O.K., so you’re trying your best to scrimp. You dilute your bottled water with tap water. You give up premium cable for shadow puppetry. You switch from hard-boiled eggs to soft-boiled to save five minutes’ worth of carbon debits. You quit your job in order to eliminate commuting costs. You’ve sold your children, and might even sacrifice the jet share. And now: what are you going to wear to the recession? I trust that during this grim holiday season you won’t be putting on anything that hasn’t been discounted at least as much as the Dow. Have you heard that sixty per cent off is the new black?
If you type “discount” and “New York” into Google, you will be presented with 57,944 local business results. Most of them seem to be the Vitamin Shoppe. The fellow who answered the phone at Discount Locksmith had no idea why the firm is labelled thus, and whoever picked up at A & B Discount was too busy to talk, because he was selling newspapers and magazines, at full price. There is Chocolates Discount Store, but it traffics only in perfume, sunglasses, and cheap jewelry. (After some strained back-and-forth with an employee, I discovered that a Mr. Chocolate is the owner; 1402 St. Nicholas Avenue, at West 180th Street.)
Notwithstanding the above, New York is rich with discount outlets where you can pick up a bargain, sometimes right off an unswept floor. At these stores, you can buy fine-label garments at prices significantly lower than those at department stores and boutiques. Wait—that was in the old days, when consumers consumed. Now that shoppers are playing hard to get, even the most high-end establishments are apocalyptically unloading their goods at below M.S.R.P., the manufacturer’s suggested retail price, which, of course, includes the amount that the manufacturer marks something up so that the retailer can mark it down, so that the shopper can believe he or she is getting a steal. But even if Barneys or Bergdorf limbos lower than usual in the upcoming months, the best storewide and year-round deals will nevertheless be found at off-price retailers, where the inventory is made up of overstock, samples, cancellations, closeouts, and pristine items ominously labelled “slightlyirregular” (what do they know that we don’t?).
Are you certain that you have what it takes to shop discount? Do you have the patience to excavate heaps of finery that is frayed, smudged, stretched, faded, pilled, ripped, mis-sized, unstylish, out of season, or never was in season? The grit to see yourself in the glare of fluorescent lighting—if you can even find a mirror? The confidence to have an opinion without being told what it is by an encouraging salesperson? Do you thrill to the ambience of the Department of Motor Vehicles?
Century 21 is the Louvre of cut-rate department stores—four floors of designer wear, an enormous annex for shoes, and droves of European tourists, many of them sightseers on their way to or from Ground Zero. Because it is a few blocks away from the courthouses in lower Manhattan, Century 21 (22 Cortlandt Street) is a lunchtime favorite for people on jury duty who are hoping to snag a haute thing or two at criminal prices—a pair of Martin Margiela navy crushed-velvet jeans, perhaps ($219.99, originally $825), or an aqua zebra-patterned horsehair camisole designed by Rohka ($299.99, originally $1,470). Of course, what is here today at these sorts of places may well be gone tomorrow, so I’d advise stopping by yesterday. The supply of raccoon ushankas might ride out the season, though. There was an abundance of them the day I visited, maybe because so many hat-wearers agree with the customer who said, “They feel exactly like my dog, so it’d make me kind of sad to walk around in one” ($179.97, originally $375).
Filene’s Basement wasn’t the first place to flog cheap wares below street level (40 East 14th Street and various other locations). In 1885, Marshall Field’s flagship store, in Chicago, opened a “budget floor” in its cellar, offering embroideries, cloaks, silks, and such, at realistic prices. The plan was to lure into the store a less wealthy clientele, who would eventually trespass upstairs and buy the expensive stuff. A few years later, in 1908, Filene’s loosely adapted this idea and contrived its Automatic Bargain Basement in order to unload surplus from their shop proper. Filene’s Basement frequently cuts the prices on items that remain unsold. The formula, as explained to me by a salesman at the Chelsea branch, has to do with yellow tickets and purple tickets. “It’s very confusing,” he said. “You’ll have to come to Filene’s frequently to study the system, if you really want to understand it.” No, thank you. Nonetheless, the Michael Kors four-hundred-thread-count sheet sets are a nice buy at $39.99 (seventy-five per cent off), and anyone whose initials are R.L.L. should appreciate the handsome Ralph Lauren nightshirts with monogrammed breast pocket ($39.99, reduced from $62). What I love most about the place, however, is the spectacular view of Union Square from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the Basement’s fourth floor.
