Lifestyle
What is it like to live in an L.A. hotel? Here’s a glimpse
This story is part of Image’s April issue, “Reverie” — an invitation to lean into the spaces of dreams and fantasy. Enjoy the journey.
On the afternoon of Sunday, Feb. 25, I drive to West Hollywood to spend a night at a hotel. I want to imagine what it would be like to live in one. There is too much noise in my head, and I am trying to clear it. I keep picturing a clean, fresh hotel room, a kind of blank slate — a chance to start anew, step into another life. I decide to keep a time log and write a diary entry for the 19 hours I am about to spend living out this experiment.
3:10 p.m.
I arrive at the hotel. It is called Hotel 850 SVB, a name that I have a hard time remembering and sometimes call SVB 850 when I tell friends. One of them observes that it sounds like a vaccine. SVB stands for San Vincente Boulevard. The hotel is a white wooden house covered in green vines. In the early 1900s, it housed railroad workers who were building a railroad between Hollywood and Santa Monica boulevards. In 2018, hotelier Jeff Klein, the same owner of the Sunset Tower Hotel and the private club San Vicente Bungalows, opened Hotel 850 SVB, a hotel he has described as having “a soul, like a beautiful home.”
A bellman named Winston checks me in. He welcomes me to “Hotel 850.” I have booked the Carriage Room, inspired by the carriage houses designed to fit single horse-drawn carriages. It’s the room that books up fastest, perhaps because it is the cheapest, but it is also the most charming, with its walls all painted blue and bookshelves framing the bed.
When I walk into my 200-square-foot room, I take off my shoes and put on the white hotel slippers. The things I encounter in the room give me ideas and expand the possibilities of what I can do: do yoga before bed on the blue mat, iron my shirts (which I never do), drink a bottled 1934 Cosmo for $18, read books with names like “The Millionaires.” Maybe it’s all that blue or the circular window, but when I lie on the bed, I feel like I’m on a ship.
4 p.m.
I realize it sounds silly to say I’m living in a hotel for less than 24 hours. Most people who’ve claimed to live in hotels have done so for at least a few months or often years. In this town, those people are often actors who come to stay for transient periods of time for film productions or simply like the luxuries of a hotel. Marilyn Monroe lived on and off at the Beverly Hills Hotel ; a TikTok video says the hotel still sprays her suite, 1A, with Chanel No. 5 to summon her scent. Elizabeth Taylor lived for a year at the Hotel Bel-Air. Robert De Niro, Keanu Reeves and Lindsay Lohan all lived at Chateau Marmont. Lohan was staying at the Chateau while playing the role of Taylor in “Liz & Dick” when she was apparently forced out by hotel management after 57 days for not paying her bill of $46,350.04. I prefer a story I find in the Daily Mail that says Katharine Hepburn checked into Chateau Marmont with a luggage of men’s clothes, “wearing an eye patch.”
4:45 p.m.
I walk out to the hotel lounge area, which is on the same floor as my room, in my slippers. The lounge is more like a living room, with mismatched couches, Louis Armstrong playing in the background, and a glass jar with pretzels for the taking. Any time a guest exits their room and comes to the lounge to grab a water or sit on the patio, I say hello. I receive a few smiles from these strangers but never hear their voices in exchange. I think I see an actor I recognize. I Google: older white actor who wears round glasses. Pictures of John Lennon populate.
A housekeeper wearing a baby-pink dress says hello and asks me how I am. She elegantly lays out the complimentary happy hour drinks on the dining room table that’s already adorned with a vase of purple orchids. After she is finished, I take an authentic Bavarian beer from the metal bucket filled with ice. I flip through Variety magazine. Four sips in, I’m given the illusion of suddenly being on vacation. I am relaxed, charmed by the chair to my right covered in a print of violet flowers.
The hotel guests here are not like those I read about who lived at famed hotels. They are not like the ones at the Chelsea Hotel in New York who were bohemian, wrote songs and plays, did drugs in the bathrooms and started fires. “They just let anybody in over there, that hotel is dangerous,” Andy Warhol wrote in his diary about the Chelsea Hotel in October 1978, “it seems like somebody’s killed there once a week.”
