Peter Mayle - Acquired Tastes

A Gentlemans Fetish

T here are two or three discreet establishments in London that for generations have catered to one of mans lesser known vices. Their names are not advertised, except by word of mouth. Their premises have the hushed atmosphere that discourages loud speech or sudden movement. Conversation is muted and thoughtful, punctuated by occasional subdued creakings. The clients, almost to a man, sit or stand with heads bowed and eyes directed downward, as if reflecting on matters of considerable importance. And indeed they are. These gentlemen, after all, are investing 750 or more in a pair of hand-cut, hand-stitched, hand-built shoes, created solely for the very personal idiosyncrasies of toes and contusions and bony outcroppings that make up the unique gentlemanly foot.

To some meneven those who revel in bespoke suits with cuff buttonholes that really undo, or made-to-measure shirts with single-needle stitching and the snug caress of a hand-turned collareven to some of these sartorial gourmets, the thought of walking around on feet cocooned in money somehow smacks of excess, more shameful than a passion for cashmere socks, and something they wouldnt care to admit to their accountants. Their misgivings are usually supported by the same argument: what could possibly justify the difference in price between shoes made by hand and shoes made by machine? Unlike the miracles of disguise that a tailor has to perform in order to camouflage bodily imperfections, the shoemakers task is simple. Feet are feet.

Theyre wrong, of course. What they dont understand, and will never understand until enlightened by experience, is the addictive combination of practical virtues and private pleasures enjoyed by the man who has his shoes made by artists.

It all starts with a ritual of initiation, and like any good ritual this one proceeds at a measured pace. You are not here to buy and run. You are committing your feet to posterity, and you must allow at least an hour for your first visit, maybe longer if your requirements are the kind that raise an eyebrow. But that comes later. First you must meet your guide, the man who will escort you through the opening ceremony. In more humdrum establishments, he might be called the fitter or the head salesman. But this shop is one of the last outposts of late Victorian baroque English, and he would probably prefer to think of himself as the purveyor.

He will greet you courteously, but his eyes will not be able to resist flickering downwards for a brief assessment of your shoes. Nothing will be said, but you will be conscious, perhaps for the first time in your life, that another man is actively interested in your feet.

You sit down, and your shoes are taken off. They suddenly look forlorn and rather shabby. Dont worry about it. The purveyor is not concerned with them anymore; its your feet that fascinate him. Having confirmed that there are two, of more or less the same size, he summons his acolyte, who may be a fresh-faced apprentice from the cobblers bench or a wizened retainer. In either case he carries a large, leather-bound book, opened at two blank pages.

The open book is placed upon the floor. You are asked to stand on it, one foot per page, and the purveyor kneels before you. Slowly, almost lovingly, he makes a map of each foot by tracing the two outlines onto the pages of the book. From those nearly prehensile big toes, round the mysterious knurls that embellish the little toes, along the sides, and deep under the arches, not a single wrinkle or irregularity is left unrecorded.

Once the maps are completed, the topographical survey can begin. Everything is measured: altitude of instep, curve of heel, contours and slopes of the metatarsal range. You might even be asked if you normally wear your toenails that length, because millimetres count. At last you are allowed to step off the book and prepare yourself for decisions. Now is the time to choose the style of your shoe.

While the choices are almost endless, it has to be said that you will not find Cuban heels, brass snaffles, three-tone snakeskin-overlaid broguing, or anything that might be considered a trifle gaudy. You, of course, have nothing like that in mind. What you want is a classic, timeless, brown lace-up shoe. Simple.

All you have to do is decide on the leather (calf, cordovan, crocodile, brushed deerskin); the precise shape of the toe (almond, slightly squared, standard rounded); the height of the heel (nothing too extreme, mind you, but an extra eighth of an inch might be arranged); the shaping around the arch of the foot (a chamfered waist is recommended here for a particularly smart finish); the extent of decoration (again, there are limits, but some restrained work around the toe and instep is highly acceptable); and finally, the laces (woven or leather, flat-cut or rolled). These absorbing details must not be rushed, because you will be living with the results for a long time.

You eventually take your leave of the purveyor with expressions of mutual satisfaction for a job well and thoroughly done. He looks forward to seeing you again.

But when? Several months go by without a word. And then, just as youre beginning to wonder if your order has been confused with the Duke of Glencoes stalking boots, you receive a postcard. More baroque language, requesting the favour of a visit for a fitting, assuring you of their best attention at all times while remaining yours faithfully, and generally giving you the impression that they have come up with the goods.

Your second visit to the premises is accompanied by a pleasant familiarity. The half dozen menthe same ones you saw months ago, for all you knoware still bent in devotion over their toecaps. The difference is that you will shortly be one of them, and here to prove it is the purveyor with your shoes.

He holds them up for inspection. Two burnished offerings, the colour of ox blood, with brass-hinged shoe treesworks of art themselvesgrowing out of them. The purveyor trusts they will be satisfactory. Good God, theyre superb! And the minute you put them on, your feet assume a totally different character. They used to be frogs and have turned into princes. They have lost weight. Not only are these shoes lighter than a ready-made shoe, they are also narrower and more elegantly shaped. No wonder all those old boulevardiers spend hours staring downwards, marvelling at their aristocratic feet. You find yourself doing exactly the same.

You are tactfully interrupted by the purveyor with some practical advice. Always insert the shoe trees immediately after removing the feet, while the leather is still warm. Make sure that whoever polishes your shoes (the assumption is that it will be a minion, and not yourself) works the polish well into the join between sole and upper. And bring the shoes in every year or so for servicing. (When you do, they will be received in the same way that a nursing home welcomes a rich hypochondriac, with solicitous inquiries as to his current state of health, followed by prolonged rest and treatment.) Given this kind of undemanding maintenance, your shoes will last twenty years or more.

At current prices, therefore, you will be paying about 35 a year for the comfort of wearing shoes that really fit, and the pleasure of wearing shoes that will actually grow more handsome with age. The rituals, the ornately phrased postcards, the poring over leathers and laces and waxes and creams, and the agreeable thought that your lasts, the exact replicas of your feet, are in safe lodgings somewhere in the depths of Jermyn Street or St. Jamessall these are thrown in. As addictions go, this one is a bargain.