I’m standing at a circular kiosk under a jaunty awning, the kind of thing you might buy ice cream from on a chic-y chic beach in the south of France. Except it’s actually the customer experience desk, aka the welcome cabana, of the Printemps store at 1 Wall Street in Manhattan, the new US outpost of the storied Parisian retailer. I’ve been to this not-long-opened building twice before already: for a hard-hat tour weeks and weeks ago, when it was being finished, and for the opening night party, when the line of revelers went up Broadway for blocks.
In the weeks since, those lines haven’t abated very much, as Printemps has emerged as a real New York phenomenon. In these roiling times—and that’s an understatement—maybe the old-fashioned and still hugely pleasurable act of walking around a store is the escapism we all need right now. Especially when it is one created by interior designer Laura Gonzalez to be a gorgeous sensory overload, like Alice’s Wonderland with clothing racks, cocktails and cafes. That set me thinking: What if I resuscitated my career in retail as a student (at the London department store Liberty in the 1990s; my sales record, questionable) and actually worked at Printemps to see what all the fuss was about?
So here we are at the kiosk, slap bang in the middle of a Jacquemus pop-up, though by the time you read this it will have become a special space for the new Disney X Coperni collaboration. which launches April 16th. The first to gamely guide me through my working “day”—a shift from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.—is Mary Collins, whose designation is Client Experience Advisor, who along with her colleagues Claire, Davon, and Rafael, are kindly getting me acclimated. This is Mary’s first big job back home in New York after going to school in California, and she’s loving it. Her brief, she says, “is to highlight the fairy dust that has been scattered everywhere. Anything a client needs, I am there: to make a reservation, give a tour, be there if they need to go buy shoes, but also get them a glass of Champagne while they’re doing so.” At this moment, Mary and I are welcoming those streaming into the store, which they are doing constantly, even on an unseasonably cold weekday morning in April; locals, tourists, parents with kids and strollers, and dogs (yes, you may bring your pets here).
The sprawling first-floor Playroom—constructed out of recycled materials, Mary tells me—is “always changing and always evolving; our slogan is that we are not a department store.” It carries a glorious sampling of Marni bucket hats, rows of Le Chocolat de Francais candy bars, silver Le City bags from Balenciaga, The Attico dresses, books about Saint Tropez, tarot-like Grimaud playing cards, oversized stripy totes from Printemps’s own line, Saison 1865 (a steal at $65), and sneaker–ballet flat hybrids courtesy of Acne Studios. (A percentage of the French labels are exclusive to Printemps in New York; 25 percent clothing, 50 percent beauty.) One side room is dedicated to a Nike “immersion” experience, including some rare sneaker designs, while to the left is Café Jalu, one of Printemps’s five restaurants and bars.
Up the escalator, on the second floor, is the Salon, with its huge birdcage constructions housing clothes arranged, as is the store’s wont, by color, mood, and attitude rather than by brand. Here, the likes of Lemaire, Maison Margiela, Jil Sander, Courreges, and a Hudson, NY-based label called The Falls, which I have never heard but is really terrific, with its upcycled, repurposed, and embroidered pieces, are all mixed up, living alongside a wall of handbags from Joseph Duclos, founded in 1754 as a luggage maker for King Louis XV. (You can only buy them here or at the Duclos store in Paris; don’t even bother looking online.)
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Then it’s past the Garçonnière menswear section—illuminated by enormous Murano glass chandeliers—and the beauty section, housed in a winding corridor that feels like walking through a piece of Vallauris pottery, before stepping into the Boudoir. Unsurprisingly, it has a more evening-y vibe, with vintage Dior and Saint Laurent, as well as Gaultier Couture (made to order, with a 12-week lead time) and hip, younger labels like Vautrait, Oud, and Magda Butrym. Finally, it’s a trip down the pink quartz staircase (well, hopefully not literally) to the shoe department in the Red Room. With its accompanying Red Room Bar, you can simultaneously sip a Margarita and snap up some Manolo Blahniks until 11 p.m.
