A guy hunts vintage suits every Wednesday at Amar's shop in Paris's 17th arrondissement, where you dig through bins and get brutally honest feedback. He argues for finding a trusted "guy" for everything: suits, music, a shave, pasta. Amar's profane charm is the whole point.
I've got a guy for that. People ask me all the time where I get my suits, and the truth is that everything I own, everything, comes from one man. When I'm in Paris, I spend my Wednesdays in the 17e arrondissement because that's when Amar opens his shop. It's not a boutique. It's definitely not a thrift store. Buying from Amar is somewhere between dumpster diving and having a designer personal shopper. You dig through bins, you strip down in front of strangers, and try things on that you'd never normally try on, and I always leave with something I love. If Amar likes something on you, he'll say, "Toi, t'es cuit, gros!" And that's it. You're done. You're cooked. Meanwhile, he might be calling you things like, "Eh, t'es un raté, mec!" "Fuck your ride!" And honestly, that's part of the charm. See, if you take life too seriously here, you're gonna have a bad time. That's good advice at Amar's and in general. It's good to have a guy for everything. Suits, music, a shave, pasta, whatever it is, find your guy for that thing. And if you're ever in Paris on a Wednesday,
