Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  I decided that I wanted to break new ground in terms of stores—fresh Birkin blood (so to speak). I decided on a tour of Germany, a place I hadn’t been since I did a road trip with my parents the year the Wall came down. For the hell of it, I decided to do Luxembourg and Belgium too. I always liked the way Luxembourg looked on maps—such a small country having such a long name seemed ballsy to me somehow, and Brussels was so darn close by then you might as well go there too. By renting a car and hitting a new Hermès each day, à la south of France, I could potentially net six Birkins. So, Nuremberg first, then Frankfurt, then Hamburg, and on to Cologne. Then to the city of Luxembourg (same name as the country, and not too much smaller) and Brussels. Whew. Screw Road Rules, they should do a reality show based on my one-man Birkin Brigades.

  I was still scarf shopping with my wish lists, although there was an increasing number of stores that I had already milked dry. I had long ago bought out every scarf of value in the Barcelona stores, and now the south of France stores were getting a little weak on inventory too. For me to profit on a scarf, it had to be an older design, on the rare side, and it wasn’t like they were going to magically materialize in the stores I had already cleaned out. (Hermès saved that kind of trick for its handbags.) So I had branched out. Now I bought shawls, Ulysses (the notebooks), jewelry, whatever was available, whatever would get me to that magic $1,000 mark I needed to ensure a shot at a Birkin purchase. I didn’t usually profit on the other bric-a-brac, but I generally broke even. The Ulysses and chaîne d’ancre bracelets (like the one I had) always sold in practically moments, so I was partial to those. However, I was hopeful of running across a couple of scarf treasures, since these stores hadn’t played the role of “wish list wells” yet.

  Nuremberg was a rather attractive place, with old castles looming around the perimeter of the walled-off city center. It also had the requisite bevy of gothic churches, plus the added charm of many cobble-stoned streets. And I had no problem getting a bag, which always makes me consider a city in a favorable light.

  Frankfurt was more industrial, less of a tourist destination, but I have nothing but glowing recommendations of the Hermès store there. Two for two. Both leather, though, which wasn’t optimal.

  So, when I walked up to the front of store number three in Hamburg, I was delighted to see a rouge Hermès (or Hermès red) 35cm crocodile Birkin. But, as I got closer, I saw a tiny brass sign holder propped up next to it, displaying an ivory placard with one word printed in elegant black script—RESERVIERT. Now, what the hell did that mean? How could anyone be expected to believe that there was a two-year wait for these bags, and a constantly growing waiting list, but when the bag finally came in, the customer just let it hang out a while longer with a RESERVED sign on it? That made no sense at all. And in any case, why would Hermès let $30,000 worth of bag languish in their window? Wouldn’t it be more of a “here it is, come and get it, and now” scenario? Did they have some kind of layaway program I wasn’t aware of? I could only imagine that conversation: “Oh, yeah, the croc Birkin, right, great. But I only have half the money now—repairs on the yacht this week, you know how it is…don’t sell it, just put in the window, pop a RESERVED sign on it or something. I’ll send the chauffeur by with the other half by next Sunday at the latest…Great, great. You guys are the best.” I mean, really, WTF? I didn’t believe it for a second. I knew that Birkin was for sale, to the right person—namely, me. I almost tapped on the glass and cooed at it like a puppy you’re going to buy at the pet store—Don’t worry, little guy, you get to go home today.

  The saleswoman in the store was on the older side, and this further bolstered my confidence. Having a kindly older woman running the show is the best of all possible Birkin worlds. With them, I barely even thought consciously about the formula—I’d just play a little parlor trick. Approaching the display case where the scarves were neatly layered, one atop the other, with only a hint of design and color showing, I’d casually identify several by name. All it took was “Ah, Brides de Gala, still selling as well as always, I’m sure” and “Oh, you have a Pierres d’Orient, that’s a favorite of mine,” and a woman like this would be swooning, as proud of my Hermès knowledge as she presumably was about her grandchildren’s finger painting. The only issue could be a language barrier, but Hannah (that was her name) spoke excellent English, so no problems there. I piled up a few scarves and some Ulysses, and then decided I needed to up the ante for the croc with a RESERVED sign. I selected a chaîne d’ancre too, so that I had almost three grand worth of merchandise. Then it was time.

