On a recent shooting weekend, in a spasm of hostly insouciance, the lady of the house turned to the gathered guests and said: “Oh, by the way, we won’t be dressing for dinner” — at which point I noticed the kindly older American gentleman next to me turn roughly the same colour as his powder blue shirt. (This was very much not the type of weekend he’d had in mind, clearly.) 

After reassuring him that there would be no mandatory nakedness (or not yet, anyway), I reflected on that anachronistic phrase ‘dressing for dinner’ (which, as you’ll know, simply means ‘wearing black tie’) — but also on the changing formalities around dining attire over the past few decades. 

One of the more telling scenes in Brideshead Revisited (1945) comes as the naif Charles Ryder walks into the Flyte family’s dining room for a simple Tuesday night supper wearing a normal blazer and shirt — and finds his hosts, to his horror, arranged around the table in spotless black tie. It is one of those tiny ruptures of manners that reminds Charles (and us) that he is distinct and separate from the Flytes, in all their chilly, ancient grandeur. But also that clothes, so often, are the apparently calm surface on the broiling sea of anxieties, snobberies, unwritten rules and strange conventions that churn in the depths.

What might the Flytes of the world have worn today? Black tie now falls strictly into the category of ‘occasion-wear’ (weddings, 21sts, 50ths, etc), whereas, up until about the late 1980s, it was deployed for more regular use — Wednesday dinner at the old Annabel’s, say, before losing the family Chagall on a hand of chemin a fer. 

Nowadays, those sporting black tie into Mayfair on a Wednesday evening are more likely to be attending the ‘Telecom Hardware Suppliers of the Year Awards’ in the third best ballroom of a Park Lane hotel. This is dining of a kind. But dressing for dinner in 2026 is a far more varied and complex thing, as tastes and dress codes splinter away from the monocultural 20th Century.

The set play in St James’s and Mayfair, for example, where club rules often still mandate blazers and collars, is a navy blazer and white shirt — the de facto uniform of the expense-account classes, from gallerists to wealth managers. Which is not to say that this combination can’t be immensely elegant, especially when inflected with a certain European (by which I increasingly mean Milanese) sensibility. Think softer shoulders, broader lapels, clubbier patch pockets, a proper collar on the shirt, and well-fitting trousers — perhaps charcoal flannel, or pleated navy chinos, or good dark jeans. 

The value of this look is in its subtle flexibility. You can go from a lunch meeting to an afternoon of Zoom calls to a dinner at Harry’s Dolce Vita and then on to pretty much anywhere else in the capital, and you know you will look neither too scruffy nor too formal.

Meanwhile, where the dress code is not quite so prescriptive, there is now an emphasis on quality over formality. This, again, is informed by a high-European sensibility, I think — the Loro Piana-fication of style. Think the very best quality suede chore jackets; excellent long-fibre cashmere in chocolate brown, caramel, charcoal, midnight blue. 

On the feet: something like Loro Piana Open Walks, Tod’s desert boots,  off-white, minimalist sneakers (perhaps Brunello Cucinelli, say) or Belgian loafers. If a blazer is worn in this mode, it is often with a knitted polo beneath it, say, or perhaps a crew neck merino wool sweatshirt. I have to say this is an improvement over the buttoned-up formality of yesteryear — a modern code with a subtle emphasis on comfort, which in itself stems from well-fitting clothes made to the highest quality. Perhaps we would call this Succession-core, or maybe even ‘Gstaad Guy’ chic. There is certainly the pleasing implication of chauffeured ease to all those immaculate, buttery goat fibres.

 The third and final variant of modern dinner dress, however, comes alive almost exclusively in the summer months, and can rightfully claim dual-citizenship — a look with its roots in the prep/ Ivy movement of the East Coast (which itself harks back to English upper class dressing); and also in the terraced lifestyle of the French and Italian Rivieras. Here, where the evening temperature idles at a pleasing 20-something degrees, one requires little more than a good linen shirt and a jumper slung relaxedly over the shoulders when heading out for bouillabaisse or vongole. (Alain Delon remains the paradigm here.) 

This is best paired with linen trousers (try Hackett), ideally with a good shape on them (though certainly not too rigidly tailored). Opt for a stone or off-white in tone, or more reliably, a deep navy. The jumper can carry far more colour and verve — I often favour biscuitty tones, but pistachio green, raspberry pink, or even a burnt orange can work excellently in the fragrant twilight. 

The shirt itself should be proper. A decent collar (you might even opt for collar stiffeners) is preferable, as is the highest-quality linen in startling white, pale blue, mid-blue, or perhaps pale pink. And nothing too darted or slim-fitting, please. You want the fabric to gently catch the fig-scented evening breeze like the sail of that mahogany racing sloop bobbing presently in the harbour. Saluti.