"Is so busy right now," says a tall PR with glacier-pure skin. He ushers me into an equally-as-pure glass atrium in the southwest corner of Milan. "Everyone is tired after the show." I nod, but in this elegant reception of steel and foliage, nobody looks that tired. To be honest, they look really, really good; a woman walks by in an oatmeal blazer. Her hair has just the right amount of bounce. Nearby, a man with wide shoulders and a blood orange cashmere jumper is adjusting the collar of a nearby mannequin. Said PR/office guide has managed to make two layered Oxford shirts look natural and not at all lumpy. These people are expensive.

All of them, in one way or another, worked on a colossal runway show less than 24 hours earlier. That's because they're employed by Zegna. For almost 116 years, the Italian label hasn't just created classic Italian clothes; it's part of the classic Italian clothes canon. The suits are languid, yet sharp; the wools are precise, but chill; the entire brand just doesn't try too hard to go hard. Its creative director, Alessandro Sartori, approaches me briskly, with a very Italian bow of the head. "A pleasure to meet you," he says, and as I notice his very low-key, hi-spec suit, I agree it is a pleasure.

A tall man with speckles of grey and a gravelly voice, Sartori has worked at Zegna for almost 24 years across two tenures (he had a pitstop in the middle as creative director at French leather maison Berluti). We sit down on a coral-coloured L-shaped sofa, soundtracked by the same, slightly Agatha Christie-esque music that played at the show, and we're flanked by a Terracotta Army of mannequins that are already wearing the collection.

It was a show that felt purpose-built for a rainy afternoon in your alpine manor, or for a lunch meeting in Munich with your ex-wife. Think rich shades of mustard, impossibly swishy coats and pooling, single-pleated trousers. I ask the designer the fashion equivalent of Sophie's Choice: does he have a favourite piece? "Oh, I have so many," he says. "I love the double-breasted, tri-button tailored suit. I love it. I love the striped coat with the denim. I love that long leather jacket in deep green." Which isn't to imply he doesn't love the other clothes; he just loves these particular kids the most.

Sartori has always focused on the super-classic stuff; tailoring, jackets and trousers with satisfying pleats that everybody wants to wear - especially now as guys seemingly want to seek out a rules-based order after the freewheeling fashion of the last five years. "I think streetwear ruined a lot of taste, but it also helped a lot. There was a positive message behind it related to the idea of breaking the rules, to rebuild the rules," he says. "Unfortunately though, many used that in a very bad way. Strange silhouettes, crazy logos, blah blah blah... I don't like costume. When you go outside of Pitti in Florence and you see all those people preparing behind the corner and have a little catwalk..." Sartori shudders.

Still, he applauds the fact more guys are trying things out. Those that win, he says, are the ones who look natural. Sartori flicks through his phone and zooms in on a photo of a man, possibly in his early 60s, with jet-black square sunglasses, in an immaculate black overcoat. He is a "friend of the brand" says Sartori; not an actor, singer, or influencer, but a man they all think dresses really well. "He is elegant, and it is a beautiful pleasure," says Sartori. "Beautiful watch, by the way." He pats my forearm, and I let out a surprised 'oh!' and thank him, and I see that his watch looks very similar (I strongly suspect it's a Cartier too, but his looks a little shinier than my eBay win).

For Sartori, good style demands honesty; to not try too hard, to be inherently... well, more Italian. "If you put a bi-colour shoe, a bi-colour hat and a fancy bow-tie and then a double breasted jacket, the full styling is to show off, and it's not chic," he says. He likes the universally and historically nice stuff - he has a taste that is incompatible with many brands other than Zegna. "I don't want to go anywhere. We have the fortune of this incredible treasure, patrimony of values, fabrics, make, craft." Which, in non-fashion speak, means menswear that exists within fashion but doesn't focus too much on its obsessions; where so many labels feed into trends, Zegna sort of floats above it all. I could wear Sartori's clothes five years ago or five years from now and not be embarrassed by the photos. On the contrary, the next gen would look back and say, "Wow, didn't Uncle Muz look sick" and I would smile down on them (or up, who knows?)

Sartori and I chat about a lot of things: when he met Javier Bardem at Chateau Marmont; how he was born in the same town where Zegna was founded; his 1972 Porsche Targa in signal orange. On that last point, once again we're flicking through his photo album, and he shows me a picture of him, leaning against one of his many vintage whips on the French border. "What is nice about cars is that they are like old people," says Sartori. "You need to take care, you need to have a relationship." I get the feeling he applies the same thinking to his clothes in that photo - the slightly '70s sunglasses, the navy jacket, the arms folded against a sky more dramatic than a Highland winter. It all looks so expensive.

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