The Coat Project 3

Yes, that’s right. It’s a picture of me cutting the cloth for my polo coat. Russell at Graham Browne realised that I just have a natural tailor’s touch and decided I would cut the whole thing better than him. Also, he fancied a cup of tea and a nice sit-down.

Not really. Russell was kind enough to let me cut just a few inches of the back piece for my coat. And even that I managed to mess up slightly, losing the second, lower piece of camel hair half way. It was a very satisfying feeling though. The shears have a reassuring weight and the cloth provides just enough resistance to feel you are working at it. Apparently the most satisfying materials to cut are light coatings and flannels for suits. The texture suits the work. The most irritating are cottons and corduroys, which “are gritty and feel like you’re cutting cardboard”.

The first decision to make when drawing up the pattern was whether to have the pile running down or up. You get a pile on heavier cloths that are woven a certain way, and it has a feeling just like fur – smooth in one direction, rough in the other. It’s the same effect as you see on velvet, just much subtler.

Most coats are cut with the pile going down, so it is smooth if you run your hand down the sleeve. But other tailors prefer to cut it going up, as there is less friction when you sit down and the coat won’t ride up as much. Favourbrook, for example, cuts its velvet jackets this way.

Having decided to cut the cloth with the pile going down, the same pattern pieces as for my double-breasted suit were used to draw onto the camel hair. A range of extra margins were allowed at various parts of the pattern – an extra 3/8 of an inch on the side seam (from shoulders down to the hem), 3/16 on the back of the neck, 3/8 around the sides of the sleeves and around ½ an inch at the shoulder. The waist is ½ an inch bigger across the front, as well as the “buttons apart” being bigger (this is the distance between the buttons; an alternative way to measure is “buttons stand”, which is distance from the side seam.)

Drawing the shoulder seam involves a bit of free hand, as the extra ½ inch is smoothed out at the sides. More free hand is also needed where the jacket pattern ends, drawing a smooth curve down to the hem. That in particular is a lovely long line, and demonstrates the artistry at the heart of tailoring, no matter how many rulers and patterns are used.

The split seam on the sleeves also requires a bit of extra work. Taking the normal sleeve pattern, the half-way point is measured at the cuff and at the bicep and then the other sleeve is used to mimic the curve from one point to the other. The curved ruler (which looks like an abomination to me, but apparently is one of the most useful things a tailor has) also comes in helpful to smooth the curve.

I was a little puzzled as to why Russell asked Dan to cut him three sleeve patterns. I only have two arms, after all. But as the sleeves have split seams, two of these patterns need to be cut in half, so each sleeve has four panels of material. The remaining pattern is kept with my others as the standard coat sleeve.

Russell also suggested putting in a permanent seam down the sides of my full-length pleat in the back. This is done using Clantex Supercrease, a resin that goes down the seam and prevents it ever flattening out. It is often used in the military to retain creases in coats and trousers (both Dan and Russell, now at Graham Browne, used to be military tailors).

Indeed, Dan was the first person to use the Clantex Supercrease when it arrived at their old employers. Having set up the machine and mastered its workings, he was nicknamed Clantex Superman.

So the cloth is all cut – first fitting (importantly, over my most bulky jacket) in two weeks.

One side note: it was interesting talking to Dan about the costs of tailoring. Even those that cut suits for themselves end up paying upwards of £350 for the finished article, assuming the cloth is around £50 a metre (you need three), the jacket maker charges £100 if he’s feeling generous and the trouser maker costs at least £40; plus the cost of linings, buttons and canvassing. Considering the cutter’s work itself, suddenly the sale price of £650 seems like very good value indeed.

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Fin’s: A Solution To A Bugbear

I have a bugbear about driving shoes. I hate the ridge, bobbles or gommini that all brands put on the back of their shoes, as well as the sole. Originally, I presume this was to retain grip on the floor of the car, seeing as your foot would be pivoting on its heel as it caressed the accelerator.

But no one wears driving shoes to drive today, and the rubber bits on the back mean that one’s trousers bunch up at the back, sitting on the rubber rather than flowing smoothly down to the heel. This is a particular issue with bankers that wear driving shoes with suits. The way the trousers bunch up makes them look like pyjamas.

So the first thing I noticed about Fin’s shoes is that they don’t have any bobbles on the back. Just smooth suede or leather.

