Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “Everyone is whipped.”

  The invitation was vague enough to make it interesting, and Dana and I decided to attend the Ralph Lauren event during Fashion Week in Central Park. We arrived close to the nine p.m. call time at the entrance to Central Park and Seventy-Second Street. As we exited our car, we were met by a group of helpful security and polite handlers who directed us to individual golf carts that drove us into the park and deposited us with the other guests. Ralph’s staff, beautifully turned out in crisp summer white Polo shirts, were extremely polite, groomed, and beautiful.

  “My, you look lovely this evening,” a young man complimented Dana as we walked by.

  “Would you care for popcorn for the show?” another graciously offered.

  “Would either of you like water?” The chiseled waiter offered bottles of signature-branded Polo water.

  We all gathered by the lake to watch the projected fashion show, the images creating a ghostly yet artful runway against the Central Park West skyline. After an image of Ralph took a bow to great applause, we were ushered out where a cart and retinue of Ralph Lauren waiters smiled brightly and offered the guests whimsical and creative Ralph’s coffee cups to go. The way in which one of America’s greatest success stories and luxury brands treated his guests in contrast to the appalling behavior now being served in many of today’s supposedly best restaurants only reinforced why some people rise to great heights and others flame out.

  If Mr. Lauren ever opens a restaurant in New York, I’d like the first reservation. I know the ambiance would be extraordinary and the service gracious and well turned out.

  Finally, I’d be able to get chicken the way I want it. Now, wouldn’t that be a fashion statement?

  IV.

  LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND INFAMOUS

  12. WHY THE ITALIANS HAVE STYLE ALL SEWED UP

  Fellow Americans, Don’t Sweat the Sweater

  BEING AN ADMAN, I always look at things in terms of slogans.

  As an example, New Yorkers have responded to our new tagline for the New York Knicks: “New York Made.” It is now available on the Jumbotron, T-shirts, and big foam fingers.

  On a recent trip to Barcelona, having not visited in many years, I was reintroduced to the graceful, whimsical architecture and the vibrancy of the fabled port city, not to mention the savory chicken paella. That said, while I had found the citizens of Madrid businesslike and elegantly turned out, Barcelona was the least dressed and stylish European capital I had encountered in recent years.

  Everywhere I looked, T-shirts, fanny packs, and open-toed sandals abounded, despite the fact that there seemed to be more retail stores than restaurants. In fact, I was hard-pressed to see one well-dressed person despite checking into the regal Majestic, which houses the European luxury brands Loro Piana and Chanel.

  One evening, Dana and I, our daughter, and her best friend ventured down to the chaos of Las Rambla to our favorite restaurant, the classic Los Caracoles, where Dalí was known to have enjoyed the roasted chicken on a spit and the intensely rich flan.

  “What do you think of Barcelona, Daddy?” my daughter asked.

  I turned to the group and declared, “If I had to pen a slogan for Barcelona, it would have to be ‘Barcelona. Just rolled out of bed’ or … ‘Barcelona. Gaudi inspires, everyone else perspires.’”

  Some might say that Barcelona is a city for the young, that the millennials are too busy partying to care about how they look. I might have fallen into that trap had Naples and Capri not appeared next on my itinerary. Indeed, I found it amazing just how young the Italian boys start when it comes to their fashion journey. As opposed to the fratlike style pervasive in Barcelona, in Capri the exact opposite occurs. Friday and Saturday nights the local teens from Napoli arrive off the hydrofoil and congregate in the town square, the teen boys parading in their perfectly ironed and starched collared shirts, Gucci or LV belts, and stylish shoes. Many already sport their initials on their shirts. I must confess it took me years as an adult to acquire the discreet RK initials that are emblazoned on my shirt directly under my rib cage. I found it somewhat humorous when I saw the Neapolitan teenagers doing it at such a young age.

