Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  A basic 35cm leather Birkin. Aficionados consider this the “starter Birkin.” At about $8,000, some would call it cheap (compared with $30,000 for the same bag in crocodile).

  This blue crocodile Birkin was the subject of an international “hostage” situation and a square-off with one of my “shoppers.” I’m happy to report that the bag is now safe and living in a good home.

  Birkins can be as collectible as rare stamps or old coins. I bought, sold, and resold this Birkin several times.

  Pime is a friend from Santiago, Chile, whom I trained in the fine art of Birkin buying. After a false start or two, she really learned how to bring home the Birkins.

  After moving the three thousand miles to Barcelona I found my soul mate, Juan. Here we are in Chiang Mai, Thailand, beflowered at an orchid and butterfly farm.

  A Polaroid of Mom, with my high-school graduation portrait in the background.

  Juan and I first met at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel Arts in Barcelona. It was kismet, and we felt it most appropriate for our parents’ first meeting to take place there. Here Juan and I are with (left to right) Juan Sr., Mom, Carmen, and Dad.

  With my family on a Caribbean cruise: my sister, Dorothy; Juan; my niece, Riane; Mom; and Dad. (My brother-in-law, Edward, was unable to come.)

  I have fond memories of Capri: the spectacular stairs at the Hotel Villa Brunella, and the breathtaking via Camerelle with perhaps the tiniest Hermès store on the planet. One day I hope to return…

  I was headed back to the hotel, Prada bag draped over my arm, when it occurred to me that I should get shoes too. I didn’t want Serge to think I had only that one pair—and I wasn’t sold on how crocodile brogues would look with this suit anyway. At least those were the justifications I went with, but the Armani Black Label store I saw across the street could be what triggered the whole shoe thought in the first place. The mind is a complicated landscape.

  More good news/bad news. Armani had a gorgeous pair of black woven leather slip-ons, sleek and tailored, and they had them in my size (good news). It occurred to me I needed a black belt to match them, which was an item I hadn’t packed (bad news). They carried belts at Armani, of course (good news). None of them fit my trim little waist, though (bad news). I bought the shoes and headed back to Prada. I had seen a couple of belts in there I liked, but hadn’t been thinking I was going to buy new shoes…what a comedy of errors. And I only had, let’s see, two hours before I would meet Serge. Less than two hours. I was practically jogging, desperate to get back there before the store closed at seven. Thankfully, on my encore visit to Prada, only good news awaited. They were open (barely; I was glad I had hustled) and they had the most fantastic belt I could have pictured to complete my ensemble. The leather was black edged with cream, the exact cream of my suit, and it wasn’t too big. I realized that if I paired it with the black cashmere turtleneck I had back at the hotel (and my trusty chaîne d’ancre bracelet, of course), I was more than ready to take on Pierre Gagnaire—as soon as I fixed the pant legs, that is. What had I gotten myself into? All I wanted was a suit coat, and now look—more business expenses.

  Back at the hotel. Showered and coiffed. But after struggling with the suit for twenty minutes, I decided to enlist the hotel staff for help. Ever attempt to safety-pin your own pant hems? I don’t recommend it, unless you are into calisthenics. I went down to the lobby and over to the front desk, and explained my situation to the nice lady working. This may have been somewhat unnecessary, as my pant hems were dragging on the floor in a rather unsubtle manner, and I was walking while trying to hold them up (another possible exercise for the calisthenics fans among us). I said that I had less than an hour till kickoff at Pierre Gagnaire, and the desk clerk immediately got excited for me. She called over the concierge, and he also got excited about my upcoming dining experience. I guess Serge wasn’t screwing around with his restaurant choice; everyone was acting like I was presenting at the Oscars. The concierge led me downstairs to some hotel netherworld, like the maids’ office or something, and had me stand up on a stool while he pinned the hems. His technique was amazing—he meticulously manipulated ten or so teensy-weensy safety pins to hold the hem on each leg, and you couldn’t even see them. Then he had me strip to my skivvies…and then he…well, he ironed my pants. After a last dash to my room to do a final once-over, I was ready for the ball, without a second to spare. Three or four employees, including the tailor/concierge, saw me off in the lobby, beaming like proud prom parents. I thanked everyone again, tipped everyone accordingly, and silently resolved to always stay at the Mansart whenever I came to Paris. (And since that day, I always have.)

