I miss Mount Street. It’s not that the street has gone anywhere, of course; it’s just that it has changed. I remember when you could drop a pin at one end of Mount Street and hear it at the other.
There were two institutions on the road: Doug Hayward’s tailor shop and Scott’s restaurant, which I first remember when it was owned by Nicky Kerman and looked like the coffee room of a St James’s club. Michel Bourdin was still at the Connaught dishing up kipper pâté and sole jubilee. It was a bit quiet, but that was all sorted out when Rubinacci opened his shop in 2005, Scott’s was revamped by Martin Brudnizki in 2006, and the Connaught’s bar got a David Collins makeover in 2008.
These days it’s a different affair, though thankfully Rubinacci and Scott’s are still there. Everything else, however, has changed. Put it this way: even if you were to drop an iron girder at one end of the street, you would have a hard time hearing it clang over the roaring engines of the Ferraris, Maseratis, Lamborghinis, McLarens and other sports/super/hypercars that parade up and down at a thrilling 20 miles an hour, revving their engines and barely, if ever, getting out of first gear.
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This impromptu Concours d’Elegance has attracted swarms of boys who video these things and, I suppose, get money for putting them on Instagram – trainspotting for the modern age.
Down the road, you have the pilastered bulk of the Audley, with its summertime army of pavement drinkers, opposite the terrace of George. The sleepy antique shops have long been swept away in favour of sleek fashion house mono brand stores, and there is now even a Bond Street-style queue outside Goyard. I suppose the £5.50 cappuccino from the Hideaway is a cheap entrance ticket to the circus that Mount Street has become. I love it, but even I sometimes need a break.
At such times, I have a great alternative. It is richer, if not ritzier, in retail, but as yet has no Lamborghinis, no hypercars, no pavement drinkers. Clifford Street is the new Mount Street, or at least it is the new old Mount Street, if you like. It used to be an anonymous enough affair that existed for no other purpose than to link Savile Row to Bond Street. But these days it is a destination in itself, with some of the best shopping in London – at least I think so.
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The first pioneer luxury house to make Clifford Street its own was Connolly. You have to knock on the door to be let inside, but once you are there it is a gorgeously laid out mixture of fashion, objects and leather goods; I usually want almost everything in the shop, whether a Lorenzi staghorn lighter covering or a butter soft suede jacket by Seraphin for Connolly.
Since then, Anderson & Sheppard has opened its beautiful, bright, colourful prêt à porter shop, with some of the best cashmere around. The brigade of elegance continues with other arrivals.
If you want a suit from France or Italy, there is Kiton ready to wear and, a few doors along, Cifonelli, the legendary Parisian tailoring house – think of it as the Huntsman of Paris – known for low buttoning blazers and cashmere sports jackets so soft that you think you are wearing a cardigan.
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At the front of Cifonelli you will see an area dedicated to the shoes of Pierre Corthay, a shop in-a shop. If you want Spanish made footwear, the newly opened Carmina – the brand that introduced Goodyear welting to Mallorca (finally! – Ed.) – sells shoes that are almost as good as Edward Green, and much better when you realise they are about half the price. There is also room for niche shops like Adret to flourish.
And now, or at least opening this spring, is the maraschino cherry atop this already glorious gâteau of niche retail: the Audemars Piguet House. Just do not make the mistake of calling it a shop – it is a house and looks like one from the outside. Its presence is signalled only by a discreet doorman and an even more discreet door.
Behind that door is a massive horological playground of more than 1,000m². There are bars galore, some with exotic brown spirits, others with beer on tap – a first for me in a ‘shop’ – sorry, house. A sprawling roof terrace could easily fit a small swimming pool or a large hot tub (if you must).
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All I know is that open air watch buying with a cigar in one hand and the sun in the sky could become a worryingly expensive habit.
You could easily drop £100,000 walking between Savile Row and Bond Street: an AP watch, a couple of Cifonelli suits, a leather jacket from Connolly, something from Anderson & Sheppard, a pair of bespoke shoes, some Belgravia loafers from Corthay – and it would be great. There would be just enough change for a coffee and a tuna melt at Maurizio’s, to be enjoyed in peace, because – if not a pin – you could still probably drop a stair rod at one end and hear it at the other.
On Clifford Street, there’s not so much as a Pagani or Bugatti within sight or earshot – at least not yet.
This article first appeared in Spear’s Magazine Issue 99. Click here to subscribe
