Tom Ford is creating a successful club on Madison Avenue in Manhattan. He calls it a shop, but the sofas are deep and plush with great looking guys sipping delicious things and the bar is golden and snakey and so attractive that you like to stand around it drinking your espresso.
It’s the kind of club that a woman can enjoy, because the shelves are filled with bisexual silk and cashmere tee shirts and sweaters that you just want to pat and purr — and the salesmen seem to have had upper crust waiter training. They are so nice. You just know they don’t care if you drip coffee or bump into the gorgeous stacks of cologne and they certainly don’t care if, after opening all the drawers, you don’t buy anything.
It’s your home, too, they seem to say with a brotherly smile. I don’t know what it is about Tom Ford — it would show up in his DNA if he had one of those million dollar tests — he knows how to put you in the mood for him and his stuff.
Go and see. You don’t have to buy the beautiful things. They just want you to come in and enjoy the good life. And you’ll get very fine ideas for a smart apartment.