  “In Italy, clothes are a class statement,” the Minor Contessa filled me in over her long espresso in the bar at Sant Ambroeus, her chunky gold link bracelet creating a bit of noise and drama on the marble counter.

  “American men are, how you say, solid,” she said in a disapproving way. “Very square.” She blocked out a torso. “They all look like they are going to play golf in Minnesota when they get dressed. You know, polyester. A bit, how you say, middle class.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit unfair?” I asked.

  “Richard,” she said, stressing the CHARD, “in Italy, a suit is”—she used her hands like she was conducting an opera—“more than a suit; it’s a way of life, who you are. It places you.”

  “Places you?”

  “Yes. How is the fabric? Do you have hand stitching, workable buttons? Not everyone can afford it. In Italy it’s as if a secret language. Take your suit. Napoli, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said, somewhat astonished. “How can you tell?”

  “In my opinion, they only make suits like this in Napoli. The Milanese would argue, but that would be like saying the mozzarella is better in Milano than in Napoli, which we all know is a fantasia. And I can say that because I am Italian.”

  “And what differentiates it?”

  “It’s all in the shoulders and the cut of the lapels and pockets on the angle.” She surveyed me critically. “My ex-husband had these suits. I am telling you it’s a secret language. It says I can afford a suit for three thousand euros and I have the style to do it.”

  “Do you think it’s particularly Italian?”

  “Of course. I don’t particularly like Italian men, and I can say that, being Italian, but, yes, they look good. My French lovers, and I have had a few, their suits are all very narrow and a bit serious, austere. They all wear the Hermès tie, not to mention the hygiene.” She rolled her eyes. “I can say that because my grandmother is French and I’m Italian.”

  “And what do you think about the women?”

  “I hate to generalize, but I think Italian men are better looking than the women and that French women, overall, have better style.”

  “And you can say that …”

  “Because I’m Italian,” she said, frowning at an American ordering cappuccino in the afternoon. “When I was much younger, I once had to lecture an American girlfriend. She had come to Italy for the first time and couldn’t make the distinction between the men and the clothes and ended up dating a waiter.” She went on in a shocked tone, “The men are all handsome, dress well, and look like, how you say, John Travolta in Sunday Night Fever.”

  “You mean Saturday night.”

  “Whatever night, bello.”

  “So how did you save her?” I asked, anticipating a display of the Contessa’s wit.

  “I said, ‘Susie, if you want to meet someone of quality, who has some money from a good family …’”

  “Yes?” I said, hanging on her every word.

  “Look at the shoes.”

  A whole generation of Italian women tried to look like Sophia Loren. As a teenager, when I first landed in Marina Piccola decades ago, I would first see all the Sophia look-alikes lined up in the port waiting for the open air taxis (the taxis in Capri are the only ones in the world that have striped awnings in candy colors): perfectly sculpted hair, gorgeous cheekbones, the impressive décolletage, small dogs. The rich ones flashed Bulgari bracelets and large emeralds (always the emeralds) and the middle-class women would sport the lesser-priced Pucci-style knockoffs (often in housecoats). They always looked impeccable though, no matter the resources, although the women who worked in the shops sometimes wore cheaper ple
ather sandals, which broke the illusion.

  These days, the younger generation apes Donatella Versace: ironed blond hair, pillow lips and tanned skin, cell phones. It’s alluring for sure, but after all these years I have to admit, I do miss the Sophias.

  I have also come to the conclusion that it’s not the women who make the statement these days, but the Italian men. Part Casanova, part soccer star, they are peacocky in a way that is unusual for the male species. Often their bodies are tall, lean, and lanky and act as the perfect hanger for their custom suits and designer belts. And they take their clothes very, very seriously. In fact, in Italy they actually have a word for the art of tailoring: sartoria, which clearly comes from having or conveying sartorial splendor.

