october-2010

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 2010
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