No. 9 “This is Hermès and I am Pathetic”
By far my favorite Parisian boutique is Hermès. There is something so classy about its understated beige colour palette and rich orange bag.
I found myself at the Hermès flagship store, at 24 Rue Faubourg Saint-Honorè on my first day in Paris after a rather turbulent breakfast at the Brassier D’Aumont in the Hôtel de Crillon.
It’s a spectacular temple to tastefulness, this place. The clothing is simple - clean lines and muted colors. Nothing risky like you’d see at Gucci. The place is interspersed with all sorts of places to sit - light wood desks and chairs in milk chocolate leather. Some are drinking espresso out of a brown leather tray, clearly those with more promise of making a sale than me.
The men wear navy suits with their choice of Hermès tie. Their jackets are short and come down just slightly lower than the waist and are slightly small so they crease just above the waist where the button is.
The women wear dark pencil skirts and jackets and have the iconic Hermès silk scarves tied jauntily around their necks. Small leather pockets, hang from straps on their shoulders where they keep cordless phones they use to coordinate the different functions in the store.
They’ve considerably expanded into shoes. That showroom is made to look like a swamp with the shoes resting on blue mirrored stands and faux pussy willows emerge from white boxes meant to look like white rock. The sound of crickets chirping and running water is pumped into the room.
The place is extremely busy with Chinese and Japanese people buying perfume, scarves, ties and bracelets. But they are the only ones buying. The thing is, I see no French people at all. Maybe to them this is a tourist thing. I mean, I live in the Napa Valley and how often do I go wine tasting?
Most people, it seems, are like me. They’ve just come to look, like impotent voyeurs, only there to absorb and not partake. I drink in creamy yellow of the basket weave tile floor, the art deco curl of the wrought iron banister, the warm wooden cases that so subtly light the purses, briefcases, attachès, wallets, clutches and shoulder bags.
Nowhere to be found, at least that I saw, was a Birkin, the legendary sartorial blockbuster named after Jane Birkin, the English actress. The bag is a brilliant example of synthetic scarcity, being released at unpredictable times, and starting at a price around $9,000, and can cost in excess of $100,000. There is a huge aftermarket for them, even though it's been reported that Hermes makes 70,000 of them a year. That notwithstanding, it's considered to be the most sought after handbag in world history, and has even been computed to return 14% to any who would invest in one. But that, in my opinion, takes the fun out of it.
I was with two friends that day. One is a winemaker who decided to dress like he was making wine - Bloundstone boots, jeans, a long sleeved plaid Oxford shirt and a sleeveless down vest. Perfect for any day trouncing through vineyards and having lunch at Mustard’s, but shopping at Hermès in Paris? Maybe not so much.
My other friend was one of the most beautiful women I know - graceful, elegant, soft spoken - the epitome of class. But she too was is a winemaker and wore basically the feminine version of the same thing. Though, as is often the case with fashion, the question comes up: who wore it better? The answer in this case was: she did. But that’s not unusual. She looked casually sophisticated. He looked like a bumpkin.
We noticed an onyx black, shiny leather attaché bag, kept high in a glass case. The store was quite busy but there was one woman, who seemed unoccupied standing at a counter near the case. I made my way over to her and asked if we could see the bag.
When I saw her, I appreciated her understated navy jacket and how it so gracefully came to a button at her navel, and how the “V” of her lapels framed the iridescent gold of her silk blouse, which was cut low so as to display a suitably tan upper chest, but modestly obscure anything lower. She wore no jewelry, which was weird, given that Hermes, and others, are getting into the jewelry business, but that is something I noticed later. None of them wore jewelry, or bracelets or rings. She did wear a pearl earrings, and her hair was dark, cut to her shoulders, parted on one side and pulled back behind her ears. She didn’t even have a scarf. I suppose the merchandise needed no models.
When I asked if we could see the attachè, she, with all the authority of a prison warden, explained that there was no one that could help us now and that I would have to wait for someone to become available.
I was a bit plaintiff. If you are reading this, perhaps you’ve read The Ugly American: Parts One and Deux, and you’ll know how few French fools I suffer at the Hôtel de Crillon.
But here, in the Hermès flagship, I was at ground zero for an international luxury empire that has maintained its position as the apex of good taste for a century and a quarter. Its been that way since 1867 when Thierry Hermès won first prize for his beautiful leather saddle at the Exposition Universelles, and in 1880 when his son Charles-Émile was so successful that he moved his shop here, to 24 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. But the fact is, the potential price of this beautiful calf skin attaché may cost as much as two night’s stay in the hotel I am staying in, but not paying for. I know I can't afford it. I only want to see it. And since I am sure she knew this, given the way her icy pearlescent eyes penetrated my own, and seemed to skewer like raw piece of meat, my poor, pathetic, poverty-stricken, goodwill-clad, American soul; I waited patiently.
It is only now that I am back and have an internet connection that I read that buying a bag at Hermes is not as simple as just walking in and doing it. If you want the opportunity to even see a bag, you have to make an appointment. They are granted on a first come, first served basis when the store opens, at a very civilized, my-time-is-more-important-than-yours, 10:30AM. People have been known to line up at the entrance at 8:30AM and even earlier.
They may give you a time, but you have to be on call. That time is subject to change throughout the day, based on how long the appointments take. They will text you with updates.
The reason they do this is, not only to heighten the - artificial - sense of scarcity, but also to make sure the experience of buying the bag is concomitant with the bag’s price. Apparently you are assigned a sales associate and you tell them what you want. It's not like you into a room, see the inventory and pick one. Rather, you tell them what you want, and they fetch the thing that most approximates your request. This requires trips back and forth to the stock room and can take, that ever so abundant French commodity, time.
So, you aren’t rushed, which I suppose is nice, if you are planning on dropping the commensurate expense of eight shares of Google stock, or a fifty percent down payment the Honda Civic I have sitting in my driveway back home. The thing is, you can’t store your lipstick in the Google stock, and people don’t look at you the same way when you drive a Civic, as they do if you have a Birkin.
Now that I know this, I realize that Madame of the Icy Eyes decided not to tell me that I needed an appointment to see a bag. She made the calculus, based most likely on what I was wearing, how I carried myself, and literally the fact that I didn’t know anyway, that I was not serious about buying a bag, and therefore she shouldn’t waste her valuable time. Time being the ultimate luxury, and, in this case, having a very definite price.
So, we stood there, awkwardly. She averted her frigid stare to a piece of paper she had on the case in front of her, and we became bereft in a sea of beautiful, useless things. It was clear that we were no longer welcome.
And so we left. We walked down rue du Faubourg Saint-Honorè, past Gucci and Tom Ford, Moncler and Bally, to the rue de Castiglione and turned left. Next thing we knew, we were at Place Vendôme, the very famous square where Van Cleef & Arpels has been for a century and a quarter, as well as where you can find the ritziest of all hotels, the famed Ritz. It looks like Louis Vuitton just opened a new flagship on the corner. Maybe we’ll have better luck there?