Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  19

  Parisian Purse Pipeline

  I got to the Ladurée a few minutes before nine the next morning, still sleepy, and somewhat doubtful whether I should have bothered showing up at all. I seriously questioned if Luc’s dog-and-pony act at the Hemingway was exactly that—an act. I sat down with my trusty Earl Grey, prepared to wait in vain. Then it was nine, then it was nine fifteen, and then it was half past, and it seemed like my suspicions were well-founded. I thumbed through my International Herald Tribune, searching for anything good I missed the first three times I went through it, when I heard a couple of appreciative murmurs from the trio of young Frenchwomen sitting to my right. Hmmm…I wonder…I raised my eyes and there Luc was, dressed to the hilt, lounging in the doorframe and scanning the room languorously. He acted like he didn’t notice the attention his pose was getting, but I knew better—his “type” needs attention like heroin addicts need their smack. Although I had to admit, he did look amazing. Between the suit and the sunglasses, since our meeting last night he had graduated from a CK model to a Prada billboard boy. I almost waved, and then decided against it—there was no way he hadn’t seen me already in this small café. He was definitely milking the moment, but who was I to deprive his onlookers? He finally “spotted me” over the tops of his shades, and started making his way over.

  “Michael, hello…Do you have the money?” So much for pleasantries.

  “Good morning…Yes, I do, I have what you need for the Birkin,” I said, tapping my shirt pocket.

  “And money for me?” He smiled coquettishly as he said this, but I could sense the neediness lurking beneath his “casual” tone. I found it irritating that he was so gauche as to immediately bring up money, especially on the heels of his late arrival and abrupt greeting. I bit my tongue, however; mainly because it wasn’t worth showing him that I was annoyed. All I needed was for him to throw a hissy fit and demand a bigger cut, or walk away altogether. The funny part is, I had the distinct impression he thought I found him utterly charming.

  “Yes, of course. That too, right here,” I said, tapping my other shirt pocket. I was nothing if not organized. “I have to fly home later today, so we should head out.” This was not, in fact, true, but I did want to do things today that would occur outside of the Café Ladurée, and I had a feeling Luc might order the menu if he got a chance. I was likely right, judging from his pout. But all was not lost for him, moochwise—he still managed to steer us near enough to the counter on the way out for him to order a macaroon. Happily munching, Luc was uncharacteristically quiet on the walk to Hermès, which was nice. Meanwhile, I seesawed between my nagging doubts about Luc’s character and my growing excitement at the prospect of having a “shopper” who could get bags for me at will. I looked at him, searching for any visible clues that he was planning a heist against me, but like children who are asleep, Luc looked particularly angelic while eating. And, now that we were walking next to each other, I realized he wasn’t any bigger than I was—I could take him, if need be. That sealed it. A “safe” distance away from the Hermès store entrance, I stopped and handed him the “Birkin money” envelope.

  “Okay, Luc, good luck.” I smiled, and quashed my worries.

  “I do not need any, I tell you, Philippe luuuvs me. We will have no problems.” He opened his suit coat wide, pointed at the Valentino label to make sure I saw it, and slipped the envelope into his inside pocket. I tried not to look disgusted at his show-and-tell. This was his big moment, after all. He smiled again, and headed across the street. I watched until he disappeared through the giant glass doors, and then I had nothing to do but wait. God knows how long Luc would stand around flirting with Philippe, I thought with a sinking feeling. I still wanted to hit those dépôts-ventes later today, and the morning was half over. My jaw dropped when Luc walked out a scant fifteen minutes later, practically waving his orange prize. He jogged lightly across the street, already opening his mouth to say something, but before he could ask for his money, it was in his hand.

  “Michael, thank you…and it is a black 35cm with gold…That is okay, right—one of the ones you said you wanted?” He started to hand me the shopping bag, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to take a chance on anyone seeing our handbag handoff. Luc seemed to understand, and gestured for me to follow him, mumbling something about his car being down the nearby alley. I simply followed the orange—it wasn’t going to be out of my sight for a minute.

