The minimalist jacket, but for panels that resembled medieval armour-styled breastplates, seemed to have a halo all its own. In papal white, it belonged on the catwalk—but for its price tag. Marked down by about 75%, I bought it for the equivalent of ₹3,225. In the same Zara store on Kensington High Street, an energetic Indian sales assistant was acting as a personal shopper to a 60-something man who had accumulated a pile of purchases.
Welcome to the London summer sale, a sweet spot of bargains and thoughtful service in what is ordinarily one of the priciest cities in the world. Before I left Zara that morning, I bought a linen double-breasted blazer for less than ₹6,000. In London’s ubiquitous charity stores, meanwhile, one gets bargains on everything from compact discs to brand new books. In India, my aversion to over air-conditioned malls and addiction to handloom cotton means I hardly ever buy clothes off the rack, preferring to frequent a talented tailor down the road from my home in Bengaluru.
In London, however, I become a different species, a quasi-shopaholic unrecognisable even to me. London high-street stores and designers on Savile Row in summer display what economists would refer to as extreme price elasticity, or markdown madness. Because sale prices are slashed more than in India, where even many fast fashion brands seek an upmarket image, this more than makes up for the rupee’s nearly 10% depreciation against the pound in the past year.
Despite labour shortages and declining productivity at a national level, its large and small retailers have knowledgeable staff who have an understated selling style. In contrast to dealing with undertrained retail staff in India or perennially overpriced Hong Kong, this makes shopping efficient and enjoyable. In a rush one morning to get to Wimbledon, I went into a Uniqlo store and asked for thick coloured socks. The sales assistant walked me over to a rack with just what I wanted. I was out in under 5 minutes with half-a-dozen pairs.
Thoughtful service
At more specialist stores such as the cult trainers brand Hoka in Covent Garden, one enjoys the advantages of technology with detail-oriented service. Hoka is known for its front rocker shoes, which improve the heel-to-toe transfer of weight. A machine akin to a weighing scale with a screen does an instant evaluation of one’s feet and suggests shoes to try. The salesperson, a South African college student, had many thoughtful suggestions while keeping up a cheerful banter about being the only woman in her class of 25 data analytics students, most of whom were Indian. I ended up following her advice and buying Arahi shoes that correct the tendency for the foot to roll inward.
Seemingly miraculously, the shoes, coupled with a physio treatment that week for a recurring hip issue, appeared to improve my gait in a matter of days. This would be reason to rejoice anywhere, but especially so in London, where I walked more in a day than I do in a week in India because its pavements are so navigable and clean and its metro network so extensive. In addition, my daily commute to Wimbledon required about 3 miles of walking every day from and to the tube.
Thoughtful service was a hallmark of my shopping experience at a silverware and cutlery stand at Portobello Road as well. That street market, propelled into the global consciousness by the film Notting Hill some 25 years ago, is a mostly avoidable tourist trap. The troops of gullible travellers looking for homes with blue doors and thronging The Travel Bookshop, seemingly expecting a youthful Hugh Grant to step out at any minute, make merely crossing the road a test of civility.
My host and I were headed to brunch nearby but stopped by the antique cutlery stand she has frequented for years, run by a woman named Shehnaz. Before I knew it, I had acquired 1970s pastry forks I didn’t need but am very happy to own. Likewise, a silver-plated cake knife, even though I already own one with an ornate silver handle bought two decades ago at the same market (in addition to being a must-have for cutting cake, these Sheffield originals are handy for impromptu cocktails and pizza parties because the serrated edges and broad blades help slice pizza elegantly).
The store on the same street, run by her daughter Noor, is an Aladdin’s cave of silver. Within minutes, I was fixated on a 19th century silver-plated teapot for a bargain ₹7,500. My friend came away with a unique wedding present for a young couple—a vintage art deco silver cocktails shaker. For good measure, Noor did a demo of her cleaning process for silver, recommending I switch to using Wrights silver cream. This is service that felt instantly familial, which arguably only a family owned store could deliver. Since I unpacked the teapot, I have wasted a lot of time marvelling at something made by James Dixon & Sons, a Sheffield company founded in 1806.
The digital music-streaming services revolution has passed me by so London is where I am most likely to shop for secondhand CDs (and sometimes vinyl) as well as attend concerts. Charity shops run by Oxfam have a great selection of music, but this year’s find was an Ella Fitzgerald two-CD set for ₹400 on Amazon UK. On my penultimate afternoon in London, I wandered into the grand Royal Opera House, seeking a water fountain. Having overheard a saintly ticket booth attendant explain the best value-for-money seating options for a Japanese family of four, I asked her to give me a tutorial. It was an emblematic London experience. I had no tickets to buy, but I was already planning on snapping up bargains for box seats at the opera house next summer.
Rahul Jacob is a Mint columnist and a former travel, food and drinks editor for the Financial Times, London.