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It’s not long before Mary and I are retracing our tour through the store with first-time visitors Bonnie and Annette, who have traveled down from distant 95th Street. Bonnie tells me that coming into a physical store is still a thing for her. “I know all the young people buy online,” she says, “but I want to see it, I want to touch it, I have to try it on, and I do not want to return it.” She approves of the location. “This is Wall Street, and everything is happening,” she opines. “All the young people are here, like my grandchildren.”
As we make our way back up the escalator to the Salon, Bonnie, looking very stylish in her vintage black Jean Paul Gaultier overcoat (I recognized it by the discreet bar back tag), is interested to hear the store carries Gaultier’s couture. “It’s hard for me to shop now at this point in my life, but this was like an excursion, and I am liking it here,” she says.
An upcoming wedding in the Bahamas is on Bonnie’s mind, though she technically already has an outfit planned. “I’m going to be put together, because I am grandma, OK?” she tells me. “I am pulling out the big cabbage rose hat in cream, wide pleated pants, an old Chanel blouse, with a string of Chanel pearls. I got the necklace from the Chanel store in Paris. We used to go to Paris a lot; now, never,” she sighs. “But that’s where my heart is.”
I sadly don’t get to hear more about Bonnie’s wedding look, because assistant general manager Francisco “Frank” Polanco has arrived to guide me through the next part of my working day: shadowing him as he checks on the various places designed for a quick sustaining pitstop or leisurely sojourn. Though he and Serge, Café Jalu’s head barista, briefly consider getting me to make a latte, the queue of customers and my obvious befuddlement at the intricacies of coffee-making hint that maybe now isn’t the time. Instead, Frank and I head to the raw bar/restaurant Salon Vert, which is, like all the food and beverage spots here, under the direction of chef Gregory Gourdet.
The influence of Gregory’s Haitian heritage is everywhere at Printempts, from Café Jalu’s pain au guava pastries and pink juice (strawberry, watermelon, and coconut water) to Salon Vert’s menu of peaky toe crab remoulade and sweet potato and plantain soup. And at the moment, he is dashing around non-stop as he prepares to open Maison Passarelle, a fully fledged onsite restaurant with a dedicated entrance on Broadway on April 17th.
“It’s not a huge menu, but a very concise menu,” Frank says of the offerings at Salon Vert. “We have hamachi served with a smoked coconut milk dressing, and we have smoked beets too; throughout the menu we’re honoring how barbecue originated in the Caribbean.”Yet like all good spots, there’s theater too. “They’re like a stage, our hospitality offerings,” says Frank. “People coming here see the food, the drinks, the service, the spaces, as art, an extension of art, but it’s physical art that touches the soul and makes you want to stay here for six hours.” Unfortunately, I don’t have even six minutes to linger, as I’m onto my next stint of service.
One of my all-time favorite movie scenes is when, in 1988’s Working Girl, Tess McGill’s conniving boss orders her to “make one more round” with a steaming hot dim sum cart at a cocktail party. And now here we are: Just one more round with the Champagne cart, Mark! Every day, Ren Jade Neuman, Printemps’s wine director, has her team at the Rococco-esque three seater Champagne bar, and load up the store’s two gilded chariots with six bottles each, and today’s selection ranges from Pierre Moncuit Delos to Ruinart Rosé. The idea is that you can buy a glass and wander around while you shop, or just, you know, wander.
Ren talks me through the selection. “Lush, opulent Krug. This should feel like a down comforter being shaken out and placed onto your tongue.” And later: “Jo Landron Atmosphères is created by the méthode traditionelle, which means it’s made by the usual Champagne techniques, in the Loire Valley.” (Also, on the maker: Jo “has a killer mustache—it goes right out to here!” She uses her fingers to indicate points about three inches from both sides of her mouth.)
