Dressing the Part | Wherelse 005
On taking yourself out to the cabaret, signature scents, vintage suits, and more from Wherelse: the Living Guide to Living Good
In This Issue:
📝 Editor’s Note: “The Cabaret Crasher”
👃 Notes on Signature Scents
🐀 Feature: The Rat King
📍 Next Week in Wherelse
The Cabaret Crasher
I’ve been out until after 3am for the last three nights in a row, and yet I somehow still feel qualified to write a column on what I can only bundle up and proclaim to be “self care”. I said I would, and I am. Paris is one of those cities that lends itself nicely to leisure, and I am a certified lazybones who goes absolutely ga-ga for la dolce vita. This week, I’ve got solo dinner stories, a note on the importance of scents, and a short essay about Ammar, my vintage menswear dealer in the 17th arrondissement.
It’s 11pm on a Saturday night and I’m pressed up against the mirrored wall in a red velvet booth at Maxim’s. Dinner tonight is salade de homard entier and filet de boeuf; saignant. We’re celebrating — but what we’re celebrating is a story for another week. Our evening’s entertainment, and the only reason I’m lucky enough to have my little candlelit table for one, is a last minute invitation from a Romanian cabaret singer I’d been introduced to through mutual friends earlier in the week.
I often catch myself vacillating between feeling utterly at peace and ever-so-slightly awkward when I’m at a Fancy Restaurant by myself— like there’s a threshold that can be crossed when the popularity of a place gets booked up full every night with tables of dates and families and women taking turns taking videos with flash on (as I would experience) make dinner more of a spectacle for themselves than it really needs to be, especially when the dinner provides evening entertainment.
After I sopped up the last few puddles of sauce au poivre from my plate, the singer and I adjourned to the fumoir on the third floor of the cavernous and expansive multi-story establishment. Her show had concluded with a pointed, totally personal feeling rendition of “Hit the Road, Jack” that included more than a couple nods and points towards my table. Which I liked.
We shared stories about our lives, growing up where we did and ending up where we have, talking about this and that and everything in between. I lamented the obnoxious women who had been seated next to me, with their iPhone flashes on near-strobe levels, and asked her — I was curious — what the most egregious things she’d seen during her now two-plus-year Saturday night tenure had been.
“Once, a woman stood up in the middle of her dinner and rushed the stage! She jumped up and grabbed the microphone. She didn’t sing or say anything, only danced and pantomimed, lip synching while her friend recorded a video. We had to play it off and pretend to laugh and twirl her like we were dancing with her in an attempt to pry the microphone from her hands while she was escorted off the stage.”
I was gobsmacked — we laughed about it, shaking our heads at the sheer audacity of the woman. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized what made it so shocking — it wasn’t really the egregious, embarrassing, hilarious breach of etiquette; tourists can sometimes treat this city like Disneyland. What got me was the loud, unfiltered impulse. Her certainty that whatever she was feeling in that moment was worth breaking the scene for sorta spoke to me, in a totally shameful and *but, like, I’d never* way.
Paris is full of little interruptions: someone deciding, mid-dinner, to climb onstage and become the main character of their own cabaret act, even if just for thirty seconds. Maybe that’s why I keep saying yes to these nights — to witness those unscripted flashes of brilliance and chaos. The real draw of a great city is watching people take up space in a way that feels unmistakably theirs, whether it’s graceful or gauche. Sometimes self-care looks like a bath and an early bedtime. And sometimes it’s being the lone diner in a red velvet booth, eating lobster and steak, watching a relative-stranger-turned-new-friend belt jazz standards directly at you, and knowing that — for tonight — that’s exactly where you’re meant to be.
Hope you like this new format and this week’s letter.
— Jackson
Notes on Signature Scents
Transcribed from my Yellow Notebook
The nose has a funny way of being the closest thing we all have to a time machine. I’m not a professional astrologer by any means, but I do feel uniquely qualified by virtue of certain star placements of mine to wax poetic about the benefits of having a signature scent — and more so about the importance of smells in general to me in my tactile, sensory, pleasure-and-beauty seeking life. I’ve been a loyalist to Le Labo’s Baie 19 for years, because it comes in trendy packaging and smells like hot asphalt after it rains. More recently, I fell in love with DS + DURGA’s Mississippi Medicine, and bought a bottle in New York right before leaving for Paris at the beginning of this year. It will always remind me of my life at that time — perfumes have the strangest ability to transport me to a certain time, mood, place — even the music I would listen to at that time jumps out.
