Lifestyle
Is the teahouse the future of nightlife in L.A.?
Teahouses built for spending extended time in, open until the wee hours of the night, are popping up all over the city. Some are elusive, hidden in plain sight or only accessible via a mysterious membership. Others have gone viral on TikTok and have cover charges and waitlists to attend. Some reference East Asian tea ceremony culture, others lean California cool and bohemian.
Jai Tea Loft owner Salanya Angel Inm prepares tea at her recently opened social gathering space in Koreatown.
(Dante Velasquez Jr. / For The Times)
Why the surge in places to drink tea? It might be because young people are consuming less alcohol (a 2023 study from Gallup found the number of people under 35 who drink has dropped 10% over the last two decades). Or maybe it’s due to the fact that the city has lost a sizable chunk of restaurants open past 10 p.m. — LAist reports nearly 100 since 2019 — leaving fewer places to sit and chat that aren’t bars or clubs. At the same time, activities centered on wellness and reflection, like gratitude groups, journaling or even reading silently in public, are being embraced by people of all ages looking for third spaces and activities outside of the standard dinner-and-a-movie.
Salanya Angel Inm was inspired to open Jai in Koreatown after years of feeling that Los Angeles lacked late-night spaces not oriented around alcohol. She wanted to create an alternative for her community of creatives, a place they could spend long hours loosening up outside of a bar environment. Lydia Lin, co-founder of Steep in Chinatown, which does serve alcohol along with plenty of tea, wanted a place that was open late but was peaceful enough that she could hear her friends while having a conversation.
Enter the rise of the teahouse. Despite their design and menu differences — some have a dozen herbal blends, others opt for dealer’s choice with a rotating set of three bespoke infusions; some are places to debut a trendy outfit, a few ask visitors to remove their shoes — they each come from a desire to challenge a typical consumer experience. These are spaces meant for lingering long after tea has been purchased, or even finished.
Below are four teahouses in different neighborhoods of Los Angeles.
Jai
Scenes from a Saturday night in May at Jai Tea Loft. (Dante Velasquez Jr. / For The Times)
Located above Thai Angel, known for its DJ sets and late-night noodles, newly minted teahouse Jai offers a quieter, more intimate space to spend weekend nights. The spot is owned and operated by Thai Chinese American model and breathwork and reiki practitioner Salanya Angel Inm, who co-owns Thai Angel with her mom and brother. She began tinkering with the idea of opening a teahouse in May 2022. In January 2024, construction began, with a soft opening following in March 2025.
Jai is housed in a one-room attic on top of Thai Angel. It’s cozy, with space for two dozen people at most. The room glows in yellow-orange light from a neon art piece fixed to the ceiling and is lined with brightly colored custom floor cushions made of fabric from Thailand. On a Saturday night in March, seven guests removed their shoes and sat for a storytelling event, ticketed at $10. This was the second installment of the event; Inm had selected the theme “Lucky to be alive.” Some guests recited poetry, while others freestyled between sips of tea. The group exchanged stories and lounged until 3 a.m.
Guests socialize on a Saturday night at Jai Tea Loft in Koreatown.
(Dante Velasquez Jr. / For The Times)
Jordan Collins bought a ticket for storytelling at Jai after hearing about it on Inm’s social media. Upon arrival, he ordered a herbal elixir featuring Asian botanicals from the brand Melati. It’s one of three premade nonalcoholic tonics (the other two are “Awake” and “Calm” by California-based brand Dromme) that Jai serves room temperature for $9. A fan of art shows and experimental music performances, Collins described himself as always on the lookout for new community spaces. “I think that was the first time I pulled up to anything completely solo with no expectations, with the full intention to yap for however long to a room with complete strangers,” he said, likening his experience to a night spent chatting with friends into the morning.
The tea selection at Jai Tea Loft.
(Dante Velasquez Jr. / For The Times)
The current menu at Jai consists of hot tea, sold by the glass or pot, along with the herbal elixirs — one invigorating, one calming and one berry. Tea drinkers can choose between more than a dozen herbs, from butterfly pea to white chrysanthemum, to create a custom blend prepared by Inm, starting at $15 per 25-ounce pot or $6 for a single serving. Behind the tea bar, she offers customers guidance based on their mood and needs.
She may expand the menu going forward but plans to keep costs low. “I really don’t like the idea that people can only access things that are good for them if they have a large amount of money to invest in themselves. I want people to feel like, ‘Yeah, I can swing that for this experience’ and it not be this obstacle,” said Inm.
Koreatown
149 N. Western Ave., Los Angeles, CA (upstairs)
Soft opening, see Instagram for hours
Tea at Shiloh
Patrons at Tea at Shiloh on a recent Saturday. (Yasara Gunawardena / For The Times)
Only 45 customers can enter Tea at Shiloh per evening, and those hoping to visit should plan ahead: Reservations, which are required, can be made through the website, and Tea at Shiloh fully books nearly every night.
As each attendee enters and takes off their shoes and adds them to the disorganized pile near the front of the door, a host asks them their intention for the evening. Patrons of the Arts District teahouse know what they’re getting into and answer the question with ease. The space attracts a metaphysically minded, wellness-oriented community. Some are there to journal, others to spend time with old friends. A few want to get out of their comfort zone; they come on dates, join with friends and arrive alone.
Guests socialize at Tea at Shiloh: A Teahouse.
