78 OCTOBER<strong>2010</strong> | UNITED.COM
COBBLED TOGETHER Left, George Cleverley’s storefront in Old Bond Street’s Royal Arcade; right, George Glasgow Sr. in the workshop with Teemu Leppanen in the background Tourists in London tend to have similar suspicions. Is the changing of the guard an actual military maneuver? Or is it just a pageant staged for foreign children, like a Disneyland parade? Do English people actually eat blood pudding for breakfast? Or is it only served to foreigners at hotels, as a kind of prank? Do Londoners really say “jolly,” or do they just print it on their T-shirts? How much of “English Culture” is real? How much of it is for show? To fi nd out, I’ve come to Bond Street. According to my guidebook, it’s a district so emblematically English that the queen literally does her shopping here. (When a member of the royal family holds an account at a store for at least fi ve years, the business is declared a Royal Warrant Holder. Bond Street has more of these than any street on earth.) I encounter a smartly dressed couple laden with shopping bags, and I cheerfully ask them to recommend some local shops. “No inglés,” they say. I start to get nervous. The guidebook promised authenticity. Have I been had? A tailor at Kashket’s confi rms my worst fears. “Oh, tourists love tradition,” he jokes, launching into an impression of a clueless American sightseer. “‘Ooh, I’ll have the fi sh and chips!’” I force a laugh, deciding not to reveal the fact that I ordered fi sh and chips less than 30 minutes ago. I consider returning to my hotel. My search for authenticity isn’t going very well, and I’m starting to doubt the freshness of the cod I consumed for lunch. But as I wobble through the Royal Arcade, a covered alleyway on Bond Street, a tiny shoestore catches my eye. There are no Royal Warrants, but I can’t stop staring at the handstitched merchandise: soft suede slippers, sleek black loafers, scaly boots made out of various reptiles. The shop’s sign is written in a cursive font so antiquated it takes me two minutes to decipher it: “G.J. Cleverley & Co. Ltd.” Cleverley’s is one of the last traditional makers of English bespoke shoes. (“Bespoke” is a British term for “custommade,” dating back to the days when shoes in progress were said to “be spoken for.”) In order to make a perfect pair, Cleverley sculpts a wooden model of a client’s feet, called a “last,” and builds the shoe around it over the course of several months. The Robb Report—an arbiter of all things luxe—has called shopping at Cleverley “a religious experience.” There are several bespoke shoemakers in London, but George Glasgow Sr. has never worn a competitor’s shoe. HEMISPHERESMAGAZINE.COM | MONTH <strong>2010</strong> I walk into the quiet store, determined to give Bond Street one last shot. The place certainly smells authentic: The aroma of shoe leather hits my nose the moment I enter—a smoky, buttery musk, as pungent as the beef in a New York steak house. I’m quickly greeted by a young proprietor named George Glasgow Jr. His father is George Glasgow Sr., a legendary shoemaker who took over the business from G.J. Cleverley in 1991. “You could write a whole book on my dad,” he boasts. The younger George is handsome, enthusiastic and hilariously well-dressed in a custom gray suit from Anderson & Sheppard. When he takes off his calfskin Cleverleys to show off their design quirks, I notice his socks have purple tips—to match his tie. “The shoe has to fi t like a glove,” he says, explaining the shop’s philosophy. George Jr. fl irted briefl y with a career in fi nance, but his love of bespoke shoes brought him back to the family business. “It just felt like the natural fi t,” he says. I smile at the pun, though his earnest expression suggests it was purely unintentional. The store does not post any prices on its merchandise, but George Jr. is happy to give me the rundown. Ready-to-wear