The trip may not, this time, have included ringside seats at a Rolling Stones gig (roll on Glazza for that – Mick’s bespoke yurt is being run up as we speak), but I still got plenty of satisfaction, both in seeing clients and friends old and new, and for tearing up and down the city’s backstreets. We were taken for dinner by my good friend Cathy Paul to the redoubtable Jean Georges at the Mark Hotel, where the Santa Barbara sea urchin and Arctic char were only slightly upstaged by the arrival of a very diminutive man in a three-quarter length fur coat (taking the “jacket required” injunction to the luxe max), and Hawaiian shirt, accompanied by his consort, whose hair appeared to have been blow-dried in a wind tunnel.
Still slightly reeling, we went on to launch our bespoke casual collection at H.W. Carter in Williamsburg, an old workwear factory turned new workwear boutique run by a fellow Brit named Greg Chapman, and I’m pleased to say that our pieces looked quite at home amid the salvaged fittings (in fact, Williamsburg has a nice air of the early Spitalfields days) and amid their Engineered Garments and Margiela peers. We then went for dinner at Rye, whose farm-to-table aesthetic found its apotheosis in our grass-fed rib-eye.