Recently, I’ve come to terms with a few truths. Primarily, that large spritzer flacons of perfume are good at taking up space in my dopp kit. Also, that I get red and irritated from the alcohol in the sprays — and that my particular skin type is such that I flush out scents quite quickly. Like I’m rejecting anything that tries to linger. I go through expensive bottles in less than half the time it’d take anyone else. So recently, I’ve fully transitioned (with great ceremony) to an entirely oil based olfactory routine.
There’s a romantic and even religious feeling about anointing oneself before going out for the day. Scent is personal — it’s not for anyone but the person wearing it. I think I’ve finally found a blend of oils that feel like me in the way I can say with 99.9% certainty that no one else in the entire world has the exact same combination. To me, that’s cooler than anything I’d buy in a bottle with a shmancy label.
My routine currently consists of three oils, applied in a 1:1:2 ratio. My bases are equal dottings of a strong France Incense (frankincense??) and Oud oils, both acquired from the Egyptian Spice Bazaar in Istanbul. Together, they smell just like the Crew brand pomade that my dad would put in his hair when I was a kid. That’s then layered with an incensed— but distinctly fresher— top layer from a vial labeled with no notes or names, only a graphic depiction of Jesus Christ and nothing else on it. I got it at the coptic church in Alexandria. It was the only such vial they had in their gift shop. I never did find out what it was or where it came from.
Maybe that’s the magic of a signature scent. The unique combination that makes us us isn’t something you can bottle under fluorescent lights or slip into a duty-free bag. We’re built from our experiences, and that should be reflected in how we present ourselves to the world.
We're built from spice bazaars, from egyptian churches, and from the memory of the feeling of excitement -- when dad put that stuff in his hair, it meant that we were probably doing something fun together that night. Now I get to carry that same feeling of childhood excitement -- literally bottled up and carried with me -- everywhere I go.
That's not something that can be recreated. That's proof that I exist, and that my experiences are all valid— and that it all means something.
Feature: The Rat King
“Fouillez, bande des rats!”
“Go on — dig, rats!”
Lexicon:
Liseur: Literally, reader. Colloquially, Someone who only cares about a brand. From “liseur d’etiquettes”
Sale rat: Literally, dirty rat. Colloquially, a term of endearment.
Cuit: Literally, cooked. Colloquially, lookin’ good. There’s nothing left to do but dig in.
Defoncer: Literally, to fuck someone or something up. Colloquially, the same.
Niveau: Literally, a level (of something). Colloquially, whether or not you deserve to own a certain piece of clothing.
The average clothes-shopping experience in Paris, or anywhere else in the world by my limited research, is such that one walks into a store and is greeted by a cheerful sales representative who, having no reason to act otherwise, will tell you how great you look in that, and if it’s a little small, that’s fine, they’ll go check in the back and find it in your size. It’s a jovial, shallow interaction that’s designed to move product, even when nobody’s working on commission. When you walk into Le Bon Marché, you aren’t about to be called a sale rat by your salesperson.
Normally, if you see something you like, there’s no reason that you wouldn’t be allowed to buy it — but this isn’t always so at Ammar’s.
“Le 65”, as it’s known in some circles I’ve become privy to as of late, has become a sort of dressing room for me. If I’m ever in the need, I can stop in, chat shit with some of the guys who pop in and out, and ask Ammar, the owner, what’s good. He’ll disappear for a second and always pop up with a few things for me — like he can take one look at you, do a full body-scan, and retroactively analyze his backlogs and archives; piles of excruciatingly sourced vintage clothes for things that don’t just fit you, but always look great. I’ll come in wearing one outfit and leave in something completely different. That’s just how it goes.
The shop itself sits discretely at the end of rue Nollet in the 17th. It’s one of those places you could walk past a hundred times and never step inside — unless, like me, you’ve been told it’s where a small subset of those who are really in the know in Paris come to get dressed. I first discovered Ammar’s by accident, through a 20 year old mutual friend. He’d off handedly mentioned he dug my style and suggested I should go check the 65 out — three months later, I’d effectively swapped out every piece in my wardrobe for something new. Each piece more distinctly “plouc-chic” than the last.
The door is always propped open, even when it’s chilly outside. Overflow suits spill onto the sidewalk. Inside, clothes are loosely organized by heft: fur coats, topcoats, trenches, bombers, tweed jackets, to other assorted blazers, working around the room. On the floor — literally — are enormous cardboard boxes. Some are filled with ties. Some, with shirts. One has pants. One day, there may be no shirts. Next week, all the ties are gone. You never know what you’re going to find — and that’s part of the thrill. Throughout any given afternoon, men of all ages filter in and out like it’s a revolving door for the city’s best-kept secret. Today, I’m trying on a fur coat even though it’s 72º out; Bartosz is slipping into a crushed velvet blazer. Antoine, a regular customer who can’t be older than 20, is teaching someone new how to tie a four in hand. Later, Ammar chews out Antoine for offhandedly quoting a speculative price to a client. The prices here are all negotiable, and nothing is marked. No tags.
