In the Trenches at Burberrys

Like so many adventures, this one started over drinks.

The occasion: a cocktail reception in a fancy New York hotel. An editor on a leading women’s magazine was explaining how whenever she visited London she made a detour to the Burberrys factory outlet to replenish her wardrobe. Over the years she had bought raincoats, skirts, blouses, blazers, umbrellas, the whole shebang, all at drastically discounted prices. The way she phrased it: “At a fraction of what you would pay in a regular Burberrys shop.”

Did the lights in the room really brighten as the impact of what she said sank in? A Burberrys raincoat at a bargain price! I couldn’t believe it. As a character in a 1930s Clifford Odets play said, “All my life I want a pair of black and white shoes and can’t get them.” So for years I had my heart set on a genuine 100% cotton Burberrys trench coat. Not a substitute or knockoff. The real thing.

Still, the particular model I had in mind, with wool liner and fancy double collar, came to a cool grand (including sales tax). One thousand dollars for a raincoat? Somehow it seemed a mite excessive for my modest budget.

When I inquired how much raincoats were selling for at the factory outlet, the answer came back, “Oh, about 150 pounds.”

Which translated into roughly $250. I mean, wow! How could one resist? How could one go wrong?

The 5-1 martinis with a twist may have had something to do with turning on my fantasy mechanism. I already saw myself in the coat, belt pulled in tight, collar turned up, brim of my James Lock & Co. of St. James’s Street hat slanted over one eye. A film noir hero if ever there was one. Humphrey Bogart, look out. Here I come!

“So, tell me. How does one get to this famous factory outlet?”

The lady gave me a smile. Lauren Bacall? Veronica Lake?

“It’s rather complicated,” she said. “The place is on the fringes of London. First you take the tube, then you get on a bus. Then you walk. Are you ready for that?”

“I’m in the market for a Burberrys coat at a realistic price. What else can I say?”

“So call me at the office, I’ll fill you in on the details.”

And so it came to pass that not long ago, by adroit juggling of airline schedules, I was in a position to spend several days on a London stopover. Of course, before leaving I called the editor.

She passed on the information, which read: Take tube to Bethnal Green, board Cambridge Heath Road bus to Hackney, walk on Morning Lane to Chatham Place, turn right to a big building with a Burberrys sign. “You can’t miss it.” And then words of warning: “It takes patience, and a little luck, to find what you want.”

*

By the time I got to London some of the steam had gone out of what had seemed like such a brilliant concept in New York. With only two days at my disposal, was I ready to set off on the trek to Hackney?

Located off the Central London map, it seemed to portend a long haul to a distant point on the northeastern outskirts.

Were there maybe better things to do in London than go bargain-hunting? When I talked to two London acquaintances, neither had heard of a Burberrys factory outlet. One said, “If you find it, let me know.”

Still, I vacillated. To go or not to go? That was the question. At last I gave in. What to lose? And off I went.

First to the Oxford Circus Underground station. Here I boarded the Central Line, direction Epping. For a time we sailed right along. Then, after a station or two, the train went into a sputtering, stuttering mobilis interruptus mode, all stop and start between stations. At last we rolled into St. Paul’s. A voice over the speakers warned of transformer problems, mentioning the possibility of a system shutdown. Still, the voice assured us, the problem could probably be solved in a jiffy. Along with platitudes thanking passengers for their patience. At which point half the people in the car got up to leave.

No sooner had they left than power came back on. We crept along, a few feet at a time, before stopping again. At the next station, doors opened, more passengers got off, as though to desert a sinking ship. One more cryptic announcement.

We limped on like that to Bank. By now my spirits sagged. With time ticking away, only so many hours in London, to be trapped in a stalled Underground was hardly what I had in mind. Fraught with anxiety, I asked myself, is this trip necessary?

Then, with only a comparative handful of passengers aboard, we reached Liverpool Street. According to my map, we were now at the edge of the city. Call it a point of no return. If we started and the system shut down, there would be no way to get back to London, or so I thought.

*

To make a long story short, in time the train did indeed get to Bethnal Green.

I came up out of the depths to encounter a London I had never known existed. Not exactly the slums but a fairly grim scene. Low brick buildings and seedy shops light years removed from what most of us think of as Britain’s capital--meaning Mayfair, Belgravia, Knightsbridge, Piccadilly and such.

I waited on a corner of Cambridge Heath Road, no idea how to proceed. An old gent with a cheery voice came to my rescue. “And where might you be going, lad?” When I told him, he took me to the bus stop, practically put me on the No. 253 to Hackney Court House. “Stay on till the last stop.”

