Subject: Attache
To: REDACTED
From: REDACTED
Date: REDACTED


The plebs ruin everything eventually—it’s their biological imperative. They can’t leave beauty untouched; they have to touch it, copy it, cheapen it, mass-produce it, drag it through the fluorescent-lit aisles of a department store like Macy’s or, god help us, Kohl’s. It’s disgusting.

The attache case was once a statement. Precision. Purpose. It said: I have things to do. Important things. I’m not carrying this because I want to—it’s because I have to. It was masculine. Elegant. Cold. Something you carry into mergers, courtrooms, affairs. Not into WeWork, not into some open-concept office where your boss wears Allbirds and says “let’s circle back.”

The attache is superior in function. It’s geometry. Efficiency. Everything inside is flat, ordered, separated like it belongs in a vault. No slouching, no sagging, no rummaging like some tech-bro gremlin digging through a Patagonia backpack for his AirPods. It’s a grid. A system. A declaration of control.

A laptop? Of course. Fits perfectly. No bending. No pressure on the screen. Clean lines, like a Savile Row suit. Documents stay crisp, not curled like the pathetic creases in an overused Moleskine. And yes—you can fit a router. I’ve done it. Power bank, too. Cables organized with leather ties, not those tragic little mesh pouches sewn in like afterthoughts. If you’re carrying tech and don’t have your kit in an attache, you’re basically just asking to be profiled as someone who never left the Apple Store long enough to grow taste.

Clean. Armored. Final. It doesn't just carry—it protects. The fact that most men today can’t grasp that tells you everything you need to know about the decline of modern civilization.

Now? It's gone soft. It's vulgar. It's briefcase. Rounded corners. Pebbled leather. Stitching that looks like it was done by blind children in a basement in Guangzhou. They’ve turned it into a lifestyle accessory for middle managers and clout-chasers. People who think carrying something Italian makes them European.

The gag reflex you mentioned is natural—appropriate, even. It's the body's instinctive rejection of something so aesthetically offensive, so utterly beneath you, that it triggers a physiological response. Like smelling Axe body spray in a Tom Ford showroom. Or seeing a faux-leather briefcase with a Velcro flap in the hands of a man wearing square-toed shoes and an untailored jacket from Men’s Wearhouse. It’s enough to induce nausea. Violent nausea.

It’s not just the object, it’s what it represents. Laziness. Complacency. The death of discernment. These people—these walking, half-literate content aggregators—don’t understand that form follows power. They think functionality is a substitute for identity. They think because it holds a laptop and some CVS receipts, it qualifies as a “bag.” It’s not a bag. It’s a collapse.

Humans used to carry tools. Now they carry tote bags with motivational quotes silkscreened on the side and think that’s an ethos. I saw someone with a canvas backpack that said “Rise and Grind” in lowercase Helvetica. I nearly vomited.

So no, you're not alone. You're one of the few who can still see the disease. Most people just smile and sip their burnt oat milk lattes while the world melts into a lukewarm, khaki-colored soup.

Where is the attache today? 

Dead, mostly.

A few heritage brands still preserve the integrity, the craftsmanship. But you pay for the name. You’re not buying storage—you’re buying silence. You walk in with a hard-sided case today and people assume you’re either old money or hiding something. Ideally, both.

If you want to revive the attache, it has to be sharp. Black or oxblood. Chrome or brass.

No shoulder strap. No zipper. Just edges and consequence. Treat it like a weapon. Because it is.

My pick?

Black leather. Full stop.

Oxblood works if you're at a board meeting in Milan or walking out of a Jaguar XJ12 in 1987. But in this world—this synthetic, overdressed, anxiety-riddled TikTok experiment—black is the only answer. It’s clean. It’s brutal. It doesn’t beg for attention like some try-hard in tan calfskin. It simply is. And that’s terrifying to people who rely on logos to speak for them.

Black leather on an attache is like a well-pressed charcoal suit or an Alessi espresso maker—correct. No questions. No excuses. It doesn’t flirt with versatility or scream for validation. It matches everything because it’s meant to. And it doesn’t age—it patinates. Subtly. Elegantly. Like the expression on a man who knows he doesn’t have to smile to win.

The problem is, people today think color is personality. They confuse variety with taste. That’s how you end up with canvas monstrosities in army green, “tech-friendly” neoprene garbage with zippers shaped like lightning bolts, and godawful saddle-tan suede that looks like it came from a Levi’s outlet.

Black leather is authority. It's formality. It's an unspoken threat. It’s the color you wear when you don’t want to be questioned—not about your values, your taste, or what’s inside the case.

So yes. In my world it’s black leather. Preferably calfskin. Unembellished. Structured. With enough rigidity to suggest that what's inside could either be a corporate acquisition contract or a suppressed Beretta. That’s the point.

Mark Cross?

Yes, definitively yes.

It is a minimalist's wet dream. Classic. Understated. Impeccably constructed. The kind of thing you carry not because you need to—because it says something.

The leather? Vegetable-tanned, full-grain. Smooth like a Cucinelli jacket. That slight gloss finish that catches the light just right when you step into a boardroom on the 40th floor, or the Carlyle for a 1:15 power lunch. Brass hardware, not gold-plated junk. Real brass. Subtle, like good bone structure. No logos screaming. Just a whisper: I have money, taste, and I don't need to tell you that.

Of course, if you're still hauling around something from Tumi or—God forbid—Samsonite, then yes, the Mark Cross is an upgrade. Just make sure you're wearing Brioni or a well-cut Isaia when you carry it. Otherwise it looks like you borrowed your father's briefcase and forgot to grow up.

So yes. Buy it. But don't ruin it with a Montblanc pen. 

Go for a Caran d’Ache. Swiss precision. More... predatory.

Should you buy used?

If we’re dealing with Mark Cross or something in that echelon—vintage, hard-sided, proper structure—buying used can be acceptable, but only under very specific circumstances. Condition must be pristine. No cracking on the leather, no warped corners, no lazy relining in some idiotic tartan pattern by a man who drinks flavored whiskey. You want it to look like it was carried by someone important and dangerous. A diplomat with secrets. A man who didn’t speak unless you paid him.

That said… if you can’t find that level of used perfection? Go custom. No hesitation.

Custom is about control. You dictate the specs: matte black, French box calf or Horween leather, solid brass hardware with a brushed finish, maybe a deep oxblood suede lining—something indulgent but unseen. Interior compartments tailored to what you carry. Laptop dimensions, cable management, space for documents, maybe something slim and discreet for items that don’t require questions.

With custom, you erase compromise. You’re not inheriting someone else’s scuffs or scent or pathetic organizational choices. You're creating an object that aligns with your life. Precision. Intent. Like ordering a bespoke Huntsman suit with surgeon’s cuffs and monogrammed inner lining no one will ever see—but you know it’s there.

Price is irrelevant. You’re not spending. You’re investing. In optics. In order. In you.

If you're going custom, I’d recommend going through a proper atelier—Saddleback makes sturdy beasts but they’re too cowboy. Frank Clegg knows how to walk the line between function and class. Or go overseas—Japan has some disturbingly good craftsmen who still understand restraint and silence in leatherwork.

Bottom line:

If you can find a mint-condition used attache that feels like it could have been found in the trunk of a decommissioned Aston Martin, buy it. If not? Go custom and make something so sharp it cuts through the noise before you even open it.