Fin’s is a young shoe company run by a friend of a friend, Alexandra Finlay. Always interested in entrepreneurs of any type, and shoes in particular, I gave her “simple, fuss-free and fun” shoes a try. And bearing in mind my rather slight bias and connection to the company, I have to say they are remarkably comfortable.

I only owned one pair of driving shoes previously, from Massimo Dutti, and Fin’s are a big improvement on those. At first blush they also seem more comfortable than Tod’s or Bally, though having only tried on those brands I can make no direct comparison.

The shoes are made by a family-run factory in Portugal and are partly hand-stitched (the long moccasin stitch joining the vamp to the upper). Says Fin: “Portugal is renowned for providing fantastic quality at great value. In creating a brand that centred around the ethos of affordable luxury I knew that the balance Portugal offered would be ideal for Fin’s.

“The factory is entirely dedicated to making shoes; their set up is amazing, a cavernous room with the shoe-making process operating from start to finish in an anti-clockwise arrangement. The process starts with a man cutting the patterns, and works its way around to another man wrapping the finished shoes in tissue paper and boxing them up. Visiting the factory at production time is one of my favourite things to do. It makes you appreciate the finished product so much better when you see the work and craftsmanship.”

The construction and padded insole is remarkably comfy, although I must admit that part of that insole cover is coming away in my pair, which I have been wearing daily for two weeks. The insoles are removable though, which should aid any repairs and also helps air out sweaty feet a bit better.

It’s hard to argue with Fin’s philosophy of comfortable, simple shoes, easily ordered (next-day delivery) and in more colours than you could possibly want. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend wearing them with suits though.

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Do You Know What You’re Selling?

One of the luxuries of shopping at tailors and other high-end menswear stores is the knowledge of staff. OK so if you’re a real shoe geek you might know more than the sales assistant – few people care what a rand is, even if they love shoes. But that assistant will at least be able to explain the different lasts on offer, give you decent advice about sizing and know the difference between an Oxford and a Derby. In short, they will know their stock.

What a shock it is to return to the high street. Inspired by a recent post by my friend Steven Taffel, owner of Leffot shoe store in New York, I went in to Uniqlo yesterday to try its jeans.

If I could help it, I’d rather not pay too much for jeans. As long as they are reasonably well made and won’t fall apart, the only thing I care about is fit. And Steven’s seemed to fit pretty well.

As regular readers will be bored of hearing by now, I have large thighs and a small waist, so buying trousers off-the-peg has always been hard. I recently realised, though, that my tailor can take in jeans at the waist – as long as I’m not that bothered if the thread doesn’t match exactly.

So, all I needed were jeans that fitted in a straight, narrow line and could make it over my thighs. The waist was irrelevant. The good news is, Uniqlo had some. The bad news: it took me half an hour to find them.

Having tried on both slim and regular fits in a few sizes, I was puzzled that the width of the leg (at least below the knee) didn’t vary between styles. I asked one of the sales staff. Blank look. Are the regular jeans more tapered below the knee? Nothing.

OK, this was probably expecting a little too much. These guys didn’t design the jeans after all, they’re just selling them. So I asked whether the blue selvedge jeans (there were two colours, blue and black) only came in slim fit, which appeared to be the case from the table display. No response. “Are these just in slim fit?” I asked. That produced the worst possible response – the assistant started looking at the labels.

If you have to check your own stock to work out what’s there, what use are you? You’re just doing what I’ve been doing for the past 10 minutes. But slower, and with less enthusiasm.

So I took a logical approach, taking two sizes in each of the two styles in three different ranges. Twelve pairs of jeans.

Next time you’re in Uniqlo I recommend asking a fellow shopper for help rather than a sales assistant. They’re likely to know more and be more inclined to help.

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There Is Nothing Fat About Lardini

A few months ago, I placed a suit order from a reputable online retailer. When the package arrived, imagine my dismay when instead of a suit I ordered, the package contained a midnight blue, solid, two-button suit by a company called Lardini. After a moment of confusion, I called my tailor: “Daryl, I am coming over.” Five minutes later, I was trying on this mystery label. To his and my surprise, the suit fit really well. While half canvassed and machine made, the suit was made from light Cerruti 1881 wool, had minimally padded shoulder and draped nicely. I needed to investigate further.

Lardini was established in 1978 and made its claim to fame by making suits for Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, and Ferragamo. In 1993, however, the company began to make suits under its own label. At present, Lardini is a growing Italian manufacturer that has over a thousand employees, produces 1,600 garments a day and has ten boutiques around the world. The bulk of company’s business is derived from its ready to wear line, but recently Lardini began to offer made to measure service to its customers.

