Photograph © Sindi Schorr 2009
Men, like lions or peacocks are the more beautiful of the species; their beauty bolsters their biological exuberance. Never is that more evident than at Bergdorf Goodman’s Men’s Store.
When I grow dark about the mouth, Bergdorf Goodman’s Men’s Store is my Tiffany’s, I quote Holly Golightly “The blues are because you're getting fat, and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling? Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness, and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!” Breakfast at Tiffany’s Truman Capote.
Photograph © Sindi Schorr 2009
Bergdorf Goodman’s Men’s Store didn’t open until 1990. How did we manage? The offshoot of the formidable Women's Store directly across the street, it is like a sophisticated French marriage, but no less loved than its estranged partner. For some it is an oasis, a sanctuary from the plethora of consumable fashion shops that litters Fifth Avenue these days. At Bergdorf Goodman’s Men’s Store, impeccably dressed salesmen are more like fashion ambassadors, and beckon customers like a lighthouse, navigating shoppers through a calm sea of tie and shirt selections from labels like Charvet and Etro. On the spacious second floor, formal wear from houses like Tom Ford, Bamford & Sons, and Spencer Hart hang casually in individual areas, each with its own private sitting room, and decorated to resemble a stylish Tribeca loft, the likes of which you are only liable to see in the Sunday New York Times Magazine Style section. The clientele is comprised of Greenwich transplants, hedge fund owners, or rap artists dressing for the MTV Awards, where they have their pick of avant-garde sportswear upstairs on three, with styles from Dsquared, Alexander McQueen, and Thom Browne; whereas Upper East Siders with pedigrees can stick to Ralph Lauren, Brioni, and Gucci. While not qualifying for membership in any of those demographics, I too, nevertheless have a place at the Bergdorf table, where I can still dine on dreams.
Like Holly, my budget is strictly Cracker Jack. While the staff is lovely to the nth degree, no John McGiver has come forward to my rescue. I can gaze at the windows; croissant and coffee in hand. I can run my hands over the silk ties, and Zenga suits, which shimmer like they were woven with remnants of stardust. Bergdorf Goodman’s Men’s Store always cures me of my “mean reds“, I’m going to buy some furniture and name my cat.
