Editor’s Note: The Hungarian Countess Louise J. Esterhazy was a revered — and feared — chronicler of the highs — and customarily lows — of fashion, society, culture and more. Over the course of several a long time (although she never really counted and firmly avoided any reference to her age), the Countess penned her missives from her pied-à-terres in Manhattan, Nantucket, Paris, London and Gstaad, in addition to wherever her travels took her, from California to Morocco.

And it seems the Esterhazy clan by nature is full of strong opinions, because WWD Weekend has now been contacted by the Countess’ long-lost nephew, the Baron Louis J. Esterhazy, who has written from Europe to specific his abhorrence about quite a few modern fashion and cultural developments. The Baron’s pen is as sharp as his late aunt’s and, so, here is his first column about what he considers a bane of contemporary men’s dress: the monogrammed shirt. 

As standards of men’s dress sense slide inexorably downhill toward everyone, all over the place and at all times wearing only flammable sportswear, one has to applaud the man who hails back a generation or two and still turns himself out like a Sixties Hollywood screen swoon.

After I was born — like my beloved late Aunt Louise, I’m not saying when — most men wore hats, on a regular basis. My papa wore a bowler hat to the office, where he did nothing but make diary dates for dinner parties, weekend pheasant shoots and jollies on other people’s yachts. Any photograph from prior to 1962 shows not a bare head in the group.

My youngest progeny commented recently as I waited at airport security to fly to our schloss within the Alps: “Look, you might be the one man on this whole line wearing proper shoes.” It was not a compliment. I feel she sees me as a sartorial dinosaur.

The identical daughter and I developed a game which passed the time — especially well in an airport — which involved giving scores out of 10 to fellow passengers for being “properly dressed.” For a person, a suit or coat and tie (never a jacket, as “potatoes have jackets”) warranted an instantaneous high rating, as did “proper shoes.” “Trackies” or any type of athletic gear hammered a person’s grading. We barely ever awarded a ten….The common was probably near a miserable rating of three. And that was grading on a curve. 

And so we come to the frippery of fashion — when even an item many men might consider “proper dress” actually is anything but.

Take the monogrammed shirt. Now, don’t get me improper, I like a monogram. A friend once said if our West Highland Terrier sat still for long enough, I’d monogram him. Monogramming is an atavistic response for those, like most Esterhazys, who were sent to boarding school at too young an age. It’s marking our territory and discourages petty theft. My washbag, hairbrushes, shoe bags, luggage, gunslips, briefcases, diary, overnight bag, suit carrier and notepad are all initialed. My grandfather had a complete valise of brushes, combs and silver topped glass bottles for hair lotions and potions — all monogrammed. (That thing would surely go through airport security today!)

I do, nonetheless, draw the road on the monogrammed shirt. Now, I do know many a reader — especially within the U.S. and continental Europe — will take exception to this. My German wife (aka the Generalquartiermeister) tells of her beloved father, who was a noted dandy of his day, not only had every shirt monogrammed, but additionally had a bit of bespoke furniture built wherein each shirt had its very own draw. She is an enormous supporter of initialed shirts as being the true mark of a gentleman.

But I urge to differ entirely because, way back an ocean-going snob (OK, my father) once told me that one should take pity on the person who has his initials placed on his shirt. That’s because in times passed by, while the true gentleman had his laundry done at home by the household servants and dutifully returned to his dressing-room cupboards by his personal valet, the “middle manager” was required to send his shirts out, down the road to the local washer-woman. The initials on the shirt indicated to said washer women which house the items needs to be returned to. Hence, the pity thing. (I’m not saying my father was politically correct; god forbid what the response to lots of his thoughts could be today.) 

Today, prominently displayed shirt initials simply shout with great volume that the shirt is pricey and bespoke. Surely, redundant on a well-made shirt? 

One other risqué fashion move for a fellow, which also shouts a tad loud, is the Prince of Wales checked suit. One can all but hear it screaming from inside a person’s closet. One well-dressed friend once correctly and succinctly said to me: “Prince of Wales suit, eh? Never, unless one is…and also you actually ain’t!”

I recently got here across a jovial man “in the style industry” at a Paris ceremonial dinner who was sporting a “PoW” checked suit so garish that I believed him to be an old-fashioned circus clown, who hadn’t the possibility to alter his outfit before leaving the Big Top after a protracted day’s work. I couldn’t help but ask him: “Did you truly buy that, or was it given you as a practical joke?” His reply can’t be repeated — but luckily didn’t lead to violence. 

Lastly, returning to the theme of putting one’s initials on things, all men I do know who shoot (I’m, in fact, talking pheasants, partridge and grouse) have an initialed cartridge bag. That is for a great purpose. When one arrives at the following “drive” and reaches into the rear of the mud spattered Range Rover, there could also be as much as 5 – 6 cartridge bags laying around…all elegantly battered and patinaed through good usage over many a long time. Taking one other man’s cartridge bag could be nearly as improper as taking one other man’s wife; hence the monogram is important. (As an aside, perhaps I should monogram the Generalquartiermeister, although perhaps that isn’t PC either?)

Nonetheless, there’s one exception to this, which I heard just this past shooting season. For individuals who are truly and properly grand (or pretending to be), the query posed is, “What’s a cartridge bag?” Because, in fact, the truly privileged won’t carry their very own cartridges or cartridge bag. They’ve a man-servant, or ‘loader,’ to do the carrying and the loading of shells into the top of the shotgun barrels. This query due to this fact is the hunting akin to Downton Abbey’s Dowager Countess of Grantham’s now famous query: “And, what is a weekend?”

Those were the times.