I never planned to become a New Yorker. But more than 20 years after arriving with two overstuffed suitcases and a battered copy of The Bonfire of the Vanities, I’m still here. And clutching white-knuckled on to my accent, mostly, of course, for the utterly unfair uplift it confers in my perceived intelligence among my peers. But when it comes to luxury, I think Americans are the smart ones, and certainly far cannier than snooty Old Worlders might often assume.
For America, British luxury sets the benchmark. The French might tout their wine, or the Italians boast about fashion, but they’re bested by the Brits for one simple reason: luxury in the UK isn’t just about the product per se but also about the experiences surrounding it. After a long period of disconnection and disjointed life around the world, experiences like this are more prized than ever; a chance to buy in as much to buy.
Rather than simply selling a single malt, British luxury encourages visits to the distillery to see how it’s made (and perhaps offer a sneak peek snifter of an upcoming rarity). British luxury is about buying a cashmere sweater then wearing it to keep cozy during a country house weekend or clubbing together to tee off at Gleneagles after investing in a new iron or two. It’s Wimbledon and regattas, a Sunday roast served up in a Michelin-starred restaurant or recreating high tea at home with a spread of Fortnum’s goodies. I’d venture it’s no coincidence either that private members clubs stateside come with a British imprimatur. That might be by origin – The Ned has just landed in New York for its second outpost – or by affect, a deliberate aping of that stern but genteel vibe synonymous with the best-of-British VIP PLU.
What’s more, British luxury has another advantage that’s perfectly primed for the world we face now. It’s shot through with an element that’s equal parts commodity and characteristic: humour. Think the Warm & Wonderful-designed black sheep sweater made world famous by Princess Diana (and that an American firm recently enthusiastically revived, to sell-out level success). Or the subversive wit in the work of any YBA that’s undeniably British, or Anya Hindmarch’s I’m Not A Plastic Bag, McQueen’s bumsters and the Heath Robinson-like eccentricity of Hendrick’s Gin. The Dowager Countess Grantham, one eyebrow permanently raised and zinger-primed at any moment, could only be British.
Of course, the world has never craved that sly, witty joy more than right now – in the US more than anywhere. “This summer, to misquote Cyndi Lauper, Americans just want to have fun,” my friend Paul Croughton notes – he’s another expat Brit, and Editor-in-Chief of Robb Report here. He believes that there is nowhere better now to strike the right balance between casual and cachet than the UK: “If a British brand were to put on elegant but laid-back picnics in one of the parks in good weather, inviting important overseas guests, I suspect they’d be very popular.”
As for me, I’ll just be happy to spread out a blanket – Johnstons of Elgin, please – in Central Park and gorge on the contraband goodies I always smuggle stateside in my suitcase after a jaunt to London. It’s British good taste, in every sense.