A hotel is a house where you can misbehave (or at least give in to what you wouldn’t do) and indulge in the out of the ordinary. Ideally this doesn’t involve killing someone. The classic example is the “Eloise” books, where a 6-year-old girl lives at the Plaza Hotel and drinks Champagne and gin, wears furs, eats meringue glacée and watches TV with a parasol “in case there’s some sort of glare.” (Eloise might have been based on Liza Minnelli, who lived in hotels with her mother, Judy Garland.) Maybe it’s because I’m 33, or because Hotel 850 is made to look like an eccentric aunt’s house, but rather than dreaming of debauchery, I’m looking at the red striped armchair and imagining what it would look like in my living room. I’m imagining the day I have walls tall and big enough to hold a vintage poster like the one in the room. I’m in a hotel, playing house.
5:25 p.m.
The truth is I did live in a hotel once. When my family moved from Brazil to Miami when I was 14 years old, we lived at the Sonesta Hotel for three months. I made new friends in high school by inviting them over for slumber parties that involved ordering movies on demand and room service. Aside from that, there was nothing too remarkable about the experience, and after a while, we got tired of the bland furniture.
I think I would get less tired of the furniture here. The designer, Rita Konig, deliberately resisted “beige and boring” hotel aesthetics. In my room — because it is now my room — there is a table lamp with a giraffe for a base. It is a lamp that Konig replicated from her own home.
6 p.m.
In the days leading up to my stay at Hotel 850, I read “The Hotel” by Sophie Calle, a book documenting the week the artist spent working as a chambermaid at a hotel in Venice, Italy. Each time she cleans a room, she fusses through the guests’ belongings and photographs them: a stethoscope and rosary on the bedside table, a torn-up postcard, a lobster claw under the bed sheets, a pair of black heels in the trash, white underwear hanging to dry and diaries detailing “excellent lasagna,” hot baths, small bridges and good soup. She lets the objects speak for themselves but admits when she is “bored” by her findings.
I go back to my room to get ready to leave for dinner. I imagine what Calle would see and fixate on: that I brought three pens in different colors (green, pink and blue), that I color-coordinate them in my agenda (“dry cleaning” is in blue, “pick up pie” is in green, “6:30 p.m. massage” is in pink), and that I use hand cream that’s a blend of mandarin, lime, geranium and rosemary. She would note that I wear contacts, comb my hair in the shower and take thyroid medication. I want her to be interested in me but I don’t think she would be.
8 p.m.
I end up, unintentionally, at another hotel for dinner, where the bartender explains to me that the red, green and white dollops on the flatbread represent the Lebanese flag. Later, I eat Meyer lemon ice cream and share the sidewalk with one of those delivery robots for restaurants; it outpaces me. It is Sunday in WeHo, which is to say, it might as well be Saturday, and a bar is playing a techno remix of “Respect.”
When I come back to my room, I write this diary entry as if I am a tourist, registering my evening in L.A. When you’re traveling and staying at a hotel, every detail becomes important and worth recording. Life is finally observed and savored.
8:30 p.m.
I shower — admittedly it’s the moment I am looking forward to the most, when I get to test out the little shampoos and conditioners and liquid soaps. The shower products are all lemon-scented, and the body lotion is a strong rose that takes me several strokes to blend into my skin. There is a poet named Adília Lopes who likes to use hotel bath products at home because it gives her the sensation of being in a hotel without leaving her home. The containers at Hotel 850 are too big for taking; they are not souvenirs.
Winston, the bellman, had mentioned in passing that I would be most welcome to make myself some tea at night in the shared kitchen. Since I somehow feel that this is an experience not to be missed, I go to the all-yellow kitchen to make myself rooibos tea. I am shy about being caught in my pajamas, so I wear my coat.
Maybe the moment I am looking forward to the most is actually getting in bed, slipping my bare feet under the freshly ironed sheets. I do this while I drink my rooibos tea and watch a boring episode of “Friends.” If I could steal one thing from a hotel, I think it would be the sheets.
8:30 a.m.
At breakfast, there are three Frenchmen. One of them is upset because he woke up at 6 a.m. While I eat my yogurt, I fantasize that if they ask me where I’m visiting from, I will lie. I decide I will tell them I am visiting from New York, that it is my first time in Los Angeles. But they never ask me. I begin to wonder what would happen if I stayed longer, what persona I would gradually adapt, what alternate life I would build.
