How a suit happens here.

Five steps

From the first measure to the door.

1. A conversation, and measuring.

   About an hour. Downstairs, at the table. Bring the shoes you will wear with it.

   Ruth measures you herself. She will not ask what you want. She will ask what you do all day: what you sit in, what you carry, how much you move. “You don’t need to know what you want. You need to know what you do all day. I’ll work out the rest.”

   The shoes matter because the suit will be worn with them, so it is measured with them. Hugo will be under the table. He is not part of the process.

2. Your pattern is cut, and kept for ever.

   Brown paper. Chalk. A pencil label. A hook in the cellar. Half the price is paid now.

   Everything you ever order from us is cut from this pattern. It goes on a hook downstairs beside about 11,000 others, one for every customer since 1921. Ruth is left-handed, so it is chalked from the wrong side, like every pattern in the cellar since 1988. The apprentices learn to read them backwards. You never have to.

3. First fitting: the basted shell.

   A suit held together with white thread.

   It looks unfinished because it is. Nothing is sewn for good yet. This is where the record of you on paper meets you in person, and where Ruth starts the argument she has with every suit.

4. Second fitting: forward.

   Most of a suit. Measured again.

   Closer to finished, still open to change. You are measured again because people change shape, sometimes over a weekend. The rule painted on the cellar door ends “Measure again on Tuesday”, and she means it.

5. Final fitting, and collection.

   The other half is paid on collection. Twelve to fourteen weeks from the first measure.

   Then it is yours, and so is the pattern, for as long as we have a cellar. From this day on, alterations to the suit are free for the life of the suit, and some of them have lived a very long time.

Etiquette, such as it is

The questions you are too polite to ask.

Do I need to know what I want?

No. If you know what you do all day, Ruth will work out the rest. Arrive with no idea at all and you will still leave with a pattern on a hook.

What do I wear to the appointment?

Whatever you like. The one thing that matters is on your feet: bring the shoes you will wear with the suit. It will be worn with them, so it is measured with them.

Can I bring someone?

Yes. Bring whoever steadies you. Hugo will be under the table whatever you decide. One opinion in the room does have to be yours, though. The suit is a record of you, not of them.

What if I change shape?

You will. Everyone does, sometimes over a weekend, which is why we measure again on Tuesday. Three fittings catch most of it before the suit is finished. After that, alterations are free for the life of the suit. Come back in twenty years and you are cut from your old pattern, plus whatever the twenty years added.

Is it going to cost more than I can say out loud?

It is written above, and those are the prices. Cloth can move it, and Ruth will tell you by how much before you choose, not after. Half on ordering, half on collection. Nobody here will make you say a number.

Will I be talked into things?

No. We would rather tell you what a thing costs than tell you it is worth it. In 1936 a customer insisted on turn-ups against advice. The ledger says: “Told him. He insists.” He got them. You will get what you insist on, and you will be told first.

Will I be judged for not knowing about cloth?

Knowing cloth is what the four of us are for. Dot can tell which coatmaker made a jacket by its buttonholes. Kofi had to unlearn a whole fashion degree to cut a trouser properly. You are not expected to know any of it. You are expected to be honest about your days.

Can I have it faster?

No. A customer once offered double the price for a suit in two weeks. Ruth said no. “You can have it fast or you can have it right. We only know how to do one of those.” Twelve to fourteen weeks is what right takes.

Who else wears you?

“If you want to know who else wears us, you’re asking the wrong tailor.” We have never said, and we never will. That includes you, later.

I have a bespoke suit from another maker. Will you alter it?

By arrangement, yes. Ring and describe it. Bring it in if she says so.

Is there really a pocket for a book?

Yes. Every Pellow & Vane jacket has had a hidden inside pocket sized for a paperback since 1921. Nobody has ever been asked whether they wanted it, and nobody is going to start asking now.

I am in New York. Is that any use?

Twice a year Ruth takes appointments in New York. The dates go out by telephone to customers on the list. Ring, and ask to be on it.

The basted shell at first fitting, held together with white thread