  On the Continent, I am impressed, for the most part, by the style of Italian men, and French women who radiate inner confidence. The English, in my opinion, by contrast, have a no-nonsense approach to their suits and outerwear. There is a durability to their tweeds and a masculinity to their Wellies and raincoats that subtly declares, “I am more interested in function than style—so take that!”

  I was catching up with a Hamptons neighbor for a late breakfast at the Madison Avenue diner we frequent.

  “When do you leave for Italy?” I asked over the egg white scramble, no butter, no toast, no potatoes ($10.95).

  “On Sunday. I cannot wait.” He applied butter liberally to his scooped-out bagel ($11.75) and identified a crispy piece of well-done bacon. “I have to get home and pack but I end up buying most of my things there anyway. You know, they have the best men’s clothing in Italy.”

  “I know. Somehow, it just doesn’t look or feel the same here.” I thoroughly agreed.

  “Look,” he said, asking for more hot water, “there is one thing you have to accept; no matter what you buy, and how hard you try to dress that way—one just can’t fully pull it off the way they do.” He picked up another bacon slice. “You understand that because you have been going there so long,” he whispered. “And, that at the end of the day, it’s all about the sweater.”

  “The sweater!!!!! Of course.” I nodded knowingly. When one is a twenty- or thirty-year vacation veteran of Capri, one understands the sweater. For those who may not know, every well-dressed Italian male of a certain age sports a carefully draped, colored cashmere sweater as he makes his way across the piazza for the passeggiata (the stroll). And it is draped ever so casually over the shoulders; with the importance of a film director and the insouciance of a movie star or politico. In many ways, it’s the male version of the jeweled Capri sandal.

  “Well, it goes without saying,” I said. “They just know how to do it. After all these years, I just can’t seem to get it right.”

  “Me either,” he said. “It’s maddening.”

  “No matter how many times I try, I just can’t seem to wrap it the right way. They all find a way to look like Fellini,” I offered.

  “And it never, ever falls off on them,” he said. “Do they glue it or staple it? Mine falls off all the time.”

  “It’s the Italian version of the French cigarette that is essentially attached to the lip while they speak, and doesn’t fall off. I am not sure how they do that, either.”

  “Correct. I have never, ever seen an American man able to either pull off the sweater or the French lip cigarette.”

  “Do you think it’s a conspiracy?” We huddled.

  “I just think it’s another European act of superiority.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “And they just seem to know when to pull out the sweater. Every time I try to do it, it’s too hot. You know, I could be wearing a linen shirt from Capri, like the rest of them, but then a chill comes and they have all thought it out in advance. They just know when to pull out the sweater. Every time I try and attempt it, there’s a heat wave and I look foolish. The Italians look at each other and smirk: ‘There’s another American trying to pull off the sweater.’”

  “Mine falls off so much the waiters always fold it and put it on the back of the chair or sadly give it to me when it falls on the floor.”

  “That’s the worst. The waiters always act so condescending. What they’re really saying is we should not try and pull off the sweater.”

  “I have gotten to the point where I just carry mine. Dana thinks the way I drape it makes me look short,” I admitted. Then I asked, “How many colors do you have yours in?”

  “I would say twenty-five? And you?”

  “The same. I do love seeing them all folded together. It makes me happy, my collection.”

  “Me too.” He ate the last bit of his bagel. “There’s nothing better than a good cashmere sweater. If only I could wear it like the Italians.”

  The white sangria with sliced peaches and lemons starts at 11:00 a.m. in Capri. Lazy days under the umbrella at Fontelina Beach Club are molto rilassante, very relaxing. I was under the umbrella, starting my exercise routine—a glass of the sangria and a swim—when an old friend, a native of Como, made his way over to say hello. I offered him a glass as we caught up. His family, one of the oldest in Italy, has one of the finest mills, and he oozed Italian chic with his movie star sunglasses and linen shirt and espadrilles.

  “Yes, I think Italian style is defined by the ’50s fantasy. It comes from that decade when we had the iconic leading men and women, when we had movies that traveled internationally as a point of reference.”