(Yasara Gunawardena / For The Times)
The concept for Tea at Shiloh came to owner Shiloh Enoki (who goes by the mononym Shiloh) in 2019. Shiloh, who was born in Utah and is of South American descent, found herself unfulfilled working for a record label in Hollywood. She underwent a personal transformation that led to her quitting her job and legally changing her name. After a visit to a teahouse in San Francisco that closed in the afternoon, she couldn’t stop thinking how nice the experience would have been at night. She found herself looking for late-night teahouses back home in Los Angeles on Google Maps. To her surprise, she couldn’t find any. “I couldn’t believe that something that was in my brain didn’t exist on Google. I was like, ‘It has to be somewhere. It has to be somewhere in L.A.’ I live in one of the biggest cities in the world and nothing … I became obsessed,” she said. Shiloh began exploring herbalism and hosting friends and strangers at her home for tea, then decided to create a business that would provide what she’d been searching for. She opened the space in 2022.
Faith Bakar, Alexsys Hornsby and Rachel Angelica painting at Tea at Shiloh.
(Yasara Gunawardena / For The Times)
Tea at Shiloh is inside an industrial loft. Brick walls and exposed piping contrast with wooden furniture, white couches and floor cushions and the warm glow of Noguchi lampshades. Surfaces are covered in books, tarot cards, clay and other art supplies to make use of. From 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., laptops are welcome. For the evening shift, which goes from 7 to 10 or 11 p.m., the lights go down and laptops are banned (with an exception for Monday’s piano lounge events). Both time slots require prepaid reservations, which, day or night, start at $37 and include unlimited access to the only thing on the menu, a rotating selection of three custom tea blends by Shiloh’s herbalists.
On some nights, there’s live music; others feature workshops in journaling, ceramics and other mind-body activities and performances. “It’s not a singular experience. There’s something for everyone,” Enoki said. After discovering the space on TikTok, Cooper Andrews took his partner to “cosmic jazz” (an eclectic mix of saxophone, keys, and abstract vocal looping) night at Shiloh to celebrate her birthday. He was looking for something other than just another fancy dinner, and for him, the $47-per-person cover charge was well worth it. “I see the fee as a cover charge. It’s like going to a museum,” he said.
Arts District
2035 Bay St., Los Angeles, CA 90021
Reservation only
Steep LA
Steep LA in Chinatown.
(Solomon O. Smith / For The Times)
Friends Samuel Wang and Lydia Lin come from cultures that take tea seriously. Wang, an industrial designer, is Taiwanese, while Lin, a marketing MBA working in the legal field, is Cantonese. In 2019, they separately went on trips to Asia to visit their families and discovered how modernized traditional teahouses had become. “[In China] people our age were going to teahouses instead of bars or clubs. It was somewhere that wasn’t home to just hang out and be able to have a conversation,” said Lin. “Why didn’t this exist in L.A.?” the friends asked themselves.
Within six months, thanks to the help of their Chinatown community, Lin and Wang — who didn’t quit their day jobs — opened Steep in the fall of 2019. Opening night was the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival, Lin remembers, an important and auspicious day.
The minimalist tea lounge hides in the back of a plaza in Chinatown. There’s space inside for a few dozen guests and a handful of outdoor tables for when weather permits. Inside, there’s a beautiful marble bar, wood tables, a cozy couch and long tables with tea leaves in jars to smell and discover.
By day, Steep serves 10 rotating teas, all sourced from China and Taiwan. Customers can order a glass of cold-brewed tea or fresh-brewed tea, but Lin encourages a tea ceremony, which comes with a pot and up to four cups. Baristas walk guests through the steps of brewing and pouring the tea, providing a timer for the perfect steep.
By night, Steep is the only business open in its plaza. Inside, soothing R&B plays. And, unlike the other teahouses that have popped up recently in Los Angeles, Steep serves alcohol. After 5 p.m., the space shifts from cozy teahouse to experimental mixology bar, serving boozy concoctions that all feature tea as an ingredient. Take the Yuanyang Martini, an espresso martini with black sesame and black tea or Red Robe, featuring cognac, bourbon, oolong tea and white miso. At 9 p.m. on a Thursday in March, nearly every seat was filled. Half of the guests enjoyed cocktails, while the rest shared pots of tea.
Chinatown
970 N. Broadway #112, Los Angeles, CA 90012
11 a.m.-11 p.m. daily; closed Tuesday
NEHIMA
There’s no information about NEHIMA online except for an email address. The invite-only, membership-based Japanese teahouse opened in Los Feliz in 2022. It’s more exclusive than any Soho House, San Vicente Bungalows or Bird Streets Club. So much so that its founders, Miho Ikeda and Richard Brewer, also co-owners of New High Mart, an equally exclusive Japanese home goods boutique, agreed only to speak about their latest venture via email.
“Serving tea to-go is to miss the entire point of tea. Tea is time. An excuse to enjoy a moment, a pause, a rest — either with oneself or the company of others,” said Brewer. The space has a strict no-technology policy. Even smartwatches are required to be checked in lockers along with phones.
At NEHIMA, all tea is served made-to-order, tableside, in pieces from the owner’s collection of Japanese ceramics. There are no matcha, lattes or novelty drinks on the menu, only loose-leaf tea sourced from Japan. NEHIMA is careful to distinguish that while the space and experience recall Japanese tradition, the club does not offer an official tea ceremony. “That term is thrown around too easily these days and should be reserved for describing the very specific event, ‘Cha-No-Yu,’” said Brewer.
The founders said the average visit is between three and six hours. Where most members clubs try to offer a luxurious experience for the wealthy through elevated design, upscale food and posh clientele, taking time to relax and enjoy a pot of tea is what NEHIMA sees as the ultimate luxury. “In this busy demanding world, time is the new flex, and real wealth is taking time to stare into a bowl of tea,” said Brewer.
Los Feliz
4650 Kingswell Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90027
Members only
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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