The collection of footwear at DSW (Designer Shoe Warehouse), situated in the same cheapo depot as the aforementioned Filene’s, is so prodigious that you will enter into a state of hypnosis as you shamble along the aisles. Snap out of it. There’s work to do. Samples of shoes and boots are displayed on counters, and it’s up to you to root around for your size in the jumble of stock below. But make sure you don’t get clobbered by a sack full of boxed shoes. DSW provides giant shopping bags to customers, who load them up with prospective purchases before sitting down to try on the goods on one of the (scarce) benches, curiously positioned in places that are obstinately in the way of foot traffic. There is a chance that you might come across a pair of Chloé peep-toe pumps, slashed from $545 to $199, but, if so, I hope you wear a size 8½ and like yellow. And never mind the time it takes to find them. So what if you took half a day? That’s a half day you didn’t buy something not on sale.
Can anything be discounted more than the word “designer”? Once, the term referred to pieces created by foreigners with household names (Chanel, Dior, Balenciaga). Then came Americans with two names (Calvin Klein, Donna Karan). Next, words were added to the names (Oleg Cassini Sport, Marc by Marc Jacobs). Now there are no names, merely signs in designated areas of the outlet floor that boldly decree all goods in the vicinity “Designer.”
Hey, where are all the salespeople at Daffy’s (1311 Broadway, at 34th Street—downstairs from the D.M.V.—and other locations)? Evidently, they have been trained to avoid all customer contact. Is the sign in the rest room that warns “No napping” directed at the employees? Or is it for the toddlers who shop here, knowing that Daffy’s is tops for European children’s attire? Wouldn’t that cunning white knit jacket with subtle embroidery be just the thing for a little one to spit up on ($59, reduced from $200)? And surely every baby needs gold cowboy boots to throw a tantrum in ($39). For grownups, the hosiery selection can’t be beat, particularly Candy Girl’s Aztec-like-patterned chaussettes with pompoms dangling from the tops ($3.99). A men’s paper-thin distressed-leather jacket from Alexander Julian is snazzy ($99, reduced from $395). Canadians, there’s even something for you: diamonds from the Great White North. An 18k.-white-gold engagement ring with a one-carat rock is $6,999, reduced from $13,999 (presumably in U.S. currency). And that’s not all: the girdle of each diamond is laser-inscribed with a maple leaf and a “unique identification number.” Would you like the salesclerk to remove that diamondiferous piece of jewelry from the vitrine so you can examine it close up? For insurance purposes, you must present photo identification.
Did you know that Loehmann’s (101 Seventh Avenue, at 17th Street) will provide you with a personal shopper? All you have to do is make an appointment, although they welcome walk-ins. Without any professional guidance whatsoever, I spotted a Moschino “Great Hits Spring/Summer 2007” evening bag that looks like two 45-r.p.m. records stitched together with yarn ($244.98, reduced from $875). Here, as well as at every other discount-o-rama, you can pick up high-quality umbrellas, such as Totes, for about $10 to $17 (originally twenty-some dollars). And you can’t do better for cashmere-lined leather gloves, particularly if you have only one hand (Portolano gloves, $17.99 to $22.99, originally $40 to $48).
T. J. Maxx (620 Sixth Avenue, at 18th Street), a sibling of Marshall’s, is the nation’s largest off-price retailer of apparel and home fashion, but Oscar and Mark, a gastronomically inclined couple, go there for D. L. Jardine’s Olé Chipotle Salsa and Dip ($3.99, reduced from $6). How many jars? Every last one. The sauce is—was—next to the cranberry butter ($4, reduced from $7), which is not far from the Italian ceramic plates in écru or rusty red ($12.99, reduced from $24) and the astonishingly wide selection of hotsy-totsy cookware. The half-price Le Creuset pots are seconds, so check that the colorful enamel on the Dutch oven is not chipped before you fall in love.