By now, Ren and I are navigating the sales floor—well, she’s steering and I’m pushing (and silently praying I don’t accidentally knock it into one of the tables bearing beauty products). We are given the nod that a couple shopping nearby might be looking for some bubbles, so off we go. We meet Elaine, who is visiting from Florida with her fiancé, Ron. Elaine would like some Champagne, but Ron isn’t into that idea. “I’d like some bourbon,” he says, and Ren offers to get him some from the Salon Vert bar.
Meanwhile, Elaine is telling me about her impressions of the store; like Bonnie and Annette before her, this is her first time here. “I have goosebumps, I really do,” she says. “I used to design menswear and so I appreciate every inch of this place. It’s so magnificent, it puts you into a whole other realm. I read about Printemps on Instagram—it was everywhere—and I said to Ron, my forever fiancé, ‘We have to go because this is an experience.’ At this stage of my life, I’m only interested in experiences.”
Elaine also has her eye on a puffy ivory Maison Margiela leather clutch, which senior client advisor Kelvin Matoral has brought out for her to try. Is she into it? “Yeah, and what I am seeing here are things I don’t see everywhere,” Elaine says, “And I don’t know some of these labels, but I like that. Isn’t it wonderful to see new designers? It’s a new voice, a new generation.”
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One thing that you realize is that when you’re on the sales floor, time begins to move both extremely quickly and in slow motion. What’s key: Patience is the root of all good service, and Kelvin is a very patient man. “I say hello to everyone, I’ll introduce myself, I want everyone to feel seen,” he says. “But I’ll give them their space.” Kelvin, who arrived at Printemps after years at Barneys, Gucci, and Tiffany, guides customers through the fashion on offer. “I’m excited to be here, it’s a breath of fresh air,” he says. “It’s something we’ve needed in New York for a while, ever since Barneys closed.”
When it comes to what’s selling, he immediately singles out The Falls as a Printemps success story. “The designers go all over the world to find vintage pieces, and they will customize pieces, whether it’s embroidery or hand-stitching,” he says. “All of the pieces are one of a kind. And who doesn’t love exclusivity?” But that’s not all that’s selling. When Printemps opened, they had some vintage Hermès on offer: two Birkins, and three Kellys. “Those were my favorite pieces,” Kelvin says. And they sold, I ask? “Yeah," he says, smiling. "Within the first week.”
In just 15 minutes, I’ve already broken a cardinal rule: Do Not Take the Display Shoe Off the Sales Floor—Ever. Well, duh, I realize in retrospect: If I’m gripping the sole example of a Rene Caovilla ruby-jeweled sandal with a strap that spirals up the leg, how’s anyone else going to see it—or sell it? “So, you commit whatever shoes a customer wants to memory, even if they want to try, I don’t know, eight styles?” I ask Penelope Amoroso, a.k.a. Poppy, the angel in human form who has drawn the short straw on having to train me in the art of selling shoes; like everyone else at Printemps, she’s usually working with clients all over the store. “I memorize every pair she wants to try,” Poppy tells me, laughing.
The other rule of working in the shoe department: Speeeeeed. You don’t want a customer to get bored and wander off while you’re in the stockroom one floor up, looking for a pair of, I don’t know, Marni sandals in a 42. I start thinking about my creaky aging knees and not-so-great physical coordination when it comes to carrying multiple boxes—but when Poppy tells me that she reckons she walks seven miles a day on the sales floor, up and down and around, my knees and I shut up.
Poppy has a client coming in to look for new shoes in 10, 15 minutes, so in the meantime, she takes me around the shoe department, which is, quite frankly, incredible: soaring 33-foot ceilings, the walls encrusted with tens of thousands of tiny mosaic tiles in a multitude of reddish and golden hues sourced from Germany. The room has stayed true to its original Art Deco design by artist Hildreth Meière (she also worked on Radio City Music Hall) for the Irving Trust Bank in 1931. (Apparently, the bank kept the room so dark back in the day that no one working there realized how colorful it actually was.)
