At Your Service

On one bustling day before the season, Yechiel notices two little girls standing by the counter, shyly clutching a credit card and a note with handwritten instructions from their mother. They’re here to pick up a pair of pants for their older brother, and they’re visibly nervous. Feifer leans toward them, lowering his voice like he’s making an introduction. “Wait a second,” he says, his eyes open wide, reading the name on the paper. “Are you the famous Schwartz girls I’ve heard all about, the ones that love to talk?”

The girls freeze, glancing at each other, unsure of what to make of this big man with the booming voice. Nervously, they quickly shake their heads. “Oh, you’re not!” he says. “Aha, that makes more sense!” They let out a giggle and head to their minivan with their brother’s neatly pressed pants and a very exciting anecdote to relay to their mother.

Another customer walks in and looks around hesitantly, unsure of where to start first. “Pink? Purple? Red? Blue? One of each? What can we get you?” Yechiel asks, easing him in.

I’ve come to pick up a new tie or two for Yom Tov. As I make my way over, there’s already a line forming around the affable manager, each customer hoping to avail themselves of Yechiel’s expertise — and entertainment. At least two of the three people awaiting his input are carrying seforim; one holds a Shloshim Yom Kodem Hachag while the other is looking inside a likut sefer. I hold a recorder.

Yechiel banters with the customers before me as he assists them. One wants help with his pants — the waist is too loose, he says. Feifer plays hardball — “Too loose takke or just not tight enough?”.  When the bochur held his ground, Feifer conceded, instructing him to try it on for his taylor. before conceding and instructing him to try it on for his tailor. The likut connoisseur was an easy customer — he needed to pay for his shoes. Finally, he looks at me.

“I need a tie,” I explain, and he directs me to the long table parallel to the register, assuring me he’ll be there shortly.

Back in yeshivah, rebbeim wore grey, bochurim wore designs, and then there were the Hermès Wearers, each silk blade intimating that its owner’s father was either very successful or very hopeful. Some Lakewood shops carry the orange box aristocracy.  Not  Hat Box. There are no French horses galloping across the ties in this store (and no horseshoes for that matter, either), just a long table running about the length opposite of the register it stands parallel to hosting rows upon rows of silks and stripes, patterns and paisleys.

There are the dress tie blues to be sure, and also some rich burgundies, crisp crimsons, and muted maroons. Browns appear in shades of chestnut, cocoa, and tan, and the grays move from charcoal to dove to silver, a spectrum wide enough to carry you from sheva brachos exuberance to dinner restraint. On a rack not far from the shelf, one solitary row of white ties hang solemnly, making it easy for a new chassan to choose his neckwear before proceeding to pick out the rest of his wardrobe. The ties aren’t necessarily high end, but never bargain-bin either — most are in the $30-range.

Yechiel, I’m noticing, doesn’t walk so much as weave, slipping between racks and customers, one hand free, the other usually holding something — a jacket hanger, a slip of paper, a tape measure. A middle-aged businessman from Toronto is holding a foldable Borsalino hat, an innovation the Hat Box bought to the market as an answer to the eternal question of how to keep the delicate headgear in good shape even while traveling. Feifer slips behind the counter, happy to ring him up. After enjoying some solid Jewish geography, the fellow reaches for his card. “How much?” he asks. “Two fifty,” Feifer answers, and the man nods. But Feifer isn’t about to let a transaction go without a good story. “Last week, a rebbi almost came in for a hat. When he heard it was two hundred fifty dollars, he almost lost it. I told him that it’s Shabbos money, so that goes straight on Hashem’s account! Remember Yosef Mokir Shabbos? He bought a fish on Erev Shabbos, and it was a big fish so he must have spent good money. Everyone thought he was crazy. And what happened? There was a diamond inside. The return was unbelievable!”

Everyone holds their breath, waiting for the punchline. “The rebbi didn’t like my lomdus,” says Yechiel. “You know what he took out of the story? That you don’t put all your money into a hat!” He shrugs. “L’maaseh, he had a good point, so I had to give him some sort of discount after that.”

