Jack Baruth, like me “a lumbering elephant among sleek greyhounds,” has finally figured out why the semi-supersized men’s wear is always sold out:
[S]omewhere, in a deep bunker, there’s a Secret Cabal Of Chunky Clothes Horses. A room full of 240-pound, six-foot-two men, laughing, joking, comparing their newest Kiton jackets and Zanella pants. And whenever something in their size comes up for sale, they act in a coordinated manner to sweep the entire inventory off the shelves in minutes. They’re great guys, these Star Chamber hiphopapotamuses, able to tell the difference between Super 120s and Super 180s with a flick of the thumb, always interested in full-thickness mother-of-pearl buttons and sterling-silver collar stays, tucking Marol shirts into their spreading waistlines and using Alden alligator belts to cinch up the resulting mess. They’re always one step ahead of me, laughing as I pick up the stuff they’re too sophisticated or tasteful to buy.
I’d like to think I’d balk at paying $300 for Zanella pants, though I wonder what it’s going to be like when Nordstrom opens its Rack not quite two miles from me.