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Hidden in the history of the tassel loafer is the story of why men’s dress has become increasingly casual with each passing generation. In the post-war period of the late-1940s, right when tweed jackets and Shetland sweaters dominated prep schools and Ivy League campuses, debonair actor Paul Lukas came back from Europe with a pair of oxfords. Their laces had little fringed tassels at the end, which Lukas thought made them look jauntier. So he took them to a couple of custom shoemakers to see if they could make something similar, and they in turn took the job to Alden. The company’s president at the time, Arthur Tarlow, came up with tassel loafers. That makes Alden’s model the original, and Paul Lukas the first man to wear this style. 

Alden’s tassel loafers were an instant success, but they didn’t exist in a vacuum. If you flip through any men’s clothing catalog from this period, you’ll see how much the idea of comfort had already supplanted Edwardian norms of propriety. Instead of high-button dress boots and gaiters, American clothiers were selling low-cut shoes such as white buckskins, brown oxfords, and canvas tennis shoes with rubber soles. In his 1982 Town & Country essay on loafers, which was later collected in his 1985 book Elegance, Bruce Boyer wrote: “To see these newer low-cut shoes side-by-side in the [1915] Brooks catalogue with the then more traditional higher-cut shoes is to realize immediately that back in 1915 the tide was unquestionably turning – had already turned in reality – and that men were allowing themselves more comfort in their dress. Heavy suits and boots, stiff collars, and high hats were all on the way out. Lightweight tweeds and flannels, button-down shirts and soft golf caps, Shetland sweaters and white bucks, had arrived.” The only thing missing from those 1915 catalogs were loafers, which were “the logical extension of comfortable and casual dress that marks the current century.” 

Tassel loafers were the norm by the 1960s, worn to business offices and government buildings alike, and favored by college graduates who wanted something dressier than their school-day pennies. But the tide turned again in the 1990s, when the style became a synecdoche for the country-club set and dishonest lawyers. In an all-too-often-cited New York Times article, Neil Lewis once reported that the term “tasseled loafer” was not just a way to describe a simple slip-on anymore, it was a political epithet:

The problem with buying nice things is never the cost of the items themselves, but the costs that can come after. Anthropologists call this the Diderot Effect, which is named after 18th century French philosopher Denis Diderot, who penned the essay “Regrets on Parting with My Old Dressing Gown.”

In it, Diderot rues throwing away his old gown after receiving a beautiful scarlet one from a friend. While initially delighted with the gift, his pleasure turned sour when he realized that nothing in his home properly reflected his new garment’s elegance. His tapestries were too shabby; his chairs creaky. So, one by one, he replaced his familiar, but well-worn furnishings with things that were fancier. He replaced his straw chairs with an armchair covered in fine Moroccan leather; his old desk with an expensive writing table; and his previously beloved prints with pricier paintings. 

In the end, Diderot found himself in debt and not even that comfortable in his new surroundings, as he realized his old possessions were just as good, if not better. “Why didn’t I keep my old dressing gown,” he lamented. “It molded all the folds of my body without inhibiting it; I was picturesque and handsome. The other one is stiff, and starchy, makes me look stodgy. There was no need to which its kindness didn’t loan itself, for indigence is almost always officious. If a book was covered in dust, one of its panels was there to wipe it off. If thickened ink refused to flow in my quill, it presented its flank. Traced in long black lines, one could see the services it had rendered me. These long lines announce the litterateur, the writer, the man who works. I now have the air of a rich good for nothing. No one knows who I am.”

It’s hard for me to imagine going without a pair of sneakers this time of year. Summer is about having the windows down and volume up, biking somewhere on a hot afternoon, and hanging your feet off a picnic bench while BBQ-ing with friends. Camp moccasins and penny loafers can be great for these sorts of things, but I also like having a pair of casual sneakers you can wear with jeans and camp collar shirts. 

I’ve cycled through a bunch over the years, but find I keep returning to the same ones (although, the first pair below were recently acquired). If you’re looking to get a pair this summer, here are some of my favorites. Since they’re mostly designer shoes based off classic silhouettes, I’ve included links to the originals, which are much more affordable. As sneakers go, the build quality between the low and high end of the spectrum is smaller than it is in dress shoes – almost everything is in design. I like the uniqueness of these versions, but their designers found the originals to be inspiring for a reason. 

Visvim Bamboo Skagways

To understand male fashion today, you have to go back to The Great Masculine Renunciation. Somewhere around the time of Beau Brummell and The French Revolution, European elites traded their sumptuous garb for utilitarian clothes that underscored their commitment to work over aesthetics. Ornate fashion was for women, not “serious men” focused on living out a life of the mind. The difference between these two eras couldn’t be starker. Just compare how extravagantly King Louis XIV dressed to the sobriety of President Macron.

This split in history, which divides men’s dress like the BC and AD periods of the Gregorian calendar, explains our attitudes towards male jewelry. Jewelry has a strange place in the world of men’s accessories. Scarves, gloves, and wristwatches are acceptable because of their utility; pocket squares and neckties are OK for no other reason than tradition. But once you get beyond a modest wedding band, the idea of a man wearing something ornate, expensive, and metal seems tacky. They offend a certain sensibility we find difficult to pinpoint or even justify, but nonetheless stand by. 