A mother comes up to pay for her son’s bold pinstriped suit, and she tells Feifer she wasn’t sure they would have that style in Lakewood and was afraid they’d have to make the trek to Brooklyn for a suit. “Brooklyn?” Feifer whirls around. “You’d really go there for a suit? People come here from Brooklyn!” While he rings her up, he shares a Brooklyn-Lakewood jab. “I was in Brooklyn last week for a chasunah. Afterward, I wanted a sandwich, so I drove to Coney Island and went to the restaurant — but there was no parking. I circled the block, nothing. Another block, still nothing. Two, three blocks, forget it.” Even customers a few rows deep are quiet, waiting for the punchline. “You know what I did? I kept driving a few more blocks… until I ended up at Glatt Bite!” (Glatt Bite is a fast-food restaurant in Lakewood).

But Yechiel’s light demeanor isn’t just about making people laugh. In a store where the shade of a jacket or the slimness of a shirt may feel like a declaration of who one is, deliberations can get a bit intense, and some old-fashioned humor makes his advice land with far less weight and far more warmth.

In the suit section, after a solid half hour of deliberations about size and style and too many trips to the mirror to count, one customer decides the suit he’s trying on isn’t working. The midnight blue is a drop too dark (“I’m from out of town,” he says, almost by way of explanation), and the fabric doesn’t lay on him nicely. He finds another jacket, a navy blue that is a shade lighter than the one he’s been considering, but it’s a size 44 — a full two sizes smaller than what he needs.

“I like this style, but I don’t see it in a forty-eight. Do you have it?” he asks hopefully.

Feifer folds his arms and lets out a big chuckle.

“That’s like a boy telling the shadchan, ‘I like that girl, but not her nose. Can you get me the same girl, just with a different nose?’ Once you change the nose, it’s a different girl. Same thing with the suit. You change the size, it’s a different suit. You want this one? You take it the way it comes.”

The man laughs so heartily he nearly drops the hanger. Feifer claps him on the back and sends him into the dressing room for a final analysis of whether or not he should purchase The Suit.

Off the Rack

Yechiel Feifer grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, one of ten children and the son of a day school rebbi in the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland. Yechiel attended HAC, where they had all types of kids from different backgrounds, ranging from yeshivish to irreligious. That early exposure helps Yechiel relate to all sorts of customers, he says. His mesivta experience at the Telshe Yeshiva further honed the energetic bochur’s skills. “You always had to come up with some crazy ideas just to get around the hanhalah, which believe it or not helped me become somewhat of a salesman… just talking my way out of trouble,” he remembers with a rueful smile.

After marrying Brochie Wainkrantz of Chicago in 1997, Yechiel settled in Lakewood, where he enrolled in Beth Medrash Govoha. Three years in, he was looking to earn a few extra dollars during Pesach bein hazmanim when someone mentioned the Hat Box, a mens’ clothing store with branches in at least nine different locations and a relatively modest Lakewood presence at the time. Yechiel reached out to Yechezkel Golombeck z”l, the store’s managing partner, and asked if he needed help. He was invited for an interview and went down — quite literally. The store was located in basement of the now demolished Capitol Hotel of Lakewood, a relic of old Lakewood from the time that city was dotted with resorts. The racks were haphazardly set up in a dark and dingy portion of the basement, which also hosted a pizza shop of sorts and an ice cream “parlor” (it wasn’t much of a parlor). But Lakewood wasn’t what it is today and the rent was low, so Yechiel took the job for ten dollars an hour.

He went back to yeshivah after that part time gig, but a year later, when he was looking for full-time work, Golombeck called. He wanted the affable Feifer to manage the store for him. Feifer accepted and began his career out of the basement store, where he was the sole employee, responsible for managing the store from morning until night. “I always jokingly say I took the job while looking for work, but I just never found a better job so I’m still here,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Hey, make me an offer.”