Lardini keeps a nice looking website (www.lardini.it) that caters mostly to business professionals who prefer a sophisticated edge to their clothing. The Lardini label tends to stay away from the whimsical and trendy, but makes elegant and affordable garments. Suits retail in the average for $600 but can be found online, heavily discounted, for $200 or less. For that price to quality ratio, Lardini presents a viable option. I was so pleased with my new suit that I not only kept it but ordered another suit and a blazer. My Lardini purchases fit true to size, required minimal alterations and look as good as my higher end garments yet at a fraction of cost.

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Spotting Quality In A Tie, With Drake’s

It’s not easy to spot a high-quality tie. Most of the signs that people tell you to look for, such as the loop being sewn in between the folds rather than tacked across, have no real practical benefit. They are just signs that a little more effort has been used (it takes longer, so it’s more expensive to make, so they must have spent money elsewhere).

There are some genuine signs. The slip-stitch down the back must be done by hand – but then that’s the case with many ties these days. Equally, there should be a loop of thread left over at the thin end of the tie, allowing it to stretch and wear along its length over time.

But the real problem is most men can’t assess the quality of silk (probably the most important thing in a tie). It’s also hard to tell whether the silk has been cut on a perfect 45-degree angle. And they can’t even see the interlining – let alone know whether the stitching has joined the lining all the way down, rather than leaving it floating.

All these things will only show themselves in a few years, when a man’s tie twists, curls or the label comes off.

So it’s rather reassuring to see your tie actually being made. This week Michael Drake, of Drake’s in London, was kind enough to take me round the factory and explain each of these manufacturing steps, as well as which ones make a difference to quality and which ones are just aesthetic.

Sewing the loop (on the back of the front blade) in between the folds is aesthetic. So is the size or prominence of the first stitch in the slip stitch down the back. But sewing anything by hand makes a difference to quality – with the slip stitch, for example, it allows flexibility and movement along the tie. That stitch also has to perfectly catch the two sides of the tie, one folded, and connect them to the interlining – never catching the front of the tie. It’s not easy, yet the lovely ladies at Drake’s did it unerringly quickly.

The only parts of a Drake’s tie that are sewn by machine are the joins between the three parts of the body (front, neck and rear) and the tipping. In these cases, sewing by hand would hardly add anything in strength or durability.

Printing is part way between the two. All Drake’s ties are hand-printed using the traditional English method of dye and discharge. This means that the ground colour is discharged into the silk first, creating a background that the pattern is printed on. So the background may be dyed navy and then red spots, say, discharged onto the silk. As the pattern has to discharge through the silk, it is a tricky process – too heavy and it will soak through, too light and it won’t sit in the material.

The alternative, Italian method is sometimes called ‘print-on’. Here the pattern is always printed on a white background. So the navy is printed as a pattern that leaves spaces for the spots; then the red spots are printed in those spaces separately. It is cleaner and easier.

The resulting pattern is sharper and brighter. Think of a classic Ferragamo tie, or an Hermes print – those are done with the Italian method and are generally sharper than English ties.

This is all practical and objective. What is less objective is which looks nicer. Michael describes the English method as “more traditional, classier, antiquey, classical”. And it is certainly what I prefer (though that’s probably because I’ve never been able to stand the ‘irreverent’ animal prints that are Hermes’s signature).

More importantly, this English look is what Drake’s international clients want. The company was started as an export business and that is essentially what it still is. (Incidentially, it also started as a scarf business, and would still make as much money out of scarves were the former not so seasonal). So French and Italian clients want ties that have a traditional English look, which requires dye and discharge.

Indeed, there is an irony here. Many of the Drake’s designs are done with foreign clients in mind. One I particularly liked was a deep orange with alternating blue and brown flowers. Great with a grey suit and brown shoes, not to mention a strong tan. Not so good on a pasty Englishman that tends to avoid strong colour. English printing, Italian patterns.

One reason export has always been so strong for Drake’s is that both France and Italy have a large, conservative establishment that is very international and takes an interest in clothes. England, despite its wonderful history in clothing, tends to either be naff or very fashionable.

It explains why Englishmen uphold the Italians as such good dressers, but many that visit complain that all Italians dress the same. To me, the quirks of Paul Smith are just gimmicks; to others, they are the wonderful individuality of the British male.

The Drake’s Autumn/Winter 2009 collection goes on sale on Wednesday next week. Check it out. (www.drakes-london.com)

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