*Disclaimer: The author of this Vignette is not in a sponsorship relationship.
I’ve become a sober night owl. Last night, I got to thinking about the last time I shopped at a fancy Department Store. Was it Holt Renfrew in 1979? My wondering comes on the heels of reading that Jennifer Lopez was refused entrance to a Chanel Store in Istanbul. My dear reader, this would never happen to her at Le Tigre Giant.
I’ve always loved fashion. When I was a little girl, I was paraded in front of my mother’s friends who would inspect my flouncy crinolines, and the rick-rack bodices. Mum dressed me in sailor collars, short skirts and tights from Pretty Polly. By the time I turned 12, she had me in black, thigh-high vinyl boots to go with my forest green tweed coat. She bought me a bra I didn’t need that was stiff broadcloth. I also had a garter belt. At 16, she and my father had a silver fox coat made for me by Mr. Kalinikos, the furrier on Queen West in Toronto.
In my family we spoke Fashion; “Look at the navy piping on that white cotton pique shift!” High school was flared jeans and headscarves. When Mum sent me to charm school, I wore a peach, jersey shirt with a brown skirt cut on the bias.
My very first job was at “Le Grillon” a boutique in the Hudson Bay Concourse. My Boss, Alice, was a willowy Manchurian who wore a fresh orchid in her hair every day. When my boyfriend broke up with me, she thought shopping in New York was the answer. “Zeeeegy, you’re such a Kiiiid.” We stayed at The Barbizon and shopped at Fiorucci where I bought jeans. They came with batteries so the pockets could light up. We bought towering silver mesh and lucite sandals at Charles Jourdan.
My next boyfriend, Mr. Big, was puzzled by how I could afford my wardrobe by Willi Smith, an entire Tussore Silk Spring Collection. It surprises me still. It was a purchase I had made when I came off the road when I worked as a Disco singer in Trois Rivieres, Wawa and Kapaskasing. I got back to Toronto and blew it all away at Alice’s. Mr. Big sent me to Paris where I went straight to Chanel.
When I met my Consort’s mother Elizabeth, a former fashion editor of a magazine, she said that one day, I would be over my crazy love affair with clothing. “Never!” I said. Twenty-five years after that conversation, I moved to small town and gave much of my collected wardrobe to women who have use for it back in the city.
These days, I shop at Tigre Giant. If you are an urbanite, you may not be familiar with this franchise from Quebec. I can buy jeans for $20, a T- Shirt for $8 and pick up smoked meat in their deli section on my way out. My friend Barbara from L.A. loved it so much she wore their pajamas every day until her husband asked if she could take the rancid things off. My friend Tracy, (a dedicated PRADA wearer), loved the crinkled cream polyester dress I wore over silky black palazzos I got there.
So, you see, I haven’t really changed.
Le Tigre Giant, I am so into you. You touch my soul and spare my pocketbook. Merci Beaucoup.