  “So you all have La Dolce Vita on the brain?”

  “I think so. We start early. When you’re born. Then you have your Communion at eight years old. You go for your suit. And of course it has to be the BEST.”

  “So it’s a serious business.”

  “Of course,” he said in a musical tone. “We have two thousand years on you guys. You know it’s national pride; when you have the Colosseum and the Sistine Chapel, it comes from a genetic place of personal identity.”

  “Tell me about the sweater.” I plied him with more sangria.

  “Ah, the cashmere sweater,” he said knowingly. “Well, now it might be a bit old school, a bit bourgeois. You know it all starts with the Italian mama. She wants you to take the sweater. ‘Don’t leave the house without a sweater … you might catch a cold from all the American air-conditioning!!!’ Now maybe a bit cliché but you know we still have the sweater not to catch cold.”

  “And what do you think of American style?” I said as I applied sunscreen to my white skin, his tan skin oblivious to the rays.

  “Well, I am an Italian who sometimes tries to dress American. I like the Steve McQueen, Jimmy Dean look. Maybe I shouldn’t try to do that, and just dress like my fellow paesanos.”

  “And I shouldn’t try the sweater.”

  “Yes, but you have more air-conditioning. Look, we’re all obsessed by the other. I had an uncle and one day when I was growing up he came in with this shiny black shirt and I asked him where he got it.”

  “And?”

  “And, he had been to America once and said proudly that he bought it in Cincinnati. He just liked the sound of it and thought it was cool. Cincinnati. Like it was Monaco!” he said in the most musical tone.

  “I think they’re living off their laurels,” the reed-thin, English socialite said as we were dining on salmon wrapped in filo dough at the delightfully under-the-radar Periyali, back in New York. “I think Italian men had good style in the ’50s, but they’re living off fumes,” she declared. “Italian men are cheesy. It’s all about the lines ‘I love you. I love you. Belissima …’ They can’t help themselves. They’re wired for more than one woman,” Tatiana (not her real name) determined. And I believed her, as she is a man-magnet for successful actors, musicians, and the occasional boy toy. Say what you want about Tatiana, she is known for her fabulous figure and incredible style. It’s hard to argue with an innate fashion plate.

  “Who do you thi
nk has the best style … the French?”

  “I actually think the best style in Europe goes to London. The men are not overly curated. Anyway, it’s more important to be fit than to be well dressed.” She yawned.

  “Perhaps you’re biased because you’re English.”

  “No, dahling,” she said, fingering a toasted slice of pita. “I call it like I see it. I love America, but the men are the worst dressed on the planet. They have zero style and let their wives dress them. It’s so sad. I do love your style, though. You’re more European than American. And you have wonderful suits. Napoli?”

  “How did you know?” I nearly choked on the pita.

  “It’s the cut. Very Neapolitan.”

  “What’s the difference between an English suit and this suit, in your opinion?”

  “In England, the suits are more conservative. They have a way of fitting by giving the illusion of being ill fitting, but the fit is, well … very English.”

  “And the women?”

  “My friends all look good. Very little makeup. Right off the country estate and right into the Range Rover.”

  “And the best female style award goes to … ?”

  “Why Sophia Loren, of course, dahling. Who else could it possibly be?”

  The next day, I met my close friend, a very talented menswear designer, for lunch at the Downtown outpost of Cipriani on West Broadway to catch up on our summer vacations. Cips was exactly what I needed as I tried to ease back to my New York diet after two weeks of gorging on Southern Caprese cuisine. And when one is feasting day in and day out, one cannot just go cold turkey. Like one eases off cigarettes or heroin, there has to be a methadone version of Italian food withdrawal to help the body recover. My friend, who is a Paleo, wasn’t indulging. However, I always love getting his POV, as he doesn’t have opinions as much as free-floating declarations!

  “I just think Italians wear it better,” he stated clearly.