Years ago, I was taking semi-regular waitering shifts at a flash-in-the-pan brasserie in Vancouver.  There was this one memorable customer, Mr.  E., who bore a striking resemblance to the old Hollywood actor Omar Sharif.  He would dine there once or twice a week, always taking the same booth near the window, and invariably ordering an old-fashioned cocktail, a Caesar salad, and the nightly special: sauteed lamb chops, filet mignon,  lobster ravioli, or whatever.

Sometimes he would show up on his own, but would occasionally arrive with one or two female companions or a small group of friends.  Whenever he was in attendance, and the restaurant’s joint owners were also on the premises (which was quite often), one or both of them would invariably visit him at his table, and would frequently comp his and his guests’ appetizers, desserts, or even a nice bottle of wine.  This was quite astounding, as both the owners were legendarily tight-fisted (they also happened to be notorious, coke-addled lechers, which is a whole other story that shall remain untold, at least by me).

In any case, Mr. E. has stuck in my mind through the years for several reasons.  For one thing, he was an excellent patron—always respectful and correct, and a generous tipper.  For another, there was ongoing speculation amongst the staff about his business relationship with our employers, and the possible reasons they were so deferential to him.  (Let’s just say there had been a lot of—admittedly unsubstantiated—gossip about the establishment’s role in laundering money on behalf of certain not-so-above-board business organizations.) Was this well-spoken, well-mannered man, who sometimes showed up with a local politician or actor in tow, an actual gangster?  Nobody knew for sure, but we definitely speculated.

The biggest reason he stays in my mind, though, is due not to his underworld vibes, but to his singular sartorial flare.  The man was, by far, the most natty dresser I had ever come across.  Always wearing an impeccable suit that seemed to whisper Milano or Savile Row.  Always with a crisp shirt, a silk tie, a fresh white rose or bright carnation in the buttonhole.  Pure style and class, it seemed to me.

There are certain times in your life when people or events make a big impression on you.  For me, Mr. E. and his timelessly classic wardrobe were amongst them.  Suddenly, I wanted to get just a little bit of that flair, that je ne sais quoi, for myself.  Up to that point, the most prized articles of apparel I had invested in were a beat-up leather jacket from the Goodwill store and a Talking Heads t-shirt.  But now, I set aside actual money that could have been spent on beer, dope, books, records, or possibly even savings, and put it toward buying my first actual suit.  For years, I only had one.  But it was a sharp one, and it fit me well.  The colour of tobacco, with pale blue pinstripes.  I even invested in ties and pocket squares the colours of pistachios, plums, and summer clouds.  I was still clumsy, immature, and broke, but I felt like a new man.  A man of the world.  Even though I still accessorized my new threads with sneakers and scuffed, second hand boots.

I left that waitering gig after a few weeks.  Perhaps the mystery patron was a dangerous criminal.  Or maybe he was just benign and gentlemanly. I suppose I will never know the truth about Mr. E., and I probably don’t want to.  But I think it was this newfound confidence that eventually lifted me up enough to go back to school and finally (mostly) quit taking crappy jobs in unsavory workplaces.  At any rate, it gave me a sense of what Shakespeare meant when he said “clothes make the man.”