But I have to check out and head to work. Before leaving my room, I do one last scan. I never did the yoga or ironed my clothes or drank the Cosmo.
“Safe travels,” the bellman says on my way out. I drive home.
When John Lantigua, a retired journalist in Miami Beach, checked his email one recent morning, he was glad to see an invitation.
“It was like, ‘Come and share an evening with me. Click here for details,’” Mr. Lantigua said.
It appeared to be a Paperless Post invitation from someone he once worked with at The Palm Beach Post, a man who had left Florida for Mississippi and liked to arrange dinners when he was back in town.
Mr. Lantigua, 78, clicked the link. It didn’t open.
He clicked a second time. Still nothing.
He didn’t realize what was going on until a mutual friend who had received the same email told him it wasn’t an invitation at all. It was a scam.
Phishing scams have long tried to frighten people into clicking on links with emails claiming that their bank accounts have been hacked, or that they owe thousands of dollars in fines, or that their pornography viewing habits have been tracked.
The invitation scam is a little more subtle: It preys on the all-too-human desire to be included in social gatherings.
The phishy invitations mimic emails from Paperless Post, Evite and Punchbowl. What appears to be a friendly overture from someone you know is really a digital Trojan horse that gives scammers access to your personal information.
“I thought it was diabolical that they would choose somebody who has sent me a legitimate invitation before,” Mr. Lantigua said. “He’s a friend of mine. If he’s coming to town, I want to see him.”
Rachel Tobac, the chief executive of SocialProof Security, a cybersecurity firm, said she noticed the scam last holiday season.
“Phishing emails are not a new thing,” Ms. Tobac said, “but every six months, we get a new lure that hijacks our amygdala in new ways. There’s such a desire for folks to get together that this lure is interesting to people. They want to go to a party.”
Phishing scams involve “two distinct paths,” Ms. Tobac added. In one, the recipient is served a link that turns out to be dead, or so it seems. A click activates malware that runs silently as it gleans passwords and other bits of personal information. In all likelihood, this is what happened when Mr. Lantigua clicked on the ersatz invitation link.
Another scam offers a working link. Potential victims who click on it are asked to provide a password. Those who take that next step are a boon to hackers.
“They have complete control of your email and, in turn, your entire digital life,” Ms. Tobac said. “They can reset your password for your dog’s Instagram account. They can take over your bank account. Change your health insurance.”
Digital invitation platforms are trying to combat the scam by publishing guides on how to spot fake invitations. Paperless Post has also set up an email account — phishing@paperlesspost.com — for users to submit messages for verification. The company sends suspicious links to the Anti-Phishing Working Group, a nonprofit that maintains a database monitored by cybersecurity firms. Flagged links are rendered ineffective.
The scammers’ new strategy of exploiting the desire for connection is infuriating, said Alexa Hirschfeld, a founder of Paperless Post. “Life can be isolating,” Ms. Hirschfeld said. “When it looks like you’re getting an invitation from someone you know, your first instinct is excitement, not skepticism.”
Olivia Pollock, the vice president of brand for Evite, said that fake invitations tended to be generic, promising a birthday party or a celebration of life. Most invitations these days tend to have a specific focus — mahjong gatherings or book club talks, for instance. “The devil is in the details,” Ms. Pollock said.
Because scammers don’t know how close you are with the people in your contact list, fake invitations may also seem random. “They could be from your business school roommate you haven’t spoken to in 10 years,” Ms. Hirschfeld said.
Alyssa Williamson, who works in public relations in New York, was leaving a yoga class recently when she checked her phone and saw an invitation from a college classmate.
“I assumed it was an alumni event,” Ms. Williamson, 30, said. “I clicked on it, and it was like, ‘Enter your email.’ I didn’t even think about it.”
Later that day, she received texts from friends asking her about the party invitation she had just sent out. Her response: What party?
“The thing is, I host a lot of events,” she said. “Some knew it was fake. Others were like, ‘What’s this? I can’t open it.’”
Andrew Smith, a graduate student in finance who lives in Manhattan, received what looked like a Punchbowl invitation to “a memory making celebration.” It appeared to have come from a woman he had dated in college. He received it when he was having drinks at a bar on a Friday night — “a pretty insidious piece of timing,” he said.
“The choice of sender was super clever,” Mr. Smith, 29, noted. “This was somebody that would probably get a reaction from me.”