At Syms, as you may have heard, “an educated consumer is our best customer” (400 Park Avenue, at 55th Street). Could this explain the dearth of shoppers in this staid, old-fashioned store the day I was there? Was everyone at home reading the early works of Nathaniel Hawthorne? Or did the lack of frenzy have to do with—oops, you know—the economy? In either case, it was very pleasant to survey the tidy racks of suits and sports coats—no finery trampled on the floor!—in what must be the widest, though not the most hip, selection of discounted men’s apparel in town. What did I see besides accommodating salesclerks? A black-and-gray houndstooth cashmere jacket by Bill Blass was $155, reduced from $350; a camel-hair overcoat from Polo Ralph Lauren (Ralph Lauren’s second-tier line) was $239, reduced from $400; a Joseph Abboud gray pin-striped suit in a lightweight wool was $299, reduced from $699. A tailor is on hand. The store has a women’s and a children’s department as well. And note the jazzy reading glasses in the accessories section—frames patterned in orange leopard and black-and-pink floral, and, yes, spectacles that look just like the ones a certain person wore when gazing at Russia ($7.99 to $19.99).
Now seems the right time to expound on my philosophy of life. But first a story. Many years ago, I invited several friends to a party, requesting that each bring her biggest shopping fiasco, which she could then swap for someone else’s objet de regret. The underlying theory was that one person’s clothing disaster was another person’s bonanza. Not so, it seems. We all agreed, for instance, that my stretchy Glen-plaid cowboy shirt was a global debacle. Of more relevance to our purposes, consider this: with the exception of one guest, whose father had given her a strapless sequinned gown, everyone’s mistake had been a sale item, brought home because its price was persuasive, not because it was a must-have.
Let this be a warning to you: Beware the price tag with crossed-out numerals that plot the downward journey of a thing from thirty per cent to seventy-five per cent off. No matter what your friends who used to work at Lehman Brothers tell you, this is not money you earn. In fact, do not so much as peek at the price tag without first looking into your soul—I mean, your closet. Then ask yourself: Am I ever going to wear a three-tiered aqua almost-satin skirt hemmed with lace (Daffy’s, 125 East 57th Street; $13.99)? Do I need another black cashmere sweater, even though this one would be a “great foundation for a necklace,” as I heard a woman say to her friend about a cotton/angora long-sleeved T-shirt that didn’t fit but that she was buying anyway (Filene’s, 2220 Broadway, at 79th Street; $14.99, reduced from $40)? Do I long for a tote bag that looks as if it had been woven out of gimp by a kid at summer camp (Calypso Outlet, 407 Broome Street; $89, reduced from $435)?
Do you swear you can’t live without it? Well, then and only then can you mull over the dollars and cents. What does this have to do with my philosophy of life? Simply this: Do not be seduced by the deal. It’s better to spend a lot on a getup you love than a fraction of that on something, or even five of those somethings, that you’ll never bother to take out of the shopping bag. By the way, this advice also applies to discount love interests. And half-price sushi.
Not every path to the bargain basement involves an escalator. Gabay’s is on the ground floor, in a tiny space chockablock with pocketbooks, shoes, coats, sweaters, dresses, and the like (225 First Avenue, at 13th Street). “We’re more personal and homey than Daffy’s and Loehmann’s,” said Joel Morrow, the co-owner, with his cousin, of this showroom, which carries glut from some of your favorite department stores that start with “B,” and a few private labels. The cousins are grandsons of the shop’s founder, Sam Gabay, a Turk who, in 1905, came to the Lower East Side, where he peddled extras from garment factories before opening an outlet, in 1940. The shop specializes in shoes (loads of Bettye Muller) and pocketbooks (Lanvin, Valentino, Nancy Gonzales, Gucci, Prada), but the day I stopped in there seemed to be a preponderance of parkas. An Authier off-white fur-trimmed down coat was especially chic ($385, originally $1,100). In the men’s section, there are items from Bruno Magli, Brioni, Armani, Davide Cenci, and Charvet. Prices are thirty-five to seventy-five per cent off the original. “But we’ll negotiate,” Morrow said. “We want to move merchandise.”
