Consider the Smoking Jacket

I used to smoke cigars. Back in the day, there was little more enjoyable than a sunset sit on a hill in the country, with my wife beside me, a glass of wine in my hand, and an A.J. Fernandez New World cigar (my stogie of choice back then) protruding from my lips.

My lovely bride put up with the habit largely, I think, because the cigar smoke kept away the summertime skeeters and gnats, who have a tendency to feast on her tasty type O positive blood. Still, she hated the way I smelled after smoking, and my doctor didn’t care for the way it raised my already high blood pressure, so I eventually quit.

I finally watched the excellent 2017 film Darkest Hour, with Gary Oldman as Winston Churchill. As portrayed in the movie (and apparently borne out by historical fact), Churchill conducted affairs of state and led Britain to victory during WWII with a constant cigar in his mouth and an ever-present whiskey in his hand—even in the bathtub. Oldman was terrific in the role. His transformation into the portly, growly Churchill was a marvel of acting and makeup, and the film itself is tense and compelling. But there was one detail that stuck in my craw.

As an all-day drinker and smoker, Churchill must have smelled just awful. His clothes, breath, fingers, and skin must certainly have reeked of tobacco and Johnnie Walker Red Label (his whiskey of choice). According to contemporary accounts, there were piles of cigar ash throughout his home and office, and once his cigars burned out, Churchill would chew the frayed, masticated ends till they were pulp. He was forever burning holes in furniture, carpets, and his clothes—he once set his jacket aflame from a drooping cigar when he became too engrossed in reading—and his suits were often sent out for repair.

Yet in the film, Clementine Churchill never complains or so much as turns up her nose when he leans in for an embrace or a kiss. This despite evidence that she was highly intelligent and opinionated and, though steadfastly devoted, did not suffer fools—particularly her sometimes foolish Prime Minister husband. I am married to such a woman, and I know from personal experience that were I to smoke and drink and burn furniture all day, my wife would have more than a few things to say about it.

I realize I’m viewing this through a modern lens, but just as I’m willing to bet this was a serious domestic issue in the Churchill household, I’m also willing to concede that the filmmakers decided it didn’t merit any screen time. There was plenty for them to focus on, you know, what with Churchill busily spending his darkest hours battling Germans and his own Parliament to lead Britain to victory in World War II. Too bad, though. It would’ve made for fun, character-revealing dialogue:

CLEMENTINE: Winston, you are drunk, and what's more you are disgustingly drunk.
WINSTON: Clemmie, my dear, you are ugly, and what's more, you are disgustingly ugly. But tomorrow I shall be sober and you will still be disgustingly ugly.

(OK, so Churchill never would’ve said this to his wife, whom he loved to distraction. But allegedly the exchange did occur between him and Bessie Braddock, a Member of Parliament (of whom he was not quite as fond), who once berated Churchill as he left the House of Commons).

Now, I am certainly not an embattled world leader, nor an all-day drinker and smoker, but when I did smoke I took steps to remedy the problem of the smell. Whenever I lit up a cigar, I donned an old sweatshirt or hoodie in hopes that the fabric would help absorb the lion’s share of the smoke. By and large, it did. After removing the sweatshirt, followed by a wash of my hands and face and a gargle of mouthwash, you could hardly tell I’d smoked at all.

But all of that got me to wondering: whatever happened to the smoking jacket?

According to Wikipedia, the first smoking jackets came to fashion in the 1850s, and were shortened versions of the silk robe de chambre that gentlemen wore when lounging about the house. I’m talking rich, white dudes here, of course—the one percent—since your average bloke couldn’t afford the extravagance, let alone time to lounge. Still, everyone smoked at the time, and those who wished to be thought of as gentlemen embraced the smoking jacket with zeal. In one case, a penurious member of the British Parliament, who wanted to be painted wearing one for his official government portrait, rented a smoking jacket when he couldn’t afford to buy one.

In addition to its comfort and status, apparently the smoking jacket’s silk, satin, or velvet fabric excelled at absorbing smoke. And if you burned a hole in it, you could simply have it repaired or buy a new one, which was much cheaper than having to replace your expensive evening suit.

Speaking of which, it is said that the dinner jacket evolved out of the smoking jacket, and was credited to England’s Prince Albert (later King Edward), who sought an alternative to the tedious dress coat and tails worn at every evening meal. This is the same Prince Albert, incidentally, whose name and portrait were used by the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Co. on the red tin of their hugely popular pipe and cigarette tobacco brand, and which was the source of the famous 1930s-era childhood prank call:

KID (on the phone with the local drugstore): Do you have Prince Albert in a can?
DRUGGIST: Yes we do.
KID: Well, you better let him out before he suffocates!

That’s good stuff. Right up there with:

KID: Pardon me, but is your refrigerator running?
HOMEOWNER: Why yes, it is.
KID: Well, you better go catch it!

Bart Simpson, eat your heart out!

Anyway, the smoking jacket was seen as a symbol of elegance and refinement well into the 1950s, and was worn by popular movie stars like Cary Grant and Fred Astaire (who was buried in one), as well as by everyone’s favorite purveyor of soft-porn Hugh Hefner. It fell out of fashion in the 1960s—along with most evening formal wear—and although people didn’t quit smoking, they also didn’t seem to care if they smelled bad or burned a hole in their fringe jackets and bell bottoms. Damned hippies!

You can still buy yourself a smoking jacket, which will run you anywhere from an affordable $50 to a bank-account-busting $7,050—like the Dolce & Gabbana Men’s Jacquard Casinò-fit Tuxedo Smoking Jacket. (Casinò, incidentally—with the grave accent over the “o”—means “gaming house” in modern Italian. Without the accent it means “brothel.” An important distinction, I should think, when picking out smoking jackets.)

I would feel a bit pretentious wearing a smoking jacket nowadays, not to mention sleazy. Old Hefner kept the tradition alive—wearing one to his dying day at 92—but really, he just cheapened any former elegance it may have had. If I wore a smoking jacket today, I’m sure I’d feel like Jerry in the ménage à trois episode of Seinfeld. It’s the one where George convinces Jerry to propose a three-way with Jerry’s girlfriend and her roommate—as a way to break up with the girlfriend (who will be disgusted by it), and date the roommate (who will be flattered). To Jerry’s surprise, both his girlfriend and her roomate say yes. But Jerry can’t do it:

JERRY: I'm not an orgy guy! ... Don’t you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I’d have to dress different. I’d have to act different. I’d have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I’d need a new bedspread and new curtains. I’d have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting. I'd have to get new friends. I’d have to get orgy friends!

Yeah, no, I was never a smoking jacket guy. To become a smoking jacket guy I would’ve had to change everything. I would’ve had to dress and act different, wear a vest, and spats, and pince-nez glasses, grow a handlebar mustache, buy thick oak furniture and leather club chairs. In other words, I would’ve had to become a Brooklyn hipster.

I may not be a smoking jacket guy, and I no longer smoke anyway, but, hey, if you run across a red velvet hoodie with a satin collar, I might just reconsider.