  The restaurant was located on Rue Balzac—the neighborhood was an old haunt of its namesake, as well as moments from the Arc de Triomphe. Très Paree, in other words. It was inside a hotel (named the Hotel Balzac, not surprisingly), but you entered off the street. Serge wasn’t there yet—the afternoon’s escapades notwithstanding, I had managed to arrive a few minutes early. The place was very chic, very feng shui, the light-wood tables contrasting with charcoal gray walls and accents, all clean straight lines. There was a little lounge area, and it was there I waited for Serge to arrive, immediately ordering a bottle of Bollinger RD ’90. I had already blown my trip budget by about thirty grand, so no amount of penny-pinching on Champagne choices could save me now. Serge breezed in a few minutes later, we transferred ourselves and the Champagne to the dining room, and we settled into our table for the night (and I do mean settled in…we were there for almost five hours). Our location in the dining room was great—we were in a loge area, at one of two tables that overlooked the entire restaurant. No question about it—Serge was a VIP at this place.

  Pierre Gagnaire served cutting-edge fusion cuisine, gourmet French dishes with a contemporary twist—or at least that’s what Serge told me. All I knew was that my first glance at the menu made me worry that my French was rusty. But even after the waiter provided me with a menu in English, I was still perplexed. Toast with woodcock and sardines; carpaccio of fennel warbler; “frozen” bouillabaisse with green pepper; small gray snail étouffée; golden celery with velvety ewe; and a number of other, um, selections. And no hints at all about dessert—under the word DESSERTS appeared simply the words PIERRE GAGNAIRE. I hoped there wasn’t some freaky cannibal thing going on here. Luckily, I was saved from menu oblivion by my dining companion. Serge wouldn’t hear of us choosing anything other than the gastronomic tasting menu, seeing how it was my first time there. Course after course came, and the food was bizarre, yes, but sublimely so. Everything was delicious, the unique combinations a true delight to the palate. Serge’s “in,” Jacques, turned out to be the sommelier, and he came over with his personal recommendations on the wines. Naturally, we needed a bottle of white, and of red, what with having both fish and meat. The wine seemed to loosen us both up, considering we were relative strangers.

  Serge talked extensively about his clients and his life in general. I was more reticent, obviously—“Oh, well actually, Serge, I sell Hermès items on eBay and have a formula for getting Birkins…I’m going to use it on you tomorrow, actually, if I need to…” Yeah, that would go over real well. Check, please. I didn’t lie, though; I was in the import/ export business. And it wasn’t really difficult to be slightly vague, because Serge, while not in the slightest a bore, had plenty to say. He told me all about some of his famous clients, one of whom, Mrs. Fisher, was of the Gap Fishers. I was like, oh, that Mrs. Fisher, right…saw her in Capri last week. Oh wait, no I didn’t, I was too busy running around the south of France buying handbags. Serge also spoke extensively about Lakis Gavalas, the designer of my new bag, who, I now found out, was a friend of his. Serge and his boyfriend frequently vacationed with Lakis in the Greek islands, and Lakis even used Serge as a sounding board for new designs. Lakis was an increasingly important Greek designer and self-manufacturer, and also the Mediterranean area retailer/distributor for other high-end fashion brands. He was well-known to the styl
e world of Europe for his socializing, his eccentric style, and the decadent late-summer parties at his home in Mykonos. And he had what very well might be the largest personal collections of Hermès bags in the world, at two hundred plus and counting. I tried to imagine why a man, even a gay man, would need that many purses, and I couldn’t answer the question. I didn’t have any purses (at least for personal use), and I wasn’t feeling some big chasm in my soul or anything. I wondered what Serge thought of Lakis’s collection, deep down, but knew I couldn’t ask—he would never be indiscreet enough to comment. I reflected that discreet was probably a way of life for him now; even here, he was running into clients. First, a Frenchwoman approached to chitchat, and then later, an American woman. These women didn’t look merely well-off—they dripped money, with their Van Cleef jewelry, croc clutches, and haute couture ensembles. Seeing their obvious affection for Serge, I fully appreciated what a unique position he occupied within the orbits of the elite. This man saw more black AmEx cards in a week than most people would see in a lifetime. He specialized in handbags at the Hermès flagship location; thus, he had met thousands of the wealthiest people on the planet, many of whom he now called friends.

