Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not usually in the business of tutting at shoes. I’m not the keeper 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 turns up in a tuxedo paired with gleaming white trainers — well, I start to wonder if the world hasn’t finally gone mad.
Now, of course, Gordon Ramsay owns the place. If anyone can decide the dress code at a table of his own, it’s the chef-proprietor himself. He can serve pigeon in a paddling pool and wear pyjamas if he likes. But ownership doesn’t equal immunity from taste. There’s a line between “relaxed contemporary cool” and “I’ve given up”. And I’m afraid, Gordon, that night you were teetering perilously close to the latter — in trainers, no less.
What made the spectacle even starker was the company. This wasn’t a boozy mates-only dinner down the King’s Road. It was a black-tie celebration for Beckham’s knighthood — the culmination of a decades-long campaign of service, brand management and quiet self-reinvention. And Sir David, to his eternal credit, turned up looking like a walking Bond franchise: the tux razor-sharp, the shoes mirror-bright, posture immaculate. Even, the now Lady Victoria, never knowingly underdressed, embodied old-school grace. Around the table, guests glimmered in black and silk, the dining room itself a temple of fine formality. Then there was Gordon, beaming proudly, I’m sure for pone of his closest friends, but looking as if he’d dashed straight from the pass to the party without time to lace up.
Let’s not kid ourselves: trainers with a tux aren’t a bold fashion statement anymore. They’re the lazy man’s rebellion, the sartorial equivalent of mumbling at a job interview. Once upon a time, it was rock stars and artists who broke the rules; now it’s millionaires pretending to be effortless. And in the hallowed dining room of Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, where the sauces are reduced to the millisecond and the tablecloths are ironed flatter than the M25, that nonchalance rings hollow.
There’s an old idea that what you wear to dinner says something about how seriously you take the company you’re in. Dress up for the people you respect. Make an effort for the moment. And when that moment is the knighthood of one of Britain’s most famous men, perhaps a pair of Oxfords wouldn’t kill you. Beckham understood that instinctively. Ramsay, alas, looked like he’d mistaken “three-star” for “street-food pop-up”.
I’m not saying we should all resurrect the tailcoat. God knows no one needs more starch in their life. But some occasions, and this was one, still deserve their sense of ceremony. A knighthood isn’t just a social media milestone. It’s the country tipping its hat to a lifetime of excellence, captaining of England, his involvement in the 2012 London Olympics and numerous charities including His Majesty’s Kings Trust (formerly the Princes Trust). The dinner that follows should match that spirit of reverence. If the chef-host can’t be bothered to put on proper shoes, why should anyone else bother to polish their manners?
Of course, Ramsay might argue that he’s a man of modern tastes, that the Michelin world needs loosening up, that formality is for dinosaurs. Maybe. But there’s a world of difference between evolution and erosion. When everything becomes casual, nothing feels special. And part of the allure of fine dining — and indeed of honours, titles, rituals — is that they are special. That they demand something extra of us. A little theatre. A little respect. A little polish.
The irony is that Ramsay, of all people, understands precision. His entire empire is built on it — on the poise of a sauce, the placement of a garnish, the glint of a knife. He’ll bark at a chef for an overcooked scallop, but when it comes to footwear, apparently anything goes. Perhaps he thought the trainers were a cheeky modern touch, a wink to contemporary cool. But against the tableau of gleaming glassware, bow-tied guests and Beckham’s effortless suavity, it just looked … off. Like ketchup on foie gras.
Then again, maybe that’s the point. Maybe Ramsay wanted to telegraph that fine dining is evolving — that even at its summit, the rules are ready to bend. But there’s a danger in bending them too far. Because when even the guardians of refinement decide that effort is optional, the very idea of “special” starts to crumble. And if there’s anywhere that should still demand a bit of theatre, a bit of occasion, it’s the dining room of a three-star restaurant celebrating a newly minted knight of the realm.
In the end, this isn’t really about shoes. It’s about symbolism. The Michelin stars, the knighthood, the restaurant, the clothes, all of it speaks a shared language of aspiration. And in that language, trainers say something else entirely. They say: I don’t care that much. And perhaps that’s fine if you’re catching a flight or popping to Waitrose. But when you’re toasting Sir David Beckham under chandeliers, it feels just a bit … cheap.
So, Gordon — you own the restaurant, the name, and the night. But sometimes ownership carries responsibility. And on this occasion, when everyone else rose to meet the grandeur of the moment, your shoes let the side down. The food was I am sure was flawless, the wine divine, the conversation sparkling. But those trainers? They were the only thing in the room that didn’t quite fit.