  We stopped in front of a beat-up VW Golf—apparently Luc’s acute style sense didn’t extend to his automotive choices. He leaned against its dented hood while he searched his pockets, and at long last pulled out a crumpled store receipt. I scanned it quickly, it had today’s date, and the Birkin purchase was there in black and white. Now if the item in the bag matched the receipt, I was good to go. When I peeked inside, the box looked authentic and the ribbon was tied perfectly. Luc handed the bag to me, and I swung it by its handles, testing the weight. Felt right. Well, at some point I had to trust I hadn’t been scammed. Luc was not so trusting and was making a show of counting his bills. I decided to have a last chat with him, as a final effort in fraud detection, before he scooted off in his crappy car. (Who the hell drives in Paris, anyway?)

  “Luc, this is great! We should do this again…Let me get your number?” I gauged the expression on his face as I made this suggestion, but I saw nothing resembling panic. I was now relatively sure I hadn’t been scammed, unless he was an actor on a par with Sidney Poitier.

  “Yes, we should…I can get these whenever you want, and it’s good for both of us, no?” He was already eagerly digging in his satchel for his cell phone. After we swapped info, we stood there a little awkwardly.

  “This really is good for both of us, like you said. So I’ll talk to you once I get back to Spain. And meanwhile, make sure you stay on Philippe’s good side!” I jokingly wagged a finger, but I wasn’t really kidding. This could be a huge “in,” if Luc didn’t screw things up with this salesman.

  “No, no, Michael, he luuuvs me…” Oh Jesus, not again. I cut him off from reciting that speech by pretending to have received an important text message from the cell phone still in my hand. I stared at my address book, making what I hoped looked like an anxious face.

  “Oh, sorry, Luc, I have to deal with this…All right, then, I’ll be in touch!” With that, I turned on my heel and walked away without a single glance back. I made a power exit that I hoped looked a lot more decisive than I felt. Perhaps Luc could learn that he was not the only one who could command the stage.

  I scooted back to the Hotel Mansart to drop off the bulky shopping bag and, naturally, sneak a peek at my new Birkin in the process. Everything checked out fine on the bag, and I was ready for phase two. I stopped over at the concierge desk to get the goods on getting the goods. In response to my question about dépôts-ventes, he popped over to his minitel, this really cool device no self-respecting Parisian concierge would be without. Minitel looked like a portable television with a keyboard soldered on, but it could spit out phone numbers, addresses, and business listings, and the concierges used it to check bus timetables, book airline tickets, and make reservations. It was a pre-Internet invention but essentially did much the same work as Google eventually would, only with more of an emphasis on local information. Immediately, the concierge had the names and addresses of more dépôts-ventes than I could visit in a week of afternoons. He quickly scribbled down a list of ten or so, and I was on my way.

  The dépôts-ventes are essentially consignment stores, but I knew a lot of them were exclusively designer, featuring only one or two of the most expensive brands. They might specialize in Chanel, Goyard, Louis Vuitton, Gucci…Hermès. Those higher-end dépôts-ventes were the ones I wanted to find, but unfortunately, the list I had in my hand held no clues about which ones those might be. I had to hunt for myself. I decided to let geography dictate, and headed for the closest one. A scant five minutes later, I was standing in front of the store’s plate-gl
ass window. It wasn’t a fancy display, but it held an assortment of scarves, purses, belts, and so on, with handwritten labels announcing their brand. I spotted a couple scarves labeled Hermès and headed into the store. The store looked as if it had seen better days, as most secondhand stores do, and after wandering around the dusty sales floor for a bit, I saw nothing Hermès outside of what was in the window. In fact, I saw little inside that was of the same caliber of the items they had put in the window, period. Good marketing, but disappointing. I had a salesperson lift the scarves out of the display, and I inspected them carefully. Condition was fine, none of the lipstick stains Grace had warned me against. I couldn’t sell them as new, of course, but the designs were both on the rare side, and I was positive they were on someone’s wish list. Success, of a sort, I supposed.

