What Else Is There? Brooks Brothers Is So Suitably Correct --- Salesman Joseph Mancini, 80, Has Served Up Good Taste In Cuffed Pants for 66 Years
By Teri Agins. Wall Street Journal. (Eastern edition).  New York, N.Y.:  Jul 23, 1992. pg. PAGEA.1

Abstract (Document Summary)

This Saturday, after 66 years of selling men's suits, the 80-year-old Mr. Mancini is retiring from the only job at the only store he has ever known: Brooks Brothers on Madison Avenue.

With his Churchillian jowls, natty bow tie and chipper elegance, Mr. Mancini is today the quintessential Man in the Brooks Brothers Suit, a voice of sartorial propriety. The Brooks Brothers' golden fleece logo adorns everything in his wardrobe, including his collection of fedora hats, oxford shoes, boxer shorts and his Brooks Brothers Formula 44 cologne.

In his cedar closet hang 25 Brooks Brothers suits, some more than 20 years old, that he wears in a fixed rotation. He favors subtle pinstripes, herringbones and muted Glen plaids, and has a traditionalist's aversion to pattern-on-pattern. "The fella who does the windows here sometimes puts a striped shirt with a striped tie and a striped suit," he says with a shudder. Mr. Mancini always wears white shirts, first the buttoned-down-Oxford style that Brooks Brothers invented in 1900, and now that his neck is thicker, pointed collars.
Full Text (1269   words)
Copyright Dow Jones & Company Inc Jul 23, 1992

NEW YORK -- Over the years, Joseph Mancini has suffered silently through Zoot suits, Nehru jackets, polyester leisure suits and countless other faddish detours from the impeccably correct. When others lost their heads to the whims of fashion, he resolutely held the line.

This Saturday, after 66 years of selling men's suits, the 80-year-old Mr. Mancini is retiring from the only job at the only store he has ever known: Brooks Brothers on Madison Avenue.

Mr. Mancini first walked through the store's mahogany portals in 1926, a 14-year-old lad in a gray knickerbocker suit. Jimmy Walker was the mayor then, and Calvin Coolidge was in the White House. It was the year Laurel and Hardy teamed up. Horses and buggies parked alongside Model T's in front of the store, discharging a steady stream of shoppers -- from J.P. Morgan to Choate preppies.

For $13 a week, Mr. Mancini at first ran errands for the store's tailors, one of whom was his father. That same year he bought his first Brooks Brothers' suit, for $7.50 during an employee sample sale.

With his Churchillian jowls, natty bow tie and chipper elegance, Mr. Mancini is today the quintessential Man in the Brooks Brothers Suit, a voice of sartorial propriety. The Brooks Brothers' golden fleece logo adorns everything in his wardrobe, including his collection of fedora hats, oxford shoes, boxer shorts and his Brooks Brothers Formula 44 cologne.

In his cedar closet hang 25 Brooks Brothers suits, some more than 20 years old, that he wears in a fixed rotation. He favors subtle pinstripes, herringbones and muted Glen plaids, and has a traditionalist's aversion to pattern-on-pattern. "The fella who does the windows here sometimes puts a striped shirt with a striped tie and a striped suit," he says with a shudder. Mr. Mancini always wears white shirts, first the buttoned-down-Oxford style that Brooks Brothers invented in 1900, and now that his neck is thicker, pointed collars.

The fastidious salesman virtually lives in a suit during the week. On weekends, he usually dons a blazer. He has his suits dry cleaned and pressed no more than once or twice a year. "Those tumblers beat the heck out of your clothes," he says.

Brooks Brothers could wish for no more impassioned booster than Mr. Mancini (though in 1941 he was a founder of the company union that brought higher wages and shorter hours). Not for him the high-fashion $1,500 Italian suits. Rather, he calls Brooks Brothers' classic styling the best buy in town, because in the long run the suits hold up, "and are always tasteful and correct."

But how would he know? This is a man who has never set foot in another haberdashery, not even J. Press around the corner or Paul Stuart half a block away. "We're No. 1," he says matter-of-factly. "You don't go to them, you let them come to you."

