly superior. The metal frame itself is more substantial all around and suffers from less flex, and the hinges are much sturdier. While I understand the desire for light weight in eyewear, you don’t want frames so flimsy that they feel like they’re bouncing around on your face. I was perfectly happy with the 3026′s in that regard until I tried these on. By no means heavy, they feel much more secure and solid when worn. While only time will truly tell how durable these are, there is a lifetime guarantee on the frame’s solder points and individual replacement parts are available for order.

Third, the coolness factor of the Randolph aviators exceeds that of the Ray-Bans by magnitudes of magnitudes. Perhaps it shouldn’t really matter to me from an aesthetic point of view, but I find myself completely smitten with the fact that these are the aviators currently issued to U.S. military pilots and NASA astronauts. Yet, if one concedes that pride in country is integral to personality, I think one would also have to admit it must have a meaningful place in the wardrobe as well.

Now, I admit it was purely geeky to pick the bayonet temples–apparently that’s how the Air Force orders its aviators, as the bayonets are especially designed to fit unobstructively under headgear. Too cool. 

In case you had to ask, the Randolphs are U.S.-made. The Ray-Bans are Italian. While I obviously have no problem with Italian-made goods, the red, white, and green don’t signal quite the same level of glory in aviation.

Speaking of Italy, I’m still busy planning how to make the best use of my short visit to Naples next week. Much is still up in the air. However, I’ll certainly be sporting my new aviators with pride.

Growing up, I thought Fred Astaire was just another old fogey adored by my grandparents. Then, in college, I spent one blistering summer living with them.  That summer, Fred Astaire showed me that mountains can be moved with style and grace.

Astaire was born Fredrick Austerlitz in Omaha, Nebraska, just before the turn of the twentieth century. By the time he died in 1987, he was regarded as both the greatest popular music dancer of all time and one of the world’s greatest dressers, the icon of the Golden Age of American style. Short, frail, and not from great wealth, he was atypical of his Hollywood peers. But what he lacked in genetics and good fortune, he made up for with charm and good taste. Growing up the runt of the litter myself, it inspired me to see him rise above the challenges of life that are so often more self-imposed than real.  His style, as only genuine style can be, was an extension of himself—not compensatory for his eccentricities, but celebratory of them.

Yet, Astaire’s personal style was also a profoundly meaningful rallying call for the masses. He expressed an immutable brand of nonchalant elegance through the assemblage of basic components, each regularly available to the average man: striped neckties, button-down collars, double-breasted lounge suits, tweed jackets, and flannel trousers. Consequently, I’ve learned more about dressing while watching the twenty hours of his films than in the hundreds of hours I’ve spent trekking through the world’s major cities. My favorite on-screen examples of his style are Top Hat and Holiday Inn.

In Top Hat, the 1935 movie that paired Astaire with his life-long dance partner Ginger Rogers, he plays a internationally renowned song-and-dance man who finds himself in London on a leg of his world tour. In typical form, Astaire’s pairs wit, personal charm and good taste to achieve a sartorial presence a class above the blue-blooded Englishmen surrounding him. On purpose or not, the message is clear: all the lineage, pomp, and unearned wealth in the world cannot trump a man of character. Astaire appears in a full range of dress, including aristocratic white and black tie. However, it’s the flower shop scene that stands out: in utterly democratic tweed, flannel, and oxford cloth, Astaire gracefully faces down the stuffy sales staff with his uniquely American “aww shucks” manner.

Fred again assumes the role of a notable performer in Holiday Inn, sharing the stage with Bing Crosby. Crosby has always stood out to me for his remarkably unremarkable dress–his suits were bespoke from Savile Row but his style was nonetheless as bland as bland can be. This was true for much of Hollywood at the time. Boasting the finest bespoke suits, most men still faded into the sartorial background, the likes of Cary Grant and Gary Cooper notable standouts. In that context too, Astaire proves that style is more about personality than means. In a climactic scene, he appears at a Christmas Eve celebration drunk off his ass, wearing a overcoat with sheared beaver lapels. Think Benjamin Franklin in Paris. Even amidst a sea of men in impeccable black tie, he wows the crowd and wins the girl.

Astaire pulls it off as only Fred Astaire can. Yet, the lesson is not that we should all dress like Fred Astaire. Rather, he shows ut that style–at its most fundamental level–is built on character, not wardrobe.

Summer clothes remain a gaping weak spot in my wardrobe that I’ve finally summoned the motivation to remedy. Admittedly, I’m treading on unfamiliar territory.

My general plan is to bring Ambrosi some Irish linen from W. Bill on my visit to Naples, coming up in a couple of weeks. However, I’ve never thought through the concept of linen trousers before and find myself challenged in choosing the right colors. My goal is to pick something summer-appropriate, yet wearable on a daily basis, including to the office. Most often, they’ll be worn with a shirt only (no jacket, no ties)–and as many of you may know, all my shirts are blue.

If I didn’t have any practical concerns, I’d probably order five pairs of off-white linen and leave it at that. However, they’re a pain to keep clean and wearing off-white pants to work every day of the week would be rather conspicuous. As such, I’m inclined to pick one other color to go along with them.

The candidates are a cigar brown and medium cornflower blue, pictured above. The latter is more daring, for better or worse. I picked the lighter of the two cream/off-white colors because it will better complement the blue jackets from my pending summer suits.

Thoughts?

Yesterday, spring finally came to Manhattan in earnest and my wife surprised me with a picnic in Central Park. We had blueberry soda, foie gras, proscuitto sandwhiches, and Yan Yans. Miraculously, my new flannel trousers from Ambrosi survived unsullied. Staining them on their first wear would have been heartbreaking.

I didn’t bother with a shirt or jacket and just threw on an old college sweatshirt. The pants fit fantastically. After some arguing with Salvatore, I convinced him to increase the length a couple of centimeters. Over the years, I’ve decided I like at least a hint of break. Anyway, a touch of slouchiness is called for when it comes to flannel–which, I think, was successfully achieved.

Tailored clothing needn’t be relegated to dressing up (and dressing up shouldn’t be confused for dressing well). Light grey flannels are an excellent example. Their neutral color and and dynamic texture mean they complement nearly anything, whether an earthy tweed jacket or a brightly-hued polo shirt. Best of all, cut well, they are as comfortable as pajamas. If you want to dress them down decidedly, you can easily pair them with a ribbon or surcingle belt and canvas tennis shoes.

Order a couple pairs from a decent trousermaker. I promise they’ll make you think twince before reaching for your jeans.