Mr. Smith seized on the phrase “memory making celebration” and filled in the blanks. He imagined that someone in his ex-girlfriend’s immediate family had died. Perhaps she wanted to restart contact at this difficult moment.
Something saved him when he clicked a link and tried to tap out his personal information — his inability to remember the password to his email account. The next day, he reached out to his ex, who confirmed that the invitation was fake.
“It didn’t trigger any alarm bells,” Mr. Smith said. “I went right for the click. I went completely animal brain.”
The new scam comes with an unfortunate side effect, a suspicion of invitations altogether. It’s enough to make a person antisocial.
“Don’t invite me to anything,” Mr. Lantigua, the retired journalist, said, only half-joking. “I’m not coming.”
You want to know where men’s fashion is heading? Follow the geeks.
These are the obsessives, fixated, with a NASA technician’s precision, on how their pants fit or on which pair of Paraboot shoes is the correct pair. These are the obsessives who in the aughts were early to selvage denim (now available at a Uniqlo near you!) and soft-shouldered Italian tailoring in the mode that, eventually, trickled down to your local J. Crew.
And where has the attention of this cohort landed now? On a vanguard of newish-to-the-West labels from Japan, like A.Presse, Comoli, Auralee and T.T.
1
A.Presse is probably the most hyped of this cohort. What other label is worn by the French soccer player Pierre Kalulu and the actor Cooper Hoffman and has men paying a premium for a hoodie on the resale market? Kazuma Shigematsu, the founder, is not into attention. When we spoke, he wouldn’t allow me to record the conversation. Notes only.
“You mean a better-fitting denim jacket that’s based on an old Levi’s thing? Yeah, OK, sold,” said Jeremy Kirkland, host of the “Blamo!” podcast and the textbook definition of a latter-day Japanese men’s wear guy. Mr. Kirkland, once someone who would allocate his budget to Italian suits, admitted that, recently, over the course of two weeks, he bought four (yes, four) jackets from A.Presse1.
“I’m not really experimenting with my style anymore,” Mr. Kirkland said. “I’m just wanting really good, basic stuff.”
Basic though these clothes appear, their hook is that they’re opulent to the touch, elevated in their fabrication.
2
Over the years, the designer Ryota Iwai has told me repeatedly that he is inspired by nothing more than the people he sees on his commute to the Auralee offices in Tokyo. When asked recently if he collected anything, he said nothing — just his bicycle.
3
The true somber tale of this wave. The brand’s founder, Taiga Takahashi, died of an arrhythmia in 2022 at 27. The label has continued to plumb history for inspiration. The latest collection had pieces that drew on bygone American postal-worker uniforms.
An Auralee2 bomber looks pedestrian until you touch it and realize its silk. Labels like T.T3 make clothes that echo the specs of a vintage relic yet come factory fresh, notched up, made … well, better. They bestow upon the wearer a certain in-the-know authority.
And so there is a hobbyist giddiness present on Discord channels where 30- and 40-something men trade tips on how to size moleskin trousers by the Japanese label Comoli; at boutiques like Neighbour in Vancouver, British Columbia, where items like a $628 dusty pink trucker jacket from Yoko Sakamoto and an $820 T.T sweater sell out soon after hitting the sales floor.
What’s notable is how swiftly these geeky preferences have wiggled into the broader fashion community. While I was in Paris for the men’s fashion shows a year ago January, all anyone wanted to talk about were things with a “Made in Japan” tag. I would speak with editors who were carving out room in their suitcases for Auralee’s $3,000 leather jackets.
But these were clothes being shown away from the fashion week hordes. The A.Presse showroom was on a Marais side street in a space about as long as a bowling lane and scarcely wider that was crammed with racks of canvas, silk and denim jackets with Pollock-like paint splatters. There were leather jackets as plush as Roche Bobois sofas and hoodies based on sweatshirts made in America a half-century ago.
I got the hype. After 10 days of puzzling over newfangled stuff on the runways, the display of simple, understandable shapes we’ve known our whole lives, but redone with extra care, couldn’t have felt more welcome.
Kazuma Shigematsu, the A.Presse designer, said he had collected a trove of vintage pieces that he housed in a separate space to plumb for inspiration. He made new clothes based on old clothes that benefited from a century of small design tweaks.
