Let’s be clear: I don’t usually make shoes. I am neither the guardian of the brogue nor the patron saint of patent leather.
But when a man hosts a dinner at his own three-Michelin-starred restaurant to celebrate the newly knighted Sir David Beckham and shows up in a tuxedo and crisp white sneakers, well, I wonder if the world hasn’t gone completely mad.
Now, of course, the shop belongs to Gordon Ramsay. If anyone can dictate the dress code at their own table, it’s the chef himself. He can serve pigeons in a paddling pool and, if he wants, he can wear pajamas. But possession does not equal immunity to taste. There’s a line between “relaxed contemporary cool” and “I’ve given up.” And I’m afraid, Gordon, you came dangerously close to the latter that night – in sneakers, no less.
What made the spectacle even more impressive was the company. This wasn’t a drunken, friends-only dinner on the King’s Road. It was an elegant celebration of Beckham’s accolade – the culmination of a decade-long campaign of service, branding and quiet self-renewal. And Sir David, to his eternal credit, looked like a walking Bond franchise when he appeared: his tuxedo razor-sharp, his shoes shiny, his posture impeccable. Even the current Lady Victoria, who was never consciously underdressed, embodied old-school grace. At the table the guests shimmered in black and silk, the dining room itself was a temple of fine formality. Then there was Gordon, beaming proudly, certainly one of his closest friends, but he looked like he’d stormed straight from the pass to the party without having time to lace up.
Let’s face it: sneakers with a tuxedo are no longer a bold fashion statement. They are the lazy man’s rebellion, the fashion equivalent of mumbling at a job interview. Once upon a time there were rock stars and artists who broke the rules; Now it’s millionaires who act like they’re effortless. And in the hallowed dining room of the Gordon Ramsay restaurant, where the sauces are reduced to the millisecond and the tablecloths are ironed flatter than at the M25, this nonchalance rings hollow.
There’s an old idea that the clothes you wear to dinner say something about how seriously you take the company you’re in. Dress for the people you respect. Make an effort for the moment. And if this moment is the knighthood of one of Britain’s most famous men, perhaps a pair of Oxfords wouldn’t kill you. Beckham understood this instinctively. Unfortunately, it looked like Ramsay confused “three stars” with “street food pop-up.”
I’m not saying we should all revive tailcoats. God knows no one needs more strength in their life. But some occasions, and this was one, still deserve the meaning of ceremony. A knighthood isn’t just a social media milestone. It is the country that takes its hat off to a lifetime of excellence: the captaincy of England, his involvement in the London 2012 Olympics and numerous charities, including His Majesty’s Kings Trust (formerly the Princes Trust). The dinner that follows should reflect this spirit of reverence. If the chef doesn’t bother to put on proper footwear, why should anyone else bother to improve their manners?
Of course, Ramsay could argue that he is a man of modern tastes, that the Michelin world needs to be lightened up and that formality is for dinosaurs. Perhaps. But there is a world of difference between evolution and erosion. When everything becomes casual, nothing feels special. And part of the appeal of good food – and indeed of honors, titles and rituals – is that they are special. That they demand something special from us. A small theater. A little respect. A little polish.
The irony is that Ramsay, of all people, knows something about precision. His entire empire is built on it – the posture of a sauce, the placement of a side dish, the glint of a knife. He’ll bark at a chef about an overcooked scallop, but when it comes to shoes, apparently anything goes. Perhaps he thought the sneakers had a bold, modern twist, a nod to contemporary cool. But against the backdrop of shiny glassware, bow-tie-wearing guests and Beckham’s effortless politeness, it just seemed… out of place. Like ketchup on foie gras.
Then again, maybe that’s the point. Perhaps Ramsay wanted to signal that the restaurant industry is evolving—that the rules, even at their peak, are willing to change. But there is a danger of bending it too far. Because when even the guardians of sophistication decide that effort is optional, the idea of “special” begins to crumble. And if there’s one place that still requires a bit of theater, a bit of occasion, it’s the dining room of a three-star restaurant celebrating a newly crowned knight of the empire.
Ultimately, this isn’t really about shoes. It’s about symbolism. The Michelin stars, the knightly order, the restaurant, the clothing – all of this speaks a common language of aspiration. And in this language, coaches say something completely different. They say: I don’t care. And maybe that’s fine if you’re catching a flight or heading to Waitrose. But toasting Sir David Beckham under chandeliers feels a bit…cheap.
So, Gordon – you own the restaurant, the name and the night. But sometimes ownership also brings responsibility. And on this occasion, when everyone else stood up to meet the majesty of the moment, your shoes dropped. I’m sure the food was impeccable, the wine divine, the conversation sparkling. But these trainers? They were the only thing in the room that didn’t quite fit.