As for designer Ralph Lauren, who once briefly sold ties at Brooks Brothers and was recently quoted as saying he was "as Brooksy as you can get," Mr. Mancini admires him -- but he won't visit his store. "Everything Ralph Lauren learned was right here," he says. "He's a smart fella. He made it pay off."

Such is Mr. Mancini's loyalty to his employer that 35 years ago, when his wife, Terry, announced that she was defecting to Barneys in search of a suit for their then-chubby 16-year-old son, Mr. Mancini was aghast. His wife recalls that he urged their son to go on a crash diet so he could squeeze into a Brooks Brothers suit. (In the end his wife and son went to Barneys.)

Last week, a scruffy young man in shorts, rubber thongs and a baseball cap worn backward wandered into the sixth-floor suit department. To Mr. Mancini, he was a "wrap-up," or sure sale.

"When a fella comes in dressed like that, you know he's going to buy -- he needs clothes," Mr. Mancini explains. And indeed, Craig Phares, 27, a recent M.B.A., was outfitting himself for his first job, on Wall Street.

Mr. Mancini steered him to his personal favorite, the "authentic" Brooks Brothers' three-button sack suit, which has changed little since it made its debut more than 50 years ago. Mr. Mancini had no trouble selling the young Wall Streeter on an old-fashioned detail: a wide 1 3/4-inch trouser cuff.

Mr. Mancini is a great believer in wide cuffs. "The weight of the cuff helps hold the crease and makes your pants hang better," he says, recalling that during World War II, when wool was scarce, it was against the law for retailers to put cuffs in men's pants. He confides: "You know how we got around that? We hemmed the trousers a couple of inches too long. Then a man could take the pants to his own tailor and have the cuff put in."

Mr. Mancini's customer following is lengthy and loyal. So that they will be taken care of after his retirement, he is parceling out his 200-or-so regulars -- known as "see yous" in the trade -- to some of the other nine salesmen in his department, matching them by temperament.

Richard Bossone, the dean of the City University of New York, has been a client for 22 years. "Joe Mancini exemplifies good taste," Mr. Bossone says, adding that he calls him "Mr. Brooks." Mr. Bossone continues: "He is one person who treats you like a gentleman."

Richard Dresdale, a 36-year-old investment banker who has logged 15 years with Mr. Mancini, recently bought six new suits from him. Mr. Dresdale considers Mr. Mancini a conservative soulmate, one that won't easily be replaced.

In the fitting room, the avuncular salesman smooths his thick palms across Mr. Dresdale's shoulders and utters, "Richard, this looks great." While Mr. Dresdale ponders his reflection, Mr. Mancini slips away to attend another client.

Mr. Mancini's deft handling of customers has rewarded him well. He raised a family of four boys on his salary, based mainly on commissions. Last year, he earned $57,000, about average at the store.

Though he subscribes to many conservative dictums -- preferring plain-front pants to pleated -- he also believes that the customer, regardless of taste, is always right. "If a suit doesn't look right to me, I tell him so. If he agrees with me, fine. If not, he's paying for it -- let him do it his way."

Brooks Brothers has a number of salesmen whose tenure exceeds 25 years. But as these old-timers retire -- in Mr. Mancini's case to spend more time with his 80-year-old wife -- they are increasingly hard to replace. "The problem with salespeople these days is that they are too grand, they think that the job is servile," observes Paul Smith, the director of North American operations for London-based Marks & Spencer, which has owned Brooks Brothers since 1988.

If Joe Mancini ever had such doubts, they were fleeting. Through all the years, rising each morning at 5:30 a.m., his zest for the work has rarely flagged. He rarely talks shop at home, but his wife says that before big sales he talks in his sleep: "Joe would say things like `39 long, 40 regular, herringbone.'"

One of his proudest moments was during New York City's 1965 power blackout, when the store went dark, and everyone evacuated. Everyone, that is, except Mr. Mancini and a fussy client, who chose two suits by the glow of a cigarette lighter.