The Dapper Dad

I looked down at my watch after taking that first refreshing sip of my Manhattan on the rocks last Saturday and noticed the time – 5:46pm. Only fourteen minutes away from the beginning of the end, the last judgment, the apocalypse, the end of the world or something to that effect. I grinned. I had sort of pushed the silly notion to the back of my mind since today was my best friend’s wedding and frankly a little mumbo jumbo was not going to distract me from a rare day alone with my wife (aka no kid in tow), friends, fine food and beverages and if all went well a rare cigar or some Cavendish in a pipe to end the night perfectly. I was dressed, and please pardon the delusional benchmark, better than James Bond (even Sean Connery’s). I even tied my own bowtie (the three quarters of an hour it took made me feel that much more debonair). I was sitting high up amongst the gathering clouds (literally), wearing a simple, yet elegant tux and nursing my drink at the Mandarin Oriental in mid-town Manhattan. I was ready to give the Rapture the finger.

Heaven or Hell I figured it would be proper etiquette to show up black tie. I think both establishments are fairly conservative and I did not want any trouble with the bouncers, if anything to avoid the inevitable trek back up or down when I was turned away for not having on the proper attire. I pitied the poor schmuck who had just sauntered in wearing brown loafers with white socks and a black belt – Purgatory was a much worse destination since it was neither here nor there.

The storm clouds circled closer and obstructed the breath taking view of Central Park and the rain starting beating against the glass in front of us. Fine, so my last memory would be of clouds, so what? I was dressed to the nines, I was in great company, having a drink and smiling. A perfect way to go in my humble opinion.

I was in a well-known haberdasher last week and noted to my dismay how dreadfully bankers dress. As I browsed some shirts I observed these seemingly well off (in the banking sense) men create the most appalling shirt and tie combinations I have ever seen. It is certainly true that money does not buy everything. I am certain that these men are emulating the bankers they see streaming into The City when they travel to London and yet they are utterly clueless to the secrets of Saville Row and Jermyn Street. When you fail to dress smart, your lack of style is even more glaring than if you are going for a more casual look. Bankers in this neck of the woods want so badly to look like the guys on the Financial Times or lounging on the yacht on The Robb Report that they purchase whatever it says in the bi-line or advertisement. What they are in desperate need of, however, is someone to actually mix and match their wardrobe so they do not look like a clown with a briefcase.

It is depressing to note that in a city like New York which shares bragging rights with other international cities as a fashion epicenter, the richest lot cannot match a tie with a shirt and mistaken khakis as business casual attire as long as it is paired with loafers and no socks. You end up with a line of wanna-be preppies who are neither meat nor fish. At least politicians in Washington have the excuse that they are, well, in DC.