The Tailors of Foundry Lane

The venerable art of tailoring is nearing extinction. In Durban’s historic Foundry Lane, meet the last of a dying breed.

NEW York Tailors. We’re Original, proclaims the elegant calligraphy on the gold-lettered sign outside No. 19 Foundry Lane. The motley wares of vendors - spread on sheets of plastic down the length of the historic corridor linking Smith and West Street - do nothing to detract from the elegance of the façade of this legendary business.

A striped awning shades a window where bolts of fine cloth unfurl around a Savile Row-style dinner jacket, displaying discreet labels for ‘George Harrison Millionaires Cashmere,’ and ‘Dormeuil, The World’s Best Cloths.’

Two bright, bi-coloured carnations, placed at foot level in the corners of the marbled doorway, add a traditional Gujarati welcoming touch.

Inside the shop, business is brisk. Master tailor and owner, Mr. Tribhovan Parbhoo (T.P.) Daya, is measuring a young boy for his first formal suit. The walls wink with glass-covered accolades sent by satisfied customers from far-flung places. Mr. James L. McAlfie, Esq., of Ballymoney, Northern Ireland, writes: Although much excellent value can be obtained these days in off-the-peg suits, yet I believe there is nothing like a well made tailored suit to give one that extra degree of confidence in the knowledge that what one is wearing is just right.

Within minutes of meeting Mr. Daya, you are a lifelong convert to the hand-stitched buttonhole and the double french cuff. Off the peg will forever seem a poor compromise.

Seated on a tiny gilt salon chair, I begin to discover the secrets that have had dignitaries, celebrities and wannabes beating a path to Mr. Daya’s door since he opened his current premises in 1964.     

T.P. Daya is the last in an unbroken line of tailors going back to the eighteenth century. His family practiced their art in a small village near Surat, India, renowned for the fine workmanship of its tailors. Reminiscent of Dickensian apprenticeships, Mr. Daya’s began as a child. “My family had fallen into hardship after the depression, and I was living with relatives on a farm outside Pretoria,” he explains. “After school one day, my grandfather pressed a thimble into my hands. Thereafter I practiced every afternoon, learning tailoring on little scraps of leftover fabric.”

Dedication is this elegant gentleman’s middle name. He would go to any lengths to ensure customer satisfaction. A frantic phone call from a Ridge Road matron at shop closing time. Her son’s changed the shoes he’s going to wear to the Matric Ball that evening, and now the trousers are too long. Within the hour Mr. Daya has collected the offending trousers, and returned them, made-to-measure. At Hollywood Tailors the tiniest stitch is supervised by the proprietor, who works side-by-side with his team.

“Even apprentices are impossible to find now,” he sighs. “I would love to do more, but the market for hand-tailored suits has shrunk, and dress codes have changed so much. Take the butterfly arrow on a hand-tailored women’s skirt thirty years ago. Who appreciates it now?”

Mr. Daya reminisces about the heyday of the hand-tailored, when the Brickhill/Burke stage team would hire him to costume entire productions at Durban’s Alhambra Theatre or the old Collosseum in Johannesburg.

Returning to the present, he whips off his own immaculate jacket with a theatrical flourish. “How old do you think this suit is?” he questions. “Twenty years. A good suit should last at least that long, if you keep a steady weight.” Using local cloth, a handmade suit will set you back around R3000. Imported fabrics mean a bill closer to R10 000. What a way to go, though.

The tailor whips a newly finished jacket off an antique tailor’s dummy. It’s a beautiful clone of the work of an international men’s couturier, designed for a trendy young client’s ‘Big Night.’ Natty contrast stitching trims the pockets and lapels, and the lining is the softest, hand-finished satin. “No dry-cleaning, please. It affects the pile of the cloth,” instructs the master. “Hang up to air after wearing, to prevent mildew, freshen outdoors on a warm day once a month, and use chemical cleaners for spot removal.”

Handmade suits might increasingly be the preserve of the well to do, but T.P Daya originals have adorned heroes and paupers, too. One of the tailor’s most treasured mementos is a moving thank-you letter from Gail Johnson, adoptive mother of little Nkosi, whose battle against AIDS affected so many. “I followed Nkosi’s story in the news for a long time,” says Mr. Daya. “When he spoke at the ICC in Durban his courage impressed me. But his suit wasn’t right. ” When he died, brave little Nkosi was laid to rest in a lovingly hand-tailored T.P. Daya ensemble.

Douglas Ndlovhu, a pauper who was gunned down in Musgrave Rd. for allegedly stealing a loaf of bread, was also a recipient of Mr. Daya’s generosity. “We all deserve some dignity,” says Mr. Daya simply. “I wasn’t raised with a golden spoon. I know what hardship is like.”

While Mr. Daya’s business thrives, a Foundry Lane neighbour, Mr. Ahmed Omar, of Soli Omar Tailors, found that the growing competition from chain stores selling off-the-peg suits meant that it was no longer viable for him to continue making one-off originals.

Mr. Omar inherited the business from his own father, Soli, and has operated from the same premises for forty years. Originally, the family ran a dry goods business, but were forced to diversify when post-war bans on imports closed them down. Ahmed Omar, and son, Mohamed, make their living selling factory made menswear, and doing alterations. “We do still make the odd pair of trousers or waistcoat, but that is rare now,” says Mohamed. “Even alterations are mostly for older men who still wear suits.” The regret the Omar’s feel at witnessing the end of an era is evident. “In my father’s day, he was so busy, he’d open at 7am and only close after dark,” says Omar senior. “December suit orders had to be placed months in advance.” 

Despite changing consumer trends, businesses like the Omar’s have developed tenacious customer loyalty through years of service excellence. The small shop is constantly crammed, and many customers date back twenty years or more.

Another customer sucks in his stomach as Mohamed measures his waistline. “I blew up a bit,” he says apologetically, before regaling us with the story of how his zip burst in the middle of a wedding reception.  It will be a sad day when Soli Omar’s disappears from the local landscape, but that day might not be far off. Mohamed’s wife is expecting their first child, but he is skeptical about the chances of another Omar taking up the reins. “There are so many break-ins in this area now,” he says. “At night the street looks like a fortress. Every store has solid metal shutters. Keep the business in the family? I don’t know. My brother’s gone into I.T, and I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

While you still can, take a stroll down Foundry Lane. Perhaps you’ll be in time to catch the tail end of an age of elegance.