  When the bill came, I whisked it off the table and wouldn’t hear of letting Serge chip in. He had gotten us the reservation, after all. And in all honesty, I did want to keep up the pretense of committed Hermès customer, and committed Hermès customers had money to burn. I also never mind paying $800 tabs if the food and drink are of the caliber we had just enjoyed. The wine probably made it an easier blow to take, as well. It was really good wine.

  Serge and I said our good-byes, and swayed off in opposite directions. I couldn’t believe he had to open the store tomorrow morning. Of course, I had to work too, but not at eight. I was thinking eleven sounded about right. It sure was nice to get to make your own schedule, especially on the morning after you had split three bottles of high-end libations. Poor Serge.

  I wasn’t quite so fresh as usual when I got to Hermès the next day, but I was fairly certain that Serge wouldn’t notice my hangover through the haze of his own. Once again, he was with a customer when I arrived, looking a little miserable but gamely trying to hide it. He quickly excused himself for a moment as soon as he saw me (I think my customer stock index had improved overnight).

  “Michael, I need to finish up with her; we are almost done. Let me have one of the girls get you something while you wait. Coffee, or tea, perhaps?”

  I tried to refuse, but ended up succumbing when he revealed they had Earl Grey. I went back to my new favorite perch at the desk, and awaited my tea like a good little Birkin buyer. It arrived momentarily, on a silver platter, in an Hermès Toucan teapot and matching cup. This was great. I decided I would try to get here at an inconvenient time every time. Before I could get bored, Serge appeared, warmly greeting me. I was at a crucial point here. Did I need the formula? Or could I go full steam ahead, and try for the Birkin right off? I decided nothing ventured, nothing gained. (And thanks to Luc, I did have one Birkin already.)

  “Serge, I want something for my mom’s birthday—I actually meant to get it the other day when you distracted me with that bag, and then yesterday when you distracted me with that dinner” (here we shared a laugh). “I really want to get her a Birkin.” I waited with bated breath (and crossed fingers, because my mom would rather be shot than spend that kind of money on a purse, but I couldn’t very well say it was for me—I was no Lakis Gavalas, and Serge knew it).

  “Let me go see if there is anything available. I will be right back,” he said, already heading for the Birkin basement. He emerged with a stack of three boxes, doing the Christmas-gift goose walk over to the table. I bought just one; I thought more than one would be greedy (and the one I took was a beaut—an étrusque-colored ostrich 35cm Birkin, very desirable).

  Serge gave me a kiss on each cheek, we said our farewells, and that was that. Now I had two Birkins, and I hadn’t had to buy a single scarf to get them. On this trip I had found both an effective “shopper” and an effusive salesman—what else could a boy want? I had a hunch that in my future dealings with the Faubourg, the only thing I would have to wait for would be my tea.

  21

  Chilean Charades and Buenos Birkins

  Back in Barcy, I made it my first priority to get money into my bank account, and stat—partly to ensure Juan didn’t realize the full extent of my expenditures. I didn’t know if I could explain the whole spending-money-to-make-money ideology to a Catalan man. His culture tended to be…um…frugal. Plus, I knew Juan would be shocked by the sheer sums I was dealing with. It was a bit scary the first time you saw a $50,000 AmEx statement, although eventually you did get used to it (especially since I knew I was going to make all the money back, with profit). But I still felt it was best to ease Juan into it slowly. So, in the interest of saving time, I offered both Birkins to Sarah right off. She responded within an hour.

  From: “Sarah”

  To: “Michael”

  Michael—Fantastic, I will take both of them. I will bank wire payment tomorrow.