After the Second World War, jewelry has come in and out of fashion depending on how we feel about gender and class. In the 1970s, when it was socially acceptable for men to show a more feminine side, hippies and counter-culture types wore bracelets and necklaces; high-flying business elites wore flat links with pinstriped suits in the ‘80s; and surfers have been known to use Saint Christopher medallions as good luck charms. Throughout these periods, many men have worn jewelry well – even magnificently. Like others in the Harlem Renaissance, Langston Hughes occasionally wore a silver onyx ring to show a bit of personality. Marlon Brando, James Dean, and Paul Newman sported chunky, silver ID bracelets with jeans and t-shirts. And Yves Saint Laurent, one of the chicest to ever wear a suit, accessorized with a precious metal bracelet. 

Most books on men’s tailoring aren’t very good. Many recycle the same Wikipedia entries, or they do little more than serve as PR mouthpieces for a company. Sometimes they have a few good photos, but they’re the sorts of things you look at once and never remember. Rare is a book like Lance Richardson’s House of Nutter, which is one of the best books on Savile Row I’ve read in years.

House of Nutter is about the life and times of Tommy Nutter, a Savile Row salesman who created one of the most important tailoring houses in the post-war era. During the ‘60s, most of Savile Row specialized in staid and conservative suits, often following old traditions. Nutter, who originally worked the front of house at Donaldson, Williamson & Ward, wanted something more daring – something bolder. And he was able to turn that dream into a reality through Edward Sexton, the technical genius behind the curtain. Together, they made a look that defined the 1970s. Their house style was full-bodied and long, with a leafy silhouette, strong shoulders, and lapels so enormous, they nearly grazed the sleeveheads. Edges were sometimes taped; patch pockets cut on a bias. Mick Jagger, John Lennon, and Elton John – among many other celebs – wore their bombastic creations, and the tailoring continues to inspire designers today. 

Richardson’s book is great because it captures all of the romance of the clothes, as well as the bespoke process, without falling for the naive illusions common among laypeople (or, frankly, most fashion writers). It doesn’t get misty-eyed about bespoke tailoring, but also doesn’t feel cynical or technically sterile. Most of all, Richardson’s book is about the very thing that give clothes life – culture. This is a book about rock ‘n roll, the gay London scene during the 1970s, and even AIDS epidemic (which ultimately took Tommy Nutter’s life). An excerpt from the preface:

I’m convinced that no one who likes clothes can possibly like spring. The clothes are often less interesting; there’s less opportunity for layering. The cuts reveal more than conceal, and few of us look good naked. Whereas dressing for winter can be something of a paint-by-numbers exercise, dressing for spring is more like trying to solve a puzzle. How do you dress well, but also comfortably? 

It always takes me a while to switch wardrobes this time of year, but I often go back to the same things – breathable tailoring, button-down shirts, and loafers. For casualwear, it’s usually a field jacket or chore coat, then some raw denim jeans (gotta get those fades). I also like bolder shirts nowadays with unusual collars. If you’re looking for some style inspiration this spring, here are three things I’m really into at the moment. 

Some Spring Tailoring

“Want to know if a man is well dressed? Look down.” So wrote George Frazier, author of The Art of Wearing Clothes, a 1960s Esquire article considered by many to be the best thing ever written on men’s style. Yet, while the market for custom clothing grows each year, it’s rare to see custom footwear (rumors are even swirling about one of the more prestigious firms being on the brink of bankruptcy). For men who get custom suits and sport coats, shoes are the last part of their wardrobe that gets rebuilt. In his book Acquired Tastes, Peter Mayle suggests it’s because bespoke shoes smack of excess, “more shameful than a passion for cashmere socks.” He wrote: “Unlike the miracles of disguise that a tailor has perform in order to camouflage bodily imperfections, the shoemaker’s task is simple. Feet are feet.” 

I think he’s right, to a degree. As they say, God makes and the tailor shapes. It takes a skilled tailor to transform a two-dimensional piece of fabric into a three-dimensional form entirely different than your body (thankfully). Shoes, on the other hand, cocoon your feet like hard shells. So long as they don’t cut into your ankles, or fall off your feet, you’re fine. Aldens, for example, are built like empty Kleenex boxes. That’s partly why they’re so comfortable. 

The benefits of moving from ready-to-wear to custom for footwear aren’t the same as they are for tailored clothing, but they exist. For one, a custom shoemaker can shape the shoes in a way that’s a bit sleeker and more refined than what you’ll find in stores. The waist can hug your arches better; the toe box slimmed in a way that’s flattering, while remaining comfortable. Simon Crompton has written about this before. And if you care about craft for its own sake – the only justifiable reason for these prices, I think – then there’s no real comparison. 

I don’t mean to turn this site into a lifestyle blog – my life isn’t exciting enough for that anyhow – but if other sites can talk about fancy wines, steaks, and cigars, I’d like to think I can do the occasional off-topic post on something more relatable. For the last six months or so, I’ve been obsessed with coffee.

Getting the perfect cup of coffee is a bit like getting the perfect cut in clothes. It’s a mix of subjective taste and exact science, but also an elusive thing that you never quite catch. I first became interested in coffee last fall, when coffee reviewer Ken Davids made me a cup while we chatted about his website. I’ve had good espressos before, but this was on another level. The even balance, noticeable bright notes, and clean aftertaste just made for a different experience. It was very enjoyable.

Before I left his office that day, Ken gifted me an Aeropress. It’s a strange plastic device that looks like it belongs in a high-school chemistry lab, sitting next to beakers and Bunsen burners. The Aeropress is … not pretty … but where it falls short in aesthetics, it excels in performance. The Aeropress gives a cleaner brew than a French press, is faster than your average drip method, and has incredible versatility. You can use it to make almost anything short of a proper espresso. Moreover, since you get to control every variable in the process – the size of your coffee grounds, the temperature of the water, and the immersion time – you can hone in on your version of the perfect cup of coffee.