  I went to five or six more stores that day, but in some of them I found nothing at all. One was really bad—it was a mess of rusted baby carriages, broken toys, stained clothes, and old French romance novels. Even if they had a Birkin hidden somewhere, I don’t think I could have stayed there long enough for them to find it. Finally, at what ended up as my last stop, I found a dépôt-vente that validated my Hermès-hunting afternoon. It was exactly the kind of store I had been looking for—90 percent luxury goods. It had stacks of Hermès scarves and at least half a dozen Hermès handbags, as well as lots of Hermès jewelry and assorted leather goods. Jackpot! I quickly spent another ten grand (I was really on a roll this week—Juan was never going to let me go to Paris again). More bags of stuff to traverse the city with.

  I had planned on going over to the actual Hermès store to see Serge, but all the walking and cabbing had me less than fresh as a daisy (and when I went a-Birkining, I always went as fresh as possible). So, I decided on a late lunch, instead, somewhere close to the hotel (and a nap might be in order too). As I cabbed back to the Mansart, I decided other than that last one I had gone to, dépôts-ventes were for the birds. Too much time spent traveling—time that could be better spent charming an Hermès salesperson out of a high-end bag. And it was completely hit or miss whether they had anything at all that I wanted, so I could waste a whole day and walk away with nothing. The dépôts-ventes might be good for the collectors, like Grace, but they weren’t a savvy use of resources for someone like me, who viewed this all as a business. On the whole, though, I was damn pleased with my trip so far. I had lots of treats to put on eBay, and I had also miraculously found a Parisian purse pipeline. If Luc kept up his end of the bargain, my insatiable client Sarah wasn’t going to need a new closet for all the Birkins coming her way—she was going to need a whole new house.

  20

  Devilish Prada Pants and Heavenly Cuisine

  I entered Hermès the next morning, ready to cap off my trip with just one last itty-bitty Birkin…now that wasn’t so much to ask, was it? Serge was engaged with a Japanese woman who looked like the buying type (she was carrying an indigo blue crocodile Kelly bag), so I strolled around his periphery. I wanted to remain on his good side, and interrupting a potential big sale was not the way to do that. After about twenty minutes, he managed to exchange a few words with me on his way to the “handbag vault” downstairs. By then I was sitting at one of the two small wooden desks that the store provided—usually, you sat there to fill out your de-tax papers or CITES (the infamous croc “passport”). I was content people-watching, but Serge looked troubled on my behalf.

  “Michael, I am so sorry to keep you waiting. The woman I am with has a lot of requests and questions, plus one of my long-standing clients phoned, and she will be here momentarily. So perhaps later today?” He sounded hopeful, so I knew he had assumed I was there to buy, not browse.

  “No problem. I can come back later this afternoon. I need to get my dinner plans settled, and finish packing—I leave tomorrow. Recommendations for dinner? I was considering L’Ambroisie.” Worth a shot—I bet Serge knew the reputation of every three-star restaurant in Paris. I had gotten in the habit of using Hermès salespeople as a Zagat guide when I was on my “business trips.” None of them had let me down yet.

  “Have you been to Pierre Gagnaire?”

  I shook my head.

  “In my opinion, it is the best restaurant in the city. I think you would find it very interesting.” Here he paused, looking a little troubled. “However, on this kind of notice, getting in is impossible…Well, you know, let me see what I can do for you, Michael. I do know someone there, and if I dine along with you, we could perhaps get a table?” This last was definitely a question, and there was no way I was going to give the wrong answer.

  “Absolutely, I would be happy to have company, and if this restaurant is all you say it is, I wouldn’t want to miss out on it.” Besides the practical business side of establishing a friendship with Serge, he was likeable enough. Also, with all of my recent traveling, I often felt as though I was the most frequent solo restaurant diner in Europe.

  “Great, great, I will give Jacques a call, then, and see what he can do for us. He may come through; I have dined there on any number of occasions with clients. And also, it is where my boyfriend and I always go for our anniversary dinners, so they are guaranteed to see me at least once a year.” He smiled as he said this, and I was relieved to hear he was with someone. To paraphrase Meat Loaf, I would do anything for Birkins, but I wouldn’t do that.

