The Independent

During my short stay in New York recently, I could not resist doing something I have been doing for many years - dropping into Brooks Brothers. I've always been looked after by a tall African- American gentleman from Mississippi. His name is Tom Davis and he has worked for Brooks for 37 years.

Davis is no ordinary salesman. He wears his old-world air with elegance and his Southern manners disarm even the most disagreeable clients. As always, he was immaculately turned out, in a tweed jacket, corduroy trousers and polished wing tips. He wears the English style with American ease.

He greeted me like a long-lost friend and soon we were deep in conversation about the finer points of the button-down collar. He reminded me it was invented by Brooks for Palm Beach polo players who wanted to stop their collars from flapping while they played. With quiet authority he took me through the process of ordering its special-make shirts and explained that they are made in North Carolina (why does that sound more romantic than Manchester?). From the mischievous twinkle in his eye I could tell that he knew he had me hooked. And I had only come in to browse.

An hour or so later strolling down Madison Avenue, it suddenly struck me that Davis had relieved me of around $600. The man's got class.