“We mix the brands here as we do elsewhere in the store,” Poppy tells me. “It might surprise people at first, but then they get into having to take it all in. They enjoy looking at everything.” The labels the Red Room offers—from Amina Muaddi to Manolo Blahnik to Balenciaga to Dior—are arranged by color, style, and hello, sparkliness. (There’s also a smattering of exclusive designs in red from various brands to celebrate Printemps’s opening.)
Poppy is quizzed on what’s doing well right now—and whether heels really are a thing of the past. On the latter, she says, “I feel like it’s 50/50, because I get women who come in and say, ‘I can’t do heels anymore! Are you crazy?!’ and they will leave with a designer sneaker, and then we have women who love their heels and are never taking them off.”
As to the former: It’s all about the Maison Margiela Tabis in all their myriad forms (“Customers are like, ‘I love fashion, I love shoes, I am buying my Tabis/’ They’re having a big moment”); anything Marni; a new label from Italy called Paris Texas (though known for its cultish stiletto-heeled boots, the Lidia Mule is especially popular); and Alessandro Michele’s iteration of Valentino, where a customer snapped up a pair of white low-heeled pumps adorned with bows to add to her shoe collection (which happens to include 250 pairs of Roger Viviers). And shoes remain the most emotional of purchases, particularly when someone is getting married: Poppy very recently worked with a bride who specifically bought the blue Manolo Blahniks beloved by Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw as her “something blue,” while another bride-to-be bought a pair of scarlet Manolos to match the wedding dress she was having made in Shanghai.
Poppy’s 2:30 p.m. appointment is a friend of hers, Caitlin, who’s looking for shoes for another rite of passage: Starting a new job. She arrives bang on time with her friend Lynn. “I’ve been to the Printemps in Paris, but this is my first time here,” Caitlin tells me. “I’ve been dying to come.” To mark the occasion, she tells Poppy she’s after Manolo Blahnik’s Maysale mule in a 50mm heel and a gorge shade of smokey gray. She also has her eye on a pair of cream pointy low Moa pumps by a new-to-me brand called Aeyde. (Selling like crazy, apparently.)
Caitlin needs a 40 in both, so it’s up the stairs to the stockroom, a.k.a. Shoe Nirvana, accessed by a security card. It’s pristine—but, uh-oh—also a sea of almost all white boxes as far as the eye can see. You better have memorized the style name of the shoe you’re looking for, or learned to recognize it from the occasional sketches on the box labels. The Manolo is available, but with the Aeyde there’s only a 39.5 and a 40.5, so I take both on the off-chance one of those sizes works. Lynn—who has become “my” client, lucky her—also wanted to try on a pair of glossy black Courrèges ankle boots in a 37, so I’m on the hunt for those too. They’re added to the pile, and I also think, what the hell, I’ll take the 38 too.
Oron, who runs the stockroom with absolute precision, has been helping me, and now he’s opening each box to make sure the contents match the packaging. I notice him vigorously hand-sanitizing before he opens the first box. “Are you always meant to do that?” I ask. “No,” he says, looking a little bemused. “I just came back from lunch.”
Then, the boxes and me are off, hotfooting down the pink staircase to Elaine and Lynn. For the former, the Manolos are perfect, done, sold—and the creamy Aeydes in the 39.5 fit just right, so she’s looking to take those too. Lynn’s Courrèges, meanwhile, look fantastic on her, what with their chunky block heels and logo over the square-ish toe. But by this point, my shift is over, and Printemps can breathe a sigh of relief. I give my goodbyes and a hug to Poppy for trusting me not to mess up. Now, I’ve got the sales bug: So, did Lynn take the Courrèges boots?! I emailed Poppy to ask her. Yes, she replies, she did. That news put me on a high that I still haven’t come down from.