  “Hannah, this is great, my mother is going to be so thrilled. And that lovely red bag in the window…it’s a crocodile, right? That’s exactly what she has been looking for, so this is perfect, you have everything right here.”

  “Oh, sir, that bag is reserved, didn’t you see the sign?” Hannah sounded caught off guard.

  “No, I didn’t…Oh no…It’s really what caught my eye to come in. Do you know who it’s reserved for? Or for how long?” I wondered how this part would work—this whole reserved thing added a twist.

  “Well, let me go talk to my manager, maybe he has more information…” She scurried off to the back room. She came back almost immediately, looking disappointed. “Sir, I am so sorry but the bag is reserved, as it says on the sign. My hands are tied.”

  I didn’t have to think twice about what to do; I sure wasn’t dropping three grand and not getting a Birkin.

  “Hannah, let me give my mother a call…see what she wants me to do. Just a second.” I dialed my voice mail and walked away so I didn’t really have to feign much of a conversation. A couple minutes later, I strolled back over, having “hung up” with my mom.

  “Well, she says she really wants a Birkin, and I’m heading to Paris in a few days, so I’ll just do one-stop shopping and get everything there…” I tried to keep a poker face. I had to gamble that there was no way Hannah wanted to lose this sale. “So, thank you so much, it was nice talking with you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  I started heading out. I pushed open the door, my heart already sinking, but then I felt a hand fall gently on my upper arm.

  “Wait, wait one second…Maybe something can be done…Let me speak with my manager again,” she pleaded.

  “Well, if it’s reserved I don’t see what your manager can do…” I let my sentence trail off. I figured if I pitched a slow one, Hannah might hit it out of the park for me.

  “Let me just ask again, maybe we can call the customer…” Batter up!

  “Okay, if you think there’s a chance, I would love to be able to do everything here, especially after you have been so helpful.” This much was true, at least. Hannah disappeared and returned with a big smile on her face.

  “Sir, my manager called the customer, who said she had decided against it. So you want it, then?” She was obviously pleased to have saved the sale.

  “Yes, yes, oh, this is wonderful.” And it was. Home run.

  Over the next few years, I ran into RESERVED signs on a regular basis. If they ended up selling the “reserved” Birkin to me, as they did 90 percent of the time, they gave a number of different explanations. There was the “reservation cancelled” script, as in Hamburg. Sometimes they claimed they had been trying to reach the customer, but two weeks had passed, so they were now willing to sell me the bag. Often salespeople would show me the “reserved” bag, acting as though it was for sale, and when I actually went to buy it, they would panic and act flustered, running for the manager to find out their next step. I never believed any of those bags were on hold for anyone, even on the rare occasions when they didn’t choose to sell to me. Usually when that happened, they explained that their manager wasn’t in the store, and that I should come back. I believed that part, and I hoped for their sake they never told their managers they dropped a $3,000 B.B. (before Birkin) sale to honor a RESERVED sign for an imaginary third party. Because, obviously, when I got refused a bag, I didn’t buy a t
hing from the store. It was like buying a car—you can’t be afraid to walk. Most times, I got stopped before I really left, like in Hamburg; and on a couple of memorable occasions I was even “chased” down the street by my salesperson, so they could tell me they had somehow managed to finagle me the bag. Eventually, I realized the RESERVED signs were real—the Birkins they labeled were reserved for the next person who walked in and dropped a few thousand on other, non-Birkin Hermès items. In other words, what a RESERVED sign on a croc bag in the window told me was (a) they definitely had a Birkin and (b) I needed to add about a grand to the formula to ensure they would crack and sell it to me. Pretty convenient, when you really thought about it—a visual clue. Took out a lot of the guesswork.