Two decades and hundreds of employees later, he’s going strong. (Yechiel is the managing partner of the Lakewood store. The Elbogen family, which owns HatBox, are, according to Yechiel, “the most wonderful people to work for!”) Managing a store in a city that has become synonymous with growth also means that Yechiel isn’t the sole employee anymore. Over the years, Yechiel has hired over 200 people, something he takes satisfaction in. “Watching young boys grow, marry, and have families of their own iis one of the most rewarding parts of the job,” he says. “I hope I influenced them to be better Yidden and menschen.” More than once a parent of an employee of Yechiel have told him he can’t imagine what a positive influence he’s had on their son’s life.  “I think it’s amazing to be able to touch people like that,” he says.

In Stitches

Yechiel joins me, and we make our way through the ties.

“I need one that can pair well with navy, but won’t look off with black either,” I say.

He immediately pulls out a dark blue with small bursts of burgundy, dignified but also with some personality. It’s nice, but….

“Is it too dull?”

Yechiel smiles. “When someone tells me they want help with their ties, and I offer one and see they’re not going for it, then they don’t need my help. They just want me to agree to their taste.”

He picks up another one, a medium blue with a bold pattern. I put it back. Yechiel laughs. He slips another tie from the rack, a muted maroon, and holds it up for a second, letting it dangle from his hand before slipping it around my neck. And then, as if the ties themselves demanded a story, Yechiel leans in and launches into a riff, a little psychology of silk.

“Let’s say you meet a guy, and he’s wearing a nice tie, so you compliment him and he tells you, ‘Look at this tie. It was seventeen hundred dollars. That’s what I paid. Seventeen hundred!’ ” — Yechiel shakes his head, already anticipating my reaction. “What are you going to say when you walk away? You’re going to say, ‘That guy is a liar. No one pays that kind of money for a tie. He’s bluffing. A hundred thousand he makes, maybe, but seventeen hundred on that? Come on.’ ”

He pauses, letting the disbelief hang. Then Yechiel pivots, and the whole picture flips.

“But let’s say it’s the same man, and this time he’s wearing a tie so ugly, so hideous, so mind-burningly offensive that you can’t even look straight at it. And he tells you, ‘This one was seventeen hundred.’ Now what do you say? You say, of course. Of course it cost him that much. Because who else in their right mind would put it on? There has to be something you’re not getting about that tie, something he sees that you don’t.”

And so it continues, the banter and laughter all a part of cultivating the Hat Box shopping experience.

Over at the shoes section, a mother walks in with her son who is in desperate need of new Shabbos shoes. As Yechiel sits down to measure him, it’s clear the boy would rather be anywhere else, and once again, Yechiel has the right story to make everyone comfortable. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of bills, and the boy and his mother gasp. There’s a lot of money in that wad. Yechiel laughs.

“This morning, a meshulach came up to me in shul. His shoes were torn and were completely falling apart. I called him over. ‘Reb Yid, you can’t walk around with shoes like that, come here.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out this fat roll. His eyes went wide and he thought I was giving him hundreds. I snapped off the rubber band and handed it to him. “Here,” I said, “take this rubber band and tie up your shoes!’ ”

The story wins the boy over, and the rest of the purchase continues smoothly.

When I ask Yechiel how he manages that delicate balance of giving each customer the time and space they need to make a decision yet knowing when the moment has come to push them toward one, he’s happy to explain. “I’ll show you how I do it,” he says, launching into a full dummies tutorial in, “How to Get Men to Buy Suits.”

He waves over a customer who is here for a sharp, jet-black double-breasted suit. “Come here,” he says. “Stand right here. We’ll put this on you.”

He steps behind the man, jacket draped across his arms. One sleeve, then the other, the fabric sliding smoothly into place. His hand moves with it, sliding low across the man’s back, pressing just enough to be felt but not noticed. The shoulders turn, a small pivot, the angle shifting toward the row of dressing rooms located in the back of the store without a word. “You see?” Feifer says, his hand still guiding. “I tell him, ‘Why don’t you go try it on?’ Meanwhile” —Yechiel looks at me, illustrating, “my hand is here. He doesn’t realize it, but already he’s walking to the fitting room. It’s all subconscious and he thinks it’s his idea, but I’ve moved him.”

