This is Part Two of the series about my journey towards finding a bespoke suit. If you missed the first part, read it here.
I just want to start off by saying that this is one hell of a long read. It’s written to document my experience. I don’t expect anyone to really read this. Not unless you want to come along for my journey getting a bespoke suit at Michael Andrews Bespoke.
The Michael Andrews Bespoke website is a simple, understated, and elegant design set on a black canvas. Taking in page after page of their site, I was quite impressed with whoever wrote the copy for them. Everything certainly inspired a calm confidence. I set my hopes high for the tailor and took the plunge.
Dressed in my often complimented Calvin Klein suit and coming from a fresh overpriced haircut that failed to deliver the results I wanted, I made my way to the Lower East Side where Michael Andrews Bespoke was located. Unfamiliar with the neighborhood, the wildly inaccurate compass on my iPhone only served to delay my arrival. My eyes were glued to Google Maps as I walked from street to street. I finally found Clinton Street. However, the hunt was not over. Though I was in the vicinity of the place, I had to find the actual door itself in order to enter this promised land of custom tailored clothing. This was no small feat. Try as I might, I could not find the black gate that was described on the website. I paced up and down the street, trying my very best not to look like an obvious lost tourist. Despite my efforts to be discreet, I wasn’t fooling anybody. A Hispanic man with a beer belly dressed in a wifebeater looked at me with curiosity and a hint of suspicion as I passed by him for the sixth time. So did most other people loitering on the block.
The address listed on the website was quite misleading. Should one arrive at that address, one would be greeted by a closed down clothing shop of some sort, with a big red ‘two-zero’ emblazoned on a glass door that serves as a mocking riddle: where is the Michael Andrews Bespoke, if not here, at 20 Clinton Street? I peered in through the dusty glass panes. Nothing was there but an empty echo of darkness.
Feeling at a loss, I finally dug up the phone number and gave the studio a call. Luckily, they were able to guide me to the little black gate. I was buzzed in. I walked down four steps into a blue maze of hallways whose origins might’ve been that of maintenance. The clickety clack of leather heels on the concrete floor bounced off the walls, and I was shortly greeted by a young lady. She introduced herself as Marian as I shook her hand. Dressed professionally in a black shirt adorned with frills and a gray flannel skirt, she led me through the confusing twist of lefts and rights, right into the Michael Andrews Bespoke.
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