  Cologne and Luxembourg were “normal” Hermès experiences; I worked my magic and got a leather Birkin at each. I did find out why Luxembourg was so cocky with that oversized name—that country’s namesake capital city was loaded. The first four letters weren’t any coincidence, either. Everywhere I looked there were gigantic steel-doored investment banks and high-end boutiques, and I’d swear about every fifth car was a Bentley or an old Rolls-Royce.

  Then it was on to Belgium, where I did hit pay dirt of a kind (although not the crocodile kind I was hoping for). Though, at first, things didn’t go that smooth in the Brussels Hermès. This was because the first person waiting on me was a young girl who was totally baffled by my scarf requests. She fetched another salesperson, an unpleasant-looking woman who had kind of a nasty attitude until I revealed my scarf “expertise.” She warmed up to me after I inquired about a few rarer items, and indicated for me to wait where I was. She returned from the attic or wherever she had gone with a box o’ treasure of the scarf persuasion: old designs I had given up on finding, even ones I had on wish lists but had never managed to track down. I took ten of them, quickly launching myself into Birkin-worthy territory. Plus, it added a little bit extra to the bottom line—these beauties would get top dollar at auction. All around, success.

  I was getting back to my hotel after an early dinner, comfortably full on the Belgian specialty of pommes frites and mussels, and happy to be starting my journey back to Barcelona tomorrow. I checked my BlackBerry in the elevator and got an e-mail that brought me down a little. It was from Pime, who was “on the job” for me this weekend in Buenos Aires. She had taken Thursday off too so she could make the most of her time in the city.

  From: “Pime”

  To: “Michael”

  Michael, I don’t think I can do Birkin thing like you. I went to Hermès in Buenos Aires in afternoon yesterday and there was a woman who was so mean, and ugly too, I hate her, no I didn’t but I didn’t like at all and she say no Birkins, barely let me talk and do formula. Then this morning I go back and she not there, but girl I get doesn’t know scarfs from list of wishes and I feel dumb like I am saying wrong or something…and no birkin again. So I will pay back for ticket and I am so sorry. Pime

  Oh, no. This was not good. I headed down the hall to my room, BlackBerry limply dangling from my hand. South America was a sea of unbought Birkins, and I knew Pime could do it, she just needed practice. Tomorrow was Saturday, her (and my) last shot for the week, since Hermès was closed on Sunday. I needed to show her the ropes; I mean, that woman today hated me at first, but at the end she was eating out of my hand. But exactly how to demonstrate my technique from thousands of miles away was another thing. I wish I had some kind of Hermès handbook I could ship off to her…Wait a minute, what if I made one? I wasn’t doing anything tonight but lounging around—I had already eaten. And it would cheer her up—I didn’t have to work to make this material funny; it already was. I thought about the “types” I dealt with in the stores and decided that I could give her the rundown on them, since that was really the main thing. As every good salesman knows, you need to tailor your approach on a case-by-case basis. Of course, we were technically buying, not selling, but the principle remained the same.

  So that night I sat in my room, sipped wine, and typed up something I later came to call the Hermès Store Employee Roster. I even formatted it so it looked kind of real, bullet points and all. (And from then on, whenever I got a new shopper, which I did about ten more times, I sent them a copy. It also served the purpose of making sure they had a sense of humor.) A couple hours later I sent her the e-mail:

  From: “michael”

  To: “Pime”

  Pime, i got your message, but i think i can help, if you are willing to give it another shot. some of the Hermès people were mean to me too (remind me to tell you about marseilles). but what i have learned is that i just had to use different approaches with different salespeople. but what makes it easier is that there are definitely a few distinct “types” that you find working in stores over and over again. some are combinations of a couple types, so that can be tricky, but you can do this, i know you can. i am attaching something i wrote for you, it sort of gives a rundown. AND don’t worry about the plane ticket, it’s on me, either way, you tried!

  mt~

  ps you dealt with a farmer on fri, and then an ingénue today…if you go back, look for a grandmother?

  Attch.