When the bus got to Hackney, the driver pointed me across the street to Morning Lane. “If it’s Burberrys you’re going to, that’s the way.” I asked whether he had many Americans on his run. The answer, “No. Mainly Japanese.”

On Morning Lane, I was still confused. So I stopped at the first pub. No need to tell the barmaid where I was going. “Two more blocks,” she told me. “Just follow the Japanese.”

It was a hot day. I could easily have settled for a cool one. But I decided to push on.

A right turn onto Chatham Place, and there it was in the middle of nowhere, a big red building with the sign Burberrys of London Factory Shop.

Inside, a vast, high-ceilinged space with unadorned white walls, plain pipe racks, with what appeared to be acres of raincoats, seemingly countless other coats, plus suits, blazers, Windbreakers, plaid skirts, sport jackets, along with, in adjoining rooms, bins and shelves stocked with shirts, blouses, sweaters, scarves, ties . . . the entire repertoire of Burberrys apparel for men, women and children, every garment bearing the Burberrys label, every one at a cut-rate price. The big rock candy mountain for international bargain hunters, who were here en masse--a League of Nations of serious shoppers, speaking not only Japanese but French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish--everyone more or less grabbing everything in sight to carry armloads of garments to checkout counters, and leave with huge overstuffed shopping bags.

Obviously, the Burberrys factory outlet could hardly be considered London’s best-kept secret.

No price tags are attached to individual items.

Lists of prices are posted at strategic points.

All suits cost the same. Skirts have identical prices. Raincoats are divided into several categories. From $211 for the simplest models to $465 for the deluxe trench with warmer. Prices have obviously gone up since the editor’s last visit. Still, $465 or so for what I had in mind could be considered an exceptional value, providing I could find my size.

I tried not to let myself get distracted by tweed jackets, double-breasted pinstripe suits, sharp Windbreakers, the whole kit and caboodle. I knew what I was after. Still, my search turned out to be by no means as simple as anticipated. First of all, coats were jammed in so tight it became next to impossible to get them off the racks one at a time. And the truth of the operation soon became apparent. Many of the garments were obvious factory rejects, with a missing belt or buttons, perhaps a torn pocket or a collar askew. Styles were from previous seasons. Sizes in the case of trench coats seemed to be limited to long and extra long. Since I am a shade over 5 feet, 8 inches, I usually take a short. I tried on a dozen or more coats without finding one remotely in my range.

By then I was sweating profusely. It was hot as an oven. The whole routine--fighting the crowds, trying to get coats back on the racks--had begun to take its toll. I found myself getting more depressed by the minute. In a last desperate try, I switched to smaller sizes than I normally take, hoping that might work.

I selected what appeared to be a flawless trench, everything I always wanted in a coat. I put on the garment, looked at myself in the mirror. I pulled the belt in tight, tried to project the proper image to go with the coat and come up with a few clipped lines worthy of Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler.

No way. I couldn’t swing it.

No matter how great the coat might have been, I knew I looked ridiculous. Too tight in the shoulders. Far too long below the knees. Then there was me. With glasses. Thinning hair. Avoir du poids that sessions at Crunch gym had failed to eliminate. Humphrey Bogart indeed! I looked like Woody Allen playing a 19th century Russian general.

Meanwhile, a tall Scandinavian (6 feet, 2 inches at least) wrapped himself in an identical model to regard himself in the mirror with obvious satisfaction. A dream come true, if ever there was one. And he knew it. The perfect fit! He returned to the racks to find himself a second coat exactly like the first, and, with the two coats over his arm, headed for the registers.

At which point my London shopping expedition came to an abrupt end. Fin. I had enough of the whole show. I couldn’t wait to get out of the building. Obviously Burberrys’ No. 1 trench was not for me.

*

On my way to Cambridge Heath Road, I ducked into the pub for a lager. The barmaid and I made small talk about the Burberrys phenomenon. Her remark: “There’s nothing there I could possibly afford. Not even a scarf.”

As I got ready to leave, she advised me not to take the obstacle course of bus and Tube back into the city.

“The No. 30 bus, right out front, will take you straight to Oxford Street and Marble Arch.” She even came up with the exact change (1.20 pounds) to speed me on my way.

I boarded the big red double-decker, took my place in the first row of the upper deck, and off I went on a fascinating tour of 45 minutes or so through remote regions of London with names I had never heard. By no means could the day be considered a total loss.