The man chuckles, shrugging deeper into the jacket, and Feifer releases him, spinning away toward the pillars that line the floor. His hand raps one firmly.

“Every one of these,” he says, pointing to the many pillars them located around the store, “has a mirror. Look” — he revolves around the store — “Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. You turn — mirror. You walk — mirror. Everywhere you look, mirror.”

He strides quickly toward the fitting rooms, pushing open one curtain with a flourish. “But in here? Nothing. There is no mirror. This wall outside the dressing room? Nothing. Turn around? Again nothing. We don’t have any mirrors either inside or right next to the dressing room.”

“Here is the secret,” he says. “The customer puts on the suit in the changing room, but he can’t see himself. So he has to come out of the room, but there’s still no mirror. So he walks. Two steps, five steps, ten steps. Now he’s walking in the suit, living in it already. By the time he finds a mirror, he’s across the floor. At that point, he’s settled. He’s ready.”

He isn’t finished. “But if there’s a mirror in here?” He taps the wall. “The first thing he sees is his stomach. He sighs. He pulls it off. ‘Forget it, I’ll get a suit another time.’” Yechiel jabs his finger toward the space outside. “If the first mirror is right here? Same thing. He looks, he frowns, he’s gone.”

He lets the moment hang. Then the grin spreads across his face, the cadence shifting to a familiar rhythm.

“You know why the girls do eighty percent of the dumping in shidduchim?” His eyes flick from one face to the next, pulling everyone into the question. “Because they’re sitting at home. They’re in their houses, putting on makeup, eating a popsicle. The guy? He has to rent a car. He has to put on his suit, drive across town, knock on the door. By the time he gets there, he’s already thinking, I hope this is the one. I don’t want to keep doing this. ”

He pauses, then points to the jacket still hanging on the customer’s shoulders. “Same thing with a suit. You make the guy walk in it, feel it. By the time he’s crossed the floor, he doesn’t want to start again. He says, ‘Forget it. Just ring it up already.’ ”

An Educated Consumer

Yechiel Feifer has spent years on the floor of the Hat Box, long enough to watch entire shopping patterns shift. He has the perspective of someone who’s seen generations pass through the racks and counters.

“We used to place orders differently,” he says, shaking his head. “Back then, I’d order pants just by size. I’d call the supplier and say, ‘I need black and navy pants in size 30, 32, 34, 36, 38, 40, 42, 44.’ That was it. Simple. Today? I can’t just order black pants. I have to say black slim, black extra slim, black regular, black large. Every product has multiple SKUs [stock keeping unit, a retailer’s alphanumeric code]. Every detail matters. Years ago, if someone needed a 30 and a half, they just took a 30. Nobody complained. Today? If a guy wants a 29.5, he won’t take a 29. That half inch — he’ll send it back. It’s become a very exact science, and that makes it harder to help people. You do your best, but if it’s not perfect, they won’t settle.”

He leans back for a moment, letting the comparison hang in the air.

“This whole change — it’s really the last ten years. And it’s across the board. Rebbeim will ask me to taper pants faster than a businessman will. Why? Because they’re around bochurim all day. Being in the fray makes them pick up the same preferences.”

But the changes aren’t only in fits and lengths. Feifer comments on the personalities behind the purchases.

“Bochurim used to be much harder to deal with as people, but much easier as customers,” he explains. “Twenty years ago, they had stronger personalities. They’d fight with you, they’d argue. But whatever size you gave them, they took it. You told them this was their suit, they said fine. Today? It’s flipped. The bochurim are easy as people — I can spiel with them, they’re respectful, light. But as customers, they’re exacting.”