  HERMÈS STORE EMPLOYEE ROSTER

  The Incurable Romantic

  GENDER: male

  SEXUAL PREFERENCE: queer as a three-dollar bill

  AGE: 21–60

  HAIR: very Vidal Sassoon

  TEETH: highway reflective strip white

  MOTTO: “Appearance is everything”

  PERCENTAGE IN HERMÈS CAPTIVITY: 10–15%

  LIKELIHOOD OF BIRKIN PURCHASE: almost 100%

  PREVIOUS JOB: Gucci

  THE LOWDOWN: this employee outwardly pretends to enjoy his job but is really just hoping to meet Mr. Right (a knight in a shining Hermès croc bomber jacket) and be saved from salesperson serfdom forever

  MALE APPROACH: flirtatious without blowing kisses, create false sense of dating potential. Flash croc agenda book (more subtle than flashing black AmEx card) early in encounter to activate his innate gold-digging instincts. In cases of extreme desperation (yours, not his), bait him with promise of after-work martinis at local Grand Hotel

  FEMALE APPROACH: flirt a little too, but better off to compliment his acute style sense, and talk about some hot guy in the store. Also insinuate you have a rich gay cousin you can set him up with.

  The Farmer

  GENDER: female

  SEXUAL PREFERENCE: what? Are you kidding?

  AGE: 50–70 (but looks and acts not a day over 90)

  HAIR: gray with highlights of chicken-piss yellow

  TEETH: possibly

  MOTTO: “You’ll never see a Birkin in this lifetime”

  PERCENTAGE IN HERMÈS

  CAPTIVITY: 5–10%

  LIKELIHOOD OF BIRKIN

  PURCHASE: see Motto

  PREVIOUS JOB: meatpacking plant foreman

  THE LOWDOWN: this woman was born into a farming family from the hinterlands, raised on a diet of condensed milk and cattle byproducts. She hates money and anyone who has it. The idea of a handbag that costs more than her car awakens both loathing and confusion in her soul. One can only wonder why she is inevitably store manager; perhaps some strange work release program of the fifties

  APPROACH: avoid at all costs due to potential for catching any number of agrarian-related illnesses. If interaction is inevitable, compliment her fake pearl studs. Brace yourself for rejection coupled with overwhelming waft of clinical halitosis.

  The Grandmother

  GENDER: female

  SEXUAL PREFERENCE: not these days

  AGE: 60+

  HAIR: frosted, gray or white, roller-set

  TEETH: yes

  MOTTO: “Aren’t you adorable?”

  PERCENTAGE IN HERMÈS CAPTIVITY: 15–20% (wish they would breed more)

  LIKELIHOOD OF BIRKIN PURCHASE: very high

  PRE
VIOUS JOB: nurturer, cookie maker, boo-boo kisser

  THE LOWDOWN: this woman does not need the job. Her husband recently passed away so she likes getting out of the house and being paid to play with pretty things all day. Secretly hates the Farmer, although would never verbalize this feeling even when talking to herself. After several years still has yet to realize the Incurable Romantic is gay and keeps trying to set him up with her granddaughter and/or niece

  APPROACH: approach without fear. Think of this woman as your grandmother for one hour. Really, it’s that good!

  The Nazi

  GENDER: either

  SEXUAL PREFERENCE: overridden by career ambitions

  AGE: 25–60

  HAIR: severe

  TEETH: gnashed

  MOTTO: “Refer to Employee Handbook”

  PERCENTAGE IN HERMÈS CAPTIVITY: 30–45%

  LIKELIHOOD OF BIRKIN PURCHASE: extremely high if you stick with “the formula”

  PREVIOUS JOB: mall security guard/hall monitor

  THE LOWDOWN: determined to be store manager. Cutthroat and totally by the book. Detests the Farmer but secretly longs to have her position. Bulldozes over the Grandmother, ignores the Incurable Romantic. Career-driven pathological liar. Recognizable by the glint of desperation in his/her eyes

  APPROACH: tread cautiously…this is the employee that perpetuated the need for “the formula.” Dollars count! Since they don’t know diddly squat about Hermès history or merchandise from previous collections (remember they only care about $$$), use your knowledge to impress/disarm and go for the croc Birkin. All bets are off—keep your cool, and they will crumble like the Germans at the Nuremberg trials.