A Frenchly Honest review, as told by MaisOui Le Frenchy…read more
One star. I want to be precise about what that star represents. It is not for the store, which is beautiful. It is not for the merchandise, which speaks for itself. It is not for the experience, which I shall describe momentarily. It is for the man at the door -- the one who greeted me as I entered the Maison on Place Vendôme. He smiled. He acknowledged my existence. He discharged his post with the grace one associates with a house of this standing. And then, beyond that threshold, I ceased to exist.
I walked through the Maison. I browsed. I lingered at items with the unhurried curiosity of someone who has both the time and, potentially, the inclination to spend. Staff were present -- visible, standing, breathing the same rarefied Vendôme air -- and yet not one approached. Not one made eye contact with intent. Not one asked whether I required assistance, had a question, or was perhaps looking for something in particular. I moved through the space like a ghost who had not yet been informed of his own irrelevance.
I am a man who has admired Louis Vuitton for a long time. Purchased from Louis Vuitton. Returned to Louis Vuitton. There was loyalty there -- the kind built over years and transactions that add up to something resembling a relationship. But as any Frenchman will tell you, a relationship neglected is a relationship lost. When one party stops making the effort, the other party eventually stops returning.
I have, since this visit, found my way to a Christian Dior boutique -- specifically, the one at Galeries Lafayette Haussmann. There, a woman named Bleuenne, who appeared to be managing the floor, greeted me without hesitation, asked if she could help, smiled as though she meant it, and treated me as though my presence in her store was not merely tolerated but genuinely welcomed. I left. I came back to get her name. She was still doing it.
I share this not to wound, but to illuminate. Place Vendôme is one of the most storied addresses in the world. The Maison that bears your name upon it deserves a floor that reflects that address -- not one where a guest can wander unacknowledged until they quietly decide that perhaps their loyalty belongs somewhere else.
You know, they say you never truly appreciate what you have until it is gone. Louis Vuitton, it seems, is willing to test that theory -- and judging by the floor I walked through, I suspect I am not the only one being tested. And as any man who has ever been left by a woman he adored will tell you -- the heart, when sufficiently ignored, does not wait forever. It finds new company. It moves on. It discovers, quite unexpectedly, that someone else has been paying attention all along. Her name, in this particular story, is Dior. And she was delightful.