By this January, A.Presse had upgraded to a regal maison facing the Place des Vosges, with giant windows and even more reverent hoodies, even more tender leathers. Back in America, I asked an online department store executive what his favorite thing from Paris was. He took out his phone to show me photos of himself trying on a zip-up leather jacket in A.Presse’s high-ceilinged showroom.
On Their Own Terms
4
“We never think about trendiness or popular design details,” Ms. Sakamoto said through a translator. “It’s more like functionality, everyday use.” The label has a thing for natural dyes: pants stained with persimmon tannin, yellow ochre and sumi ink, shirts colored with mugwort and adzuki beans.
The sudden popularity of these labels outside Japan can make it feel as if they are new. Yet each label has built a respectable business within Japan, some for more than a decade. Auralee was founded in 2015. A year later, Yoko Sakamoto4 started its line. A.Presse is the relative baby of this cohort at five years old.
“A couple years ago, we would have to buy off the line sheet or go to Japan and see everything,” said Saager Dilawri, the owner of Neighbour, who has an instinct for what spendy, creative types lust after. “Now I think everyone from Japan is trying to go to Paris to get into the international market.”
This movement’s “Beatles on Ed Sullivan” moment occurred in 2018, when Auralee won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo, granting the designer, Ryota Iwai, financial support. Soon after, Auralee was given a slot on the Paris Fashion Week calendar.
“I had never seen a show before, never thought to do it,” Mr. Iwai said through a translator in February, days after his latest runway show. He has now done five.
As we talked, buyers speaking different languages entered his storefront showroom and ventured upstairs to scrutinize items like a trench coat that looked as if it was made of corduroy but was actually made from cashmere and wool and an MA-1 bomber jacket with a feathery merino wool lining peeking out along the placket.
5
The Cale designer Yuki Sato travels throughout Japan to find textiles. Unusually, the company manufactures everything, including leather and denim, in one factory.
At Cale’s5 display off Place Vendôme, the designer Yuki Sato described denim trousers and pocketed work jackets as “modest, but perfectionist.” On the other side of the city, at Soshi Otsuki, whose 11-year-old label Soshiotsuki has gained attention for its warped vision of salary-man suits, I encountered buyers from Kith, a New York streetwear emporium better known for selling logoed hoodies and sell-out sneakers than for tailoring.
6
Nearly a decade into its existence, Soshiotsuki has hit a hot streak. Soshi Otsuki won the LVMH Prize in 2025, and he already has a Zara collaboration under his belt. An Asics collaboration is set to arrive in stores soon.
Talking through translators with these designers, I began to worry that it might be unfair to group them together simply because they were all from Japan. Auralee simmers with colors as lush as a Matisse canvas, while Comoli’s brightest shade is brown. Soshiotsuki6 has mastered tailoring, while Orslow is known for its faded-at-the-knee jeans channeling decades-old Levi’s.
Rather, as with the Antwerp Six design clique that sprung out of Belgium in the early 1980s, it is these labels’ origin stories that thread them together.
“They’re being encountered on their own terms and respected on their own account, and they happen to be Japanese,” said W. David Marx, the author of “Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style” and a cultural critic who has lived in Tokyo for more than two decades.
“It is a new era of Japanese fashion on the global stage,” Mr. Marx said.
A Love Affair With Japan
Western shoppers have a history of falling hard for clothes from Japan. In 1981, when Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons and Yohji Yamamoto crashed onto the Paris fashion scene, buyers swooned for their brainy, body-shrouding creations.
7
Recently reintroduced as Number(N)ine by Takahiro Miyashita.
Years later, Number(N)ine7 and A Bathing Ape synthesized trends we would call American — grunge, streetwear and hip-hop — polished them up and sold them back to the West.
8
Years before American men were trawling the internet for A.Presse, they would scour forums for deals on Visvim’s jeans and sneakers. Today, Visvim has stores in Santa Fe, N.M.; Carmel, Calif.; and Los Angeles.
Into the 2000s, clothing geeks were swapping tips on forums like Superfuture and Hypebeast about how to use a Japanese proxy service to buy Visvim’s8 seven-eyelet leather work boots or SugarCane’s brick-thick jeans.
