I'm Here to See a Man About a Suit

I went looking for a custom suit like some wiseacre detective named Jake in a .lm noir, only to wind up in Chinatown on the hottest damn day of the summer so far. The sidewalks were packed tighter than subway cars at rush hour; the air smelled like pork fried rust. Vendors were hawking $5 soap bubble guns, and the red and gold Chinese characters plastered on the banks, the Buddhist temple, the fish market, and the retail stores looked like they were about to melt into candle wax.

I stumbled down the pavement, toting a tall kitchen garbage bag that contained a threadbare Armani suit my wife had bought me off the rack at Bergdorf's more than a decade ago. Every few feet, I'd get stuck behind this little old lady, who'd poke me in the kisser with the tips of her parasol and then holler at me in a voice that sounded like a tunnel full of wind chimes.

I was determined to track down the proprietor of an outfit called the International Tailor Company. I had never laid eyes on the gentleman before; I didn't even know his proper name. All I knew was my wife called him Tom the Tailor and swore he could make a perfect copy of any type garment, including my Armani suit, for a fraction of the price most uptown tailors demand for a custom job.

Maybe you can give me a better reason to go to Chinatown at high noon during a heat wave? If so, I'll bet you haven't priced suits lately. Department store designer suits start around $1,200, and soar toward $3,500 for the fancier labels. Custom suits start around $4,400 at Savile Row–style tailor shops like Leonard Logsdail or Bruce Cameron Clark. Of course, if you really want to shoot the moon, Alan Katzman of Alan Couture can put you in a vicuña and silk custom suit softer than cotton candy for a hefty $30,000.

And yet, the question is—why would anybody even want a suit in this postformal age of dress- down chic and casual Fridays? As G. Bruce Boyer, a respected sartorial scribe and author of Fred Astaire Style (Assouline, 2005), pointed out in an interview, "Suits reached their high point around 1920, and have been going down in popularity ever since."

But then again, as Mr. Boyer hastened to add, with the bursting of the dot- com bubble, custom suits are enjoying a renaissance among both dyed- in- the-wool corporate types and newly minted hip- hop stars who want to dress like grown- ups instead of teenage computer geeks.

"I think guys want individuality in their clothes because they can get it in all other areas of their lives simply by shopping on the Internet," Mr. Boyer said. "They want custom suits in part because they don't have to buy that kind of tailored clothing for the office anymore."

By definition, few things in life can be more individual than a custom suit. Together with your tailor, you pick everything from the fabric to the width of the lapels. You can pad your shoulders, taper your middle, and do what ever else you desire to accommodate your unique physique. The man in the mirror is no longer just another bare naked human, but a knight in white satin linings dressed for success as conqueror of the universe!

Apart from price, there's only one endemic problem with custom suits—the wait. Even allowing for alterations, a department store suit is usually on your back within a week. Custom suits are typically promised in a minimum of six weeks, but often delivered

on or around the six- month mark, Mr. Boyer reminded. "Guys are used to getting instant gratification," he noted.

As my wife can attest, I .t that pattern. On the day we marched into Bergdorf's, I had tried on—and taken—the first double- breasted blue Armani size 44 long suit the salesman pulled off the rack. My wife shrieked in dismay. She evidently felt that I had not spent sufficient time examining other blue double- breasted Armani suits in size 44 long. "Women go shopping," I'd informed her with macho pride. "Men go buying."

A decade later, I began to think I might be better off settling for department store threads again because of the unexpected challenges presented by going the custom route, not least the language barrier.

International Tailor had recently moved to a new location at 98 Mott Street. But save for the suite numbers and a sign for "Kenny's Driving School," the building directory was almost entirely in Chinese.

I nodded at two men standing out front. I tugged on the sleeves and the breast pockets of my shirt. I made a scissors clipping gesture with my fingers. Then I stood at attention as if in front of a fitting room mirror, saying over and over again, "Clothes, suit, tailor." The men shook their heads and answered in Chinese that probably translated into something like, "This guy must be looking for a sex change operation or a prostitute. Let's pretend we don't understand him and maybe he'll go away."

I ventured up the stairs of the building and repeated my pleading pantomimes in vain at a beauty shop, an acupuncturist, and an herbalist reeking with pungent odors. The herbalist closed the door in my face; then he reached for the phone like he was going to call the police or maybe some local "tong" protection gang.

Upon fleeing to the third floor, I breathed a sigh of joy luck relief. There was a sign at the top of the stair that read international tailor co. I entered a tiny cubicle crammed with clothes racks and bolts of cloth. A Chinese woman who turned out to be the proprietor's wife sat at a sewing machine in front of a bulletin board stapled with a photo of two handsome young male models in fancy suits standing beside a Mercedes convertible. A short, lean Chinese man in his early sixties entered on my heels.

"Tom the Tailor!" I cried out.

"No, no, Tim!" he exclaimed "Tim Yan! Tim the Tailor!"

My wife surely would have shrieked at the speed with which Mr. Yan and I attended to business. He asked me what kind of fabric I wanted. I pointed to one of the male models in the bulletin board photo who was wearing a tan summer suit. Mr. Yan pulled out a swatch book and flipped to a tan fabric sample labeled "100 percent worsted wool, Made in Italy."

I asked Mr. Yan if he could cut and sew the fabric right there on the premises. He nodded emphatically, then pointed to a framed certificate he had earned from a Hong Kong tailoring organization before coming to New York in the early 1970s. "Nobody study tailor no more," he lamented.

I tried on the Armani suit I wanted Mr. Yan to copy. He made a few quick measurements and suggested some modifications to the pocket flaps and the buttonholes.

"Six hundred twenty dollars," Mr. Yan informed me.

That seemed like a bargain at twice the price. I quickly wrote out a deposit check for $300.

"I have ready in three weeks," Mr. Yan said, frowning at the check. "Next time you come, you bring cash."

I felt like asking why he wanted cash, wondering if maybe he didn't trust a guy like me. But then I figured it was none of my business either way. Besides, I was already imagining that I'd look as cool and crisp, if not as young and handsome, as the male model in the photo when I got my new $620 custom- tailored double- breasted tan suit.

So I just nodded my head at Mr. Yan, a.k.a Tim the Tailor, and slogged back out into the sweltering heat, muttering, "Forget it, Jake—it's Chinatown.

Excerpted from Hurt Yourself by Harry Hurt III

Copyright@ 2008 by Harry Hurt III

Published in 2008 by St. Martin's Press

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.