“I should have worn a tie!” my friend lamented, looking around at what was admittedly a beautiful dining room. We laughed at the time. “I really don’t think it matters, James. That lady over there is literally in leggings.” But reflecting on the restaurant afterwards, I couldn’t help but feel he had a point. It was a nice meal (Michelin-starred, since you’re asking) in a nice place (London’s Chiswick neighborhood) with people who could presumably, by virtue of their being in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Chiswick, afford to dress up for dinner. And yet while half the dining room was in shirts and skirts, the rest were in jeans and luxury sportswear.
For years, I applauded this—hailed it as a sign that eating out was becoming ever more egalitarian. It’s tempting, when you write about the rarefied world of restaurants, to point at a grown man eating foie gras in a fleece and insist that this world is somehow “accessible.” Look more closely, however, and you’ll find that said man’s fleece is from Patagonia, while his dining companion is wearing Lululemon leggings. It’s not that they don’t have, or can’t afford, ties and dresses; they’ve just chosen to dress for a fine dining restaurant as if they were on a two-day hike in—well, Patagonia.
Of course, there are many places where such attire is acceptable and even preferable to dressing up, though the food is as good as you’ll find in “classier” establishments. Local wine bars, chef-led pubs, food markets like Arcade and Kerb—Britain is now replete with high-quality, casual-dining joints where even the suits roll up their sleeves and remove their jackets. Donning a jacket or heels here would create a sense of self-consciousness that the whole “concept” of the eatery is designed to undermine. It’s a fundamental part of their magic.
But in a restaurant where solicitous staff, elegant furnishings, and cloth napkins create a more refined atmosphere, the polite thing is surely to dress up a little. This is true whether the menu is $400 or $40 a head. It’s respectful to the staff, who are smartly dressed themselves, and who will spend their evening ensuring yours is enjoyable and carefree. It’s respectful to the chefs, who have cooked all day and will spend all evening plating up a menu of multiple, multi-sensory courses. And it’s respectful to your fellow diners, some of whom might have saved for months for the privilege of being able to eat there.
Because for every couple for whom this meal is just another Wednesday evening, there’s several celebrating their wedding anniversary or another significant milestone. If a restaurant is any good, there are—as acclaimed restaurateur Jeremy King once told me—people running the whole gamut of life within its four walls. For most people these days, eating in restaurants is a luxury. Dressing up is part of that – or it should be. If nothing else, slipping into something nice serves as an act of sartorial delineation between the restaurant and your own kitchen table.
But it’s more than that, for me. It’s a mark of appreciation for the fact that I can afford to do this, that I have health, (relative) wealth, and time at my disposal. That, in and of itself, is astonishingly, extraordinarily lucky, even before you bring crab with pickled apple and caviar into the equation. Above all, though, it’s just nice. Especially now, when we’re often working from home, it’s fun to change in anticipation of going out for dinner. I’m not arguing for a full tie and suit, or heels and a dressy dress—unless that’s your thing. No one should be forced into wearing something that makes them physically or psychologically uncomfortable. But if it’s true, as Flaubert famously wrote, that pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory, then dressing up for dinner is more than polite. It’s a pleasure.