  I spent the afternoon doing a little window-shopping and enjoying a late lunch at Ladurée (no Luc in evidence, thank God). If this place was as good as Serge promised, it was worth killing the afternoon for. I didn’t get back till around five, but my timing was good—Serge was free when I walked in, and he greeted me immediately.

  “Michael, I got us a table, at eight thirty, you want to do it, right?” He was obviously pleased with himself.

  “Yes, of course…But wait, I’ll need a suit-jacket for this place, won’t I?” Panic. I didn’t have one. Stupid, stupid. The Dsquared2 bomber was fab, but not exactly finer-dining material. In Paris, you still dressed for dinner. Okay, I had the power to solve this, I would go and buy something. Crisis averted. Deep breath.

  “Yes, you would need one, you don’t have one?” Serge raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll go and buy one, I can always use another suit jacket.” I waited for lightning to strike. “But that means I don’t have time to shop here…” This was unfortunate, but I did have tomorrow morning free. My flight wasn’t until four, so it wasn’t a disaster either.

  “You can come tomorrow morning, right? I am working then too,” Serge said, echoing my thoughts.

  “Yes, that’s fine. Okay, let me get the address from you for tonight, and I’ll meet you there at eight thirty…in a jacket.” Serge had their business card on the ready—wow, what a Boy Scout. I quickly headed out, determined to find my wardrobe change for the evening. It shouldn’t be too hard: I was in Paris, it wasn’t like there was any shortage of beautiful clothing. And then, like an answer from above, I spotted a Prada store across the street. I like Prada, devil’s brand or no.

  Prada was a series of good-news/bad-news vignettes. They didn’t have a jacket that I liked (bad news). They did have a suit I loved (good news). The jacket fit me perfectly (good news). But the pants were too long (bad news). Looking at myself up and down in the full-length mirror, I decided that I could pin the pants, just for the evening, and get them tailored later—no time now, that’s for sure. I reasoned that if I waltzed in wearing a single-breasted, cream-colored, microfiber Prada suit, no one would be looking at my ankles. As I handed over a credit card so new the surface was still gummy from the security sticker, I had a premonition that Juan would definitely never let me come to Paris again—ever. (Although I knew he would love the suit, you sort of had to.)

  Photographic Insert

  With my friend Kate at the Corn Hill house near Provincetown, Massachusetts. We often gave big, elaborate dinner parties there. I’d grill lobsters while we watched the sunset, sipping Kate’s famous
margaritas.

  With friends in front of my boathouse cottage. The first summer I moved to Provincetown is a time I’ll fondly remember, or, more accurately, wish I could.

  I wore the iconic Hermès chaîne d’ancre bracelet whenever I went Birkin buying…It was my good-luck charm. Along the way I bought dozens of these bracelets in the process of using the “Formula,” and they sold like hotcakes on eBay.

  A page from my Hermès Ulysse notebook with a list of Birkins I purchased in October 2005. I have to laugh when I read articles that claim Hermès produces “about 100 Birkins per year.” If that were truly the case it would mean that I bought the entire annual production that year—and then some!

  Another of my Ulysse notebooks, in which I kept the address and phone number of every Hermès store in existence (as well as salespeople’s names and numbers).

  My Birkin-buying uniform: Prada suit, Hermès shirt, Hermès vest, Jil Sander tie, Hermès cashmere socks, Giorgio Armani shoes, Hermès chaîne d’ancre bracelet, Polo Ralph Lauren sterling watch fob (worn through the lapel buttonhole), S. T. Dupont “Medici” fountain pen (tucked inside the breast pocket), Hermès crocodile agenda (inside breast pocket), orange Hermès Ulysse notebook.

  A 35cm fuchsia crocodile Birkin. It’s a rare color, so finding one of these is like winning in Vegas…the odds are stacked against you, but it’s sensational when it happens! Victoria Beckham (Posh Spice) has an ostrich Birkin in this color.

  This Kelly Lakis was my first bag purchase at the flagship Hermès store in Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris. I like to think of it as my qualifying purchase: it opened the door for many future Birkins.

  An Hermès Kelly Pouchette (designed by Jean Paul Gaultier), one of four (each in a different color) that a client purchased for about $3,500 each.