What are the shrewdest strategies for getting rid of stock? You may have noticed that not too many merchants nowadays are hot to use the Crazy Eddie “We will not be undersold” approach. This isn’t because Crazy Eddie’s prices were “IN-SA-A-A-A-ANE!” or because Eddie ended up a convicted criminal. Rather, the meet- or beat-the-competition model, economists have shown, merely discourages price-dropping. Here’s how it works (or, actually, does not work): Let’s say two stores, Cheapskate Delight and Three Scrooges, sell famous-name cashmere sweaters. If Cheapskate Delight promises to match any price, then it takes away the incentive for Three Scrooges to decrease its price, because it will end up selling fewer sweaters at a lower price. So how do they get rid of the damn sweaters? As Mara Kelly, a Loehmann’s spokesperson, told me, “Merchandise is simply marked down until it sells.”
There is a one-block patch of SoHo that could be called Little Calypso, given its efflorescence of Calypso branches. In addition to the full-priced boutique and the housewares shop (both of which had drastic sales the day I visited), there is an outlet with cut-rate frocks from the current season as well as a mini-mart called Sample Sale, which carries ridiculously cheap stuff from seasons of yore (191 Lafayette Street, 199 Lafayette Street, 407 Broome Street, and 424 Broome Street). Since there is no discernible difference between the old and the new—it all looks like regalia for Marin County hippies who summer in Kauai—you might as well start your shopping spree at the site with the samples. Here silk shirts go for $5, and slouchy dresses in Day-Glo colors run from $19 to $29—if that is indeed what they are. Concerning a cottony body sleeve with elasticized smocking ($49, down from $165), a mother and daughter had this conversation at the Outlet: “Is it a skirt?” “No, it’s a dress.” “It looks more like a top, honey.”
“We’ve benefitted from these unfortunate times,” said Dagmar Galdi, the assistant manager of the ABC Carpet and Home Warehouse Outlet, in the southeast Bronx (1055 Bronx River Avenue). Hmm. I was one of a mere handful of non-employees wandering around this tri-level three-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-square-foot furnituropolis, but, then again, it was a weekday. Drop by on a weekend, Galdi assured me, and the place is densely populated with lovers of four-hundred-and-six-thread-count Italian linens (flat sheet, $133.50, down from $245) black-walnut highboy chests ($4,700, down from $5,835), tessellated terra-cotta-colored soap dishes ($52, down from $75), and weatherproof marble Buddhas ($595; who could mark down Buddha and expect to be enlightened?). On the third floor, in the rug department, there are Orientals (from $399), broadlooms (from $22 a yard, installed), multicolored shags ($749, down from $1,349), cowhide rugs ($399-$749), sisal mats ($99-$299), and four-by-six rugs made from stitched-together wool felt ($899, down from $1,599).
As things get darker for everyone else, they keep getting brighter for Jack. What? You don’t know Jack? I don’t know him, either, but if he has anything to do with Jack’s 99 Cent Stores (16 East 40th Street and other locations) then he and his colleagues—owners of Dollar Tree, Dollar General, Family Dollar, and 99 Cents Only—are in the right business. Shares of dollar stores have jumped this year. Possibly the first chain to offer stuff at fixed prices was F. W. Woolworth’s (former headquarters, 233 Broadway), a.k.a. the five-and-dime, which was founded in 1878, in Watertown, New York. Adjusting for inflation, this institution would today be called the dollar-twelve-and-two-twenty-four. Except that, after many changes of identity, it is now Foot Locker.
Anyway, at Jack’s place, for roughly half the price of a subway ride, you can take home a package of pita bread, an extension cord, Little Debbie banana-marshmallow pies, a home pregnancy kit, shoe insoles, a yellow duck shower curtain, makeup remover, Cherry Blossom bath treats, floor protectors, potato knishes, mousetraps, party-favor leis, reading glasses, Q-Tips, or a pair of plastic shoes. But, please, keep in mind my philosophy of life, even though I sometimes forget to act according to its tenets. In the course of researching this piece, I have somehow acquired more packing tape than even Santa Claus could use. Remember, it’s not really a bargain if you have to buy an extra house to store your bargains in. (Authentic Java House, approximately twelve feet by twelve feet, with red tile roof, Indonesian-style patio, and a lot of pillows on the floor, at the ABC Warehouse Outlet, for $14,000, reduced from $20,000.)