  Also, I got a really interesting tip recently that I thought I would share with you. My friend Shannon is a flight attendant, and a big Hermès fan, and she recently discovered you can get Birkins a lot more easily in South America. The two stores she had luck with were Buenos Aires and Santiago. Might be a thought for you.

  From: “michael”

  To: “Sarah”

  Sarah—thank Shannon for the tip. I am surfing airline websites as I type this. be in touch-mt

  I found a flight into Buenos Aires, and realized that with all my recent credit card purchases, I wouldn’t be paying a dime for the tickets—my miles count was through the roof. I would have to tell Juan—he loved nothing more than getting something for free. I booked myself a plane ticket for the weekend after next. I was eager, but not eager enough to miss out on lazing around the house for another few days before climbing on a fourteen-hour transatlantic flight. I also didn’t want to miss seeing what kind of bidding wars my Artcurial goodies would incite—I planned on sitting back with a bowl of popcorn for that show. I also figured I could make a quick trip to Andorra (still in operation at this point, the axe hadn’t fallen yet), and maybe one of the Barcelona stores as well.

  I had fewer end-of-auctions that Sunday than I had expected—but that was because people had leaped at what I had considered rather ambitiously priced “Buy It Now”s. So that was fine. And I had made my little side trips, and got some eBay Hermès trinkets, plus a Birkin in Barcelona (formula back in operation). As planned, I also sat around a lot, drinking Earl Grey. So by the time the trip came, I was rested and raring to go. I was excited about South America, since I had never been south of Cancún.

  Santiago was my first destination. I had never really considered going to Chile, and once I got there, I wondered how I had made such an oversight. The city was bustling, larger than I expected, and reminded me a lot of Barcelona. Fewer high-rises, definitely, but the same sort of small-town-disguised-as-a-city feel. The Hermès was right near the Hyatt I was staying at; I was getting pretty expert at booking hotels, locationwise. The store was fairly good-sized, with huge windows along the lines of the Faubourg store. More important, the formula worked like a charm, and they coughed up two Birkins for me to choose from. Not sure which one I should take, I had a moment of inspiration. A new formula, of sorts.

  “Do you mind if I make a quick call? I’m just going to call my mom and ask her what she wants me to do, she’s the big Hermès fan in the family.” With that, I took out my cell phone and called my own voice mail.

  “Hi, Mom, I’m here at the Hermès store in Santiago…Flight was fine…Yup, I’m here already…It’s great, they had everything you wanted, and I’m looking at two Birkins now. Yeah, they have a 35cm blue jean, and they have one in gold. Oh, okay.” I paused here. “
Yes, well, I can ask, hold on.” I turned and addressed the saleswoman, my hand over the mouthpiece of my phone (which was playing my saved messages ad infinitum).

  “Is there any way I could get both? My mother wants the blue jean, but she also wants to buy the gold, as a present for my sister.” The saleswoman was a little hesitant.

  “Well, sir, Paris does not really like it if we sell two bags to one individual.” Here she paused, looking at the stack of merchandise I had at the register. “I suppose, though, that if you paid with a card today, you could get the other perhaps tomorrow, with cash. That way we wouldn’t get in any trouble.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem at all. I fully understand. Let me tell Mom, she’ll be thrilled.” I finished up my fake conversation, and that was that. One Birkin in my hands, and another to pick up tomorrow in the A.M. Perfecto.

  Ironically, my phone rang almost immediately when I left the store, and I half expected it to be my mom; she was spookily psychic like that sometimes. But, no, it was a different leading lady in my life.

  “Hello, Michael here,” I said crisply, as I concentrated on dodging the throngs of pedestrians crowding the hot sidewalk.

  “Hey, stranger,” Kate’s low voice responded, in a tone much more mellow than mine. I immediately looked for somewhere I could sit, spotted a little bench, and plopped myself down on it, safely out of the way of the madding crowd.

  “Kate, oh my God, it’s so good to hear from you, you will never believe where I am right now,” I said, watching Santiago’s shopping district bustle around me, cars whizzing by and the sound of Spanish filling the air. I nostalgically pictured Kate at our old kitchen table back in Ptown, sipping her coffee and gazing out the window at the dinghies floating in the bay.