Along the way, “Made in Japan” became a shorthand for “made well.” This was more than fetishization. As America’s clothing factories became empty carcasses pockmarking the heartland, Japan’s apparel industry grew steroidal.
“Japan still has an incredible manufacturing base for apparel that goes all the way from the textiles to the sewing to the postproduction,” Mr. Marx said.
Today, many Japanese labels produce most of their garments and, crucially, their textiles in Japan. When I first met Mr. Iwai years ago, I asked how he managed to create such lush colors. He answered, as if noting that the sky was blue, that he worked with the factories that developed his fabrics. As I spoke with Mr. Sato in January, he shared that Cale’s factory had been in his family for generations and also produced for other Japanese brands that I would know.
Chris Green, the owner of Ven. Space, a boutique in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn that has helped to introduce a number of these labels to an American market, suggested that because Japan is a small country with a fervent fashion culture, a competitive spirit has been stoked.
“They have to be able to cut through the noise,” Mr. Green said, with brands trying to prove that their cashmere sweater can outclass their peers’, that their silks are sourced from finer factories. What’s more, he said, once these brands have nailed a design, they stick with it. That is something that is important to men, in particular, who hate when a brand abandons its favored pants after a season.
Before he opened Ven. Space in 2024, Mr. Green was an admirer of many of these labels, purchasing them during trips to Japan. As we spoke, he was wearing a pair of Comoli belted jeans that he bought five or so years ago. A similar style is still available.
Primed for What They Were Pitching
At the close of the 2010s, streetwear was running on fumes. Quiet luxury was entering at stage left. If the Row and Loro Piana were expert at subtle, fine-to-the-touch clothes, so, too, were the likes of T.T, Graphpaper and Yoko Sakamoto.
“I went from this guy that wears pear-shaped pants to just wearing, like, a denim jacket,” said Chris Maradiaga, a tech worker and freelance writer in Vancouver. His wardrobe today consists of Comoli’s black-as-night trousers and a purple-tinged coat by Ssstein. His kaleidoscopic Bode jackets gather dust.
That Ssstein clothes have landed in the closets of men on the other side of the world defies the early guidance relayed to Kiichiro Asakawa, the label’s bushy-haired designer. His “senpais,” or mentors, warned him that his reduced designs might leave Western audiences cold. “You need something powerful,” they told him.
He tried, but it wasn’t necessary. It’s the most minimal designs — his cotton gabardine zip-ups, his “easy” pleated trousers — that people are most interested in now. “It actually makes me very happy,” he said through a translator. “My instincts were right.” Mr. Asakawa won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo in 2024.
Adapting to North American Markets (and Men)
Several Japanese designers noted that they had modified their sizing to accommodate larger, American bodies.
“I’ll ask them, Can you lengthen the pants by three centimeters? Because you need that for the Western market,” Mr. Dilawri of Neighbour said, noting that the designers were receptive to those requests.
A number of labels, like Comoli and Soshiotsuki, are already oversize. That’s the look.
9
Kiichiro Asakawa ran a Tokyo boutique, Carol, before starting Ssstein in 2016. It’s still there. He, too, said he found inspiration in the everyday, for example when watching an elderly couple have dinner across a restaurant.
There is also the matter of price. On the whole, these clothes are not cheap. See Auralee’s silk bomber jacket, which could be military surplus but feels stolen from a sultan’s palace. It’s roughly $1,700. Ssstein’s9 Carhartt cousin chore jacket with a cowhide collar and a factory-massaged fade? About $1,000. Anyone who has traveled recently in Japan, where the yen is tantalizingly weak, will tell you that these Japanese-made clothes, after being imported, are far pricier in North America.
Yet, as luxury fashion labels continue to price out the aspirational middle-class shopper, many of those same shoppers have convinced themselves that the Japanese labels are a better value. A cashmere coat at Prada is $10,000, and you’ll need $1,690 to own a cotton-blend cardigan from Margiela. Similar pieces from Japanese labels can be half that price, or less.
“Brands like Bottega, Balenciaga, the Row — all that stuff — are so unobtainable,” said Mr. Kirkland, whose clothing budget has shifted to A.Presse. “I will never be in that price bracket,” he added, “but I’m wealthy enough to buy a chore coat for $800.”
Of course, Mr. Kirkland and all of the fans of these labels could own a chore coat for far less — but then it wouldn’t be “Made in Japan.”
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