He also notes the difference in how his store looks at the end of the day. Years ago, even during the busiest seasons, things stayed relatively neat, he comments, whereas today, the racks get turned upside down daily. But from the store’s perspective they’d rather reshelve the merchandise themselves anyway. Spotting a bochur cramming the dozens of jackets he tried on back on a shelf, Yechiel stops him mid-motion. “You know what’s worse than a customer who doesn’t clean up?” he asks. The bochur shrugs. Yechiel doesn’t miss a beat. “A customer who does! Because he never knows where anything belongs. Better to leave it — we’ll fix it right.” The bochur smiles, places the jackets onto a nearby chair, and heads to the register.

I speculate that Yechiel’s humor is a central part of the shopping experience for the customers, and he lets me in a secret.

“A lot of the humor that I display is just a way for me to entertain myself so that I don’t lose my mind. I play different roles. Some days I try to be a clown, other days I act more serious. I like to mix it up so that I don’t fall into a rut and burn out. It’s potluck which Yechiel Feifer you get on any day.”

I wonder how Yechiel navigates tense generational shifts in those delicate situations where a salesperson finds himself unwittingly having to referee between a parent who wants something more traditional and a son angling for something with a bit more flair.

“The truth is, you quietly side with the kid,” he says matter-of-factly. “Don’t make a scene, but if you’re asked, you say, ‘This is what people are wearing, this is normal.’ Because in the end, the kid is going to win. Always. The parent can say, ‘Put this on,’ but the kid will make a fuss until he gets what he wants. And if the parent doesn’t give in here, they’ll walk out and buy it somewhere else. Either way, the kid wins.”

Working in a store like the Hat Box means that peak season in the business coincides with peak season on the home front, and he agrees that it’s definitely a challenge. Fortunately, Yechiel says, his wife understands that he can’t be around before Yom Tov because of how busy he is in the store, and his children enjoy the public recognition of a father they call “the most famous person in Lakewood.”

“Wherever I go when I’m out with them, people are always coming over and thanking me for their positive experience at the store. That’s something that I take a lot of pride in,” he says.

Catch him in a serious moment, and Yechiel shares his deep satisfaction with what he does.

“From the beginning of the day till the end, I’m insulated from the outside world. I speak pretty much exclusively with rabbanim and roshei yeshivah, yeshivah bochurim, kollel yungeleit, and frum Yidden. “I thank the Ribbono shel Olam every day for putting me in this position. I live in the best city, service the best people, work with the finest. What more could a person ask for?”

He keeps the stories going as he slips one tie after another into my hands, five all together. In the end, I decide on a midnight blue speckled with pale blossoms, a red geometric, and a teal starburst. We walk to the counter and even before I can say “thank you,” Yechiel is behind a cloud of vapor, steaming a customer’s Shabbos hat — and, of course, reveling in sharing a relevant quip.

In the Loop: Shopping Tips from the Expert

Don’t miss the bigger picture.

When you’re trying on a hat, don’t look at the hat in the mirror — look at yourself in the mirror. If you like what you see, it means the hat is doing its job, but if you focus on the hat, you may like how it looks but miss the fact that you don’t actually look good in that particular brim style or crown size. This applies to anything you’re trying on; look at yourself, and make sure you look good in that suit. Just because everyone is wearing double breasted, it doesn’t mean it fits your physique, and just because everyone’s wearing tight pants, it doesn’t mean you can pull it off.

Quality does not mean durability.

The most durable pair of pants you can buy is a $20 pair of jeans, whereas a $1,000 pair of Gucci shoes can’t be worn on a hike, despite the hefty price tag. Polyester, which is stronger than wool, is significantly cheaper. A quality article of clothing means it’s made of a finer fabric, looks better, or offers a more comfort; it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to last longer.

Our terms of use are not their terms of use.

Yeshivah clientele wear formal dress clothing in all weather and seasons, whereas manufacturer expect dress clothing to be worn for the occasional meeting or formal get-together. When you buy a pair of shoes and wear them Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, after six months you’ve gotten what the manufacturer thinks is three years’ worth of use!

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1081)