Sure it's a big suit to fill, but I'm just the man for the job

M.E. Sprengelmeyer, Rocky Mountain News

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Please permit me to be charitable with myself. I'm larger than I should be and not what one would call a snappy dresser.

If you know me, stop laughing.

When the Rocky Mountain News dispatched me to the Washington bureau in late 2000, a horrified editor decided that I should get a small clothing allowance to make myself a bit more presentable.

Sure thing, boss.

I went to a Men's Warehouse and picked up a new blazer. I got two more at secondhand stores. I bought some pants from Old Navy and a whole bunch of button-down shirts from Target. The big score came from a sidewalk stand on K Street: eight neckties for 20 bucks.

Most famously, I bought nine pairs of black-soled, all-canvas Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers - my cheap, vegetarian substitute for leather wingtips.

I might have zero fashion sense, but my sense of irony is unsurpassed.

Therefore, I took great interest in a fascinating saga that first appeared about a year ago in a Washington Post column by Amy Argetsinger and Roxanne Roberts.

It was billed as the "tragedy" of some unfortunate fellow's ill-fitting wardrobe: a story close to my heart - and gut.

Once upon a time, there was a Washington fat cat. Not only was he generously proportioned, but his wallet was quite thick as well.

When you're not cut like a mannequin, it's tricky getting off-the-rack clothes to fit. Most of us suffer in silence - or at Kmart. But if you're rich, there's hope.

And his name is Eza Sabatini.

He's the master tailor behind folks like Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, Muhammad Ali, Oliver North and even Henry "The Fonz" Winkler.

His Web site, www.sabatinioflondon.com, even includes a testimonial from Ollie North: "Sabatini will make you the best executive suit offered anywhere."

Sabatini was born a tailor. His family has been making the world look good since 1846 - before the dawn of polyester. He brought Sabatini of London Custom Clothier to Washington, D.C., in 1973.

Back then, I was still in kindergarten wearing Garanimals (cartoon-coded, color-coordinated kids clothes).

Flash forward to a few years ago.

As the Washington fat cat's wallet grew thicker, he sought out the great Sabatini and asked him to make a whole closetful of suits designed to his exact proportions.

These were beautiful suits: hand- stitched, pinstriped, suitable for rubbing elbows in the halls of power.

Sadly, our rich guy learned a lesson that other yo-yos like me know too well.

When you're built like a 2-liter bottle of soda, you can't get locked into one custom-tailored waist size. Like that soda bottle, you expand when it's cold outside and contract when the weather's warmer.

If you're shaken by tough times, your waistline simply explodes.

For a time, our millionaire hit a hot streak, so the pounds were just flying off him. He told Sabatini the joyous dilemma. He lost about 40 pounds. The fat suits were flopping off his downsized frame. Could the great Sabatini cut them down to size?

This was an insult, of course, for these were not Sears suits. These were Sabatini of London suits. Would you trim the Mona Lisa to fit into a nicer frame?

So, according to The Washington Post, the great Sabatini offered a deal. He'd buy back the fat suits for $2,000 and also give our millionaire a $3,000 discount on three custom-made skinny suits.

The fat suits went back to the tailor.

But trouble was ahead. The feds were bugging our millionaire. The press went on stakeout. He was being shaken by scandal.

The millionaire started gaining weight and was testing the limits of his skinnier clothes. I've been there. Finally, I can relate to a millionaire.

With congressional hearings and court appearances ahead, again he turned to Sabatini to save him. A secretary for our millionaire called and suggested that the tailor send back the fat suits.

Everybody knew the paparazzi would be outside the courthouse. He had to look good.

Sure thing, Sabatini told the secretary. But what about those discounts he'd given for the trade-in? Now, $2,000 isn't much money to a millionaire, but it's plenty to a tailor - even a master tailor.

The secretary said the millionaire was good for it. But when it came time to pay, he was a little short.

That was too bad, considering that the rich guy, lobbyist Jack Abramoff, was being accused of bilking American Indian tribes out of millions of dollars.

So the fat suits went back to the tailor. And besides all his other problems, Abramoff got into trouble with the fashion police for going in and out of courtrooms wearing ill-fitting suits - definitely not Sabatini creations.

Fast forward again to two weeks ago.

The White House social office called to invite me to a holiday reception. Who, me? Right on.

I was all set to wear my sad approximation of "business attire." Then I invited a friend to join me. Within five minutes, she was talking about the new dress she planned to buy for the occasion.

Uh-oh. She couldn't be seen with a slob like me.

I had to find a suit - and fast. Holy Sabatini, I panicked.

What drew me to the saga in the first place was that The Washington Post had the great compassion to publish big Jack's exact suit measurements. Please have pity and don't look them up, but his proportions were my proportions.

I found Sabatini at the impressive James Clothiers boutique at Tysons Galleria in McLean, Va. He still had those suits and the expense that came with them.

Sabatini beamed as I walked through the door. He said I was built just like big Jack. A quick fitting confirmed it.

I bought two double-breasted suits in different shades of pinstripes and a spiffy blue blazer.

On the lining of one jacket, embroidered in bright gold script, is the name "Jack Abramoff."

Getting ready for the big event, I imagined folks joking about the stuffed suit coming back to the White House. If he heard about it, maybe even the president would wonder if I were making some inappropriate statement. I wasn't.

Label it how you want, but labels have never mattered to me.

I decided that if anyone asked, "Who are you wearing?" I'd tell them.

This isn't a Jack Abramoff suit. It's not a Sabatini suit. This is my suit - the first suit I've ever owned. And doggone it, for the moment, it fits.