To Ammar, everyone is a rat, affectionately. When you walk in, you’re a sale rat. Showing up in a group, y’all a bande des rats. The wholly unfavorable Google reviews reflect that this is not an average shopping experience — somewhere between personal stylist and thrift store — and it’s certainly not for the faint of heart. If you don’t get le second degré, then vaut mieux eviter. Ammar leans against the doorframe. Someone’s head pops up from a pile: “C’est trop grand!” Ammar quickly snaps back: “C’est trop grand? Bah, achète!” “It’s too big for you? Buy it anyway!” He’s kidding, of course. In fact, often, he’ll be the first to tell you something doesn’t suit you. Either it’s not your cut, it’s not your size, or “t’as pas le niveau” — You’re not at that level.” — yet. That’s to say, some things are off limits to some people. When something is just right, then “t’es cuit!”
It’s Ammar’s world. We’re just living in it.
I pull a few things off a few racks — a linen blazer, a pair of lightweight trousers, and a red necktie with elephants on it, and he smirks:
“Mec, t’es cuit! Mais putain, tout te va!”
“You’re cooked” here, I’m learning, is meant to be interpreted in the traditional sense. As in, you’re done. There’s nothing left to do. Bon Appétit.
I think I like the fact that everything suits me, in a quirky way. Or, at least, I’m lucky I can make anything work.
Ammar has this way of making you feel like Paris’ best-dressed man before you’ve even tried anything on. He knows everything: the curve of lapels from the 50s, the shift in button spacing on Smalto jackets, why certain collars only work on certain faces. He’s partial to his signature “Col du 65”, a dramatic, vampirically deep point.
Every single thing here has been picked out and passed his quality check. He’s the kind of smart that rubs off on you; you leave feeling sharper just for standing nearby. He’s an exemplary of self-expression — he shifted from buying clothes for himself to buying clothes for other people and opened his shop 15 years ago.
And maybe that’s why I’m here. To me, clothes have always been about expression. Expression when words fail.
When I was fifteen, I had my first experience being thrown headfirst into living in France and in turn being unable to express myself in any normal, verbal way. As a young American with idealistic tendencies and a quick draw to say yes to things, I had jumped at the chance to leave my family and life in Oklahoma City behind and move to Lille, France, for a school year on exchange. I was placed into a host family in Salomé, a small town of no more than 3,000 people in the countryside. I went to a French high school, made French friends, and lived as close to the life of a normal French teenager as any American who spoke less than a dozen words in French could live.
Expression, as such, has always been very important to me. The primary ways I’ve always expressed myself have been with language, and when language has failed me, I filled in and made do with dress. When I was in a place where the fullest extent of my language is no longer sufficient, I double down with clothes. In France, I began to find my voice again — my expression — through dressing up. Not just to make myself heard, but to announce myself. There’s a photo of me somewhere on the internet at the train station, standing on the tracks: Bright orange pants, a floral lei, and a big ol’ peacoat. Like that Billy Joel song, but I’m still not sure what Sidewinders are.
At school, we had class on Saturdays. I tell people about this fact now, nearly fifteen years later, and I’m confident ours was the only class in the country who was subjected to such a thing. Of course, back then, I was made to believe that it was completely normal. Every weekend, I wore a red bow tie to class. A fifteen-year-old in a lycée in the north of France, strutting into physics class like a lost Wes Anderson character. I needed everyone to know: I might not have the words yet, but don’t think for a second I don’t have something to say.
Years later, not much has changed. I’m still chasing that feeling: this idea of dressing up as myself. So here I am, standing in a room that smells like old musk and dust and leather. I’m methodically, systematically swapping out my wardrobe piece by piece. Every jacket, every pair of trousers, every tie I wear now comes with someone’s story stitched inside, and I’m proud to carry that with me. I’m shedding old skin and trying on new patterns.
It feels right. It feels like returning to that fifteen-year-old version of myself. A little more fluent in french, a little less desperate to be understood — but just as hungry as ever to be seen.
After a few hours of digging go by and more than a few suits tried on, Ammar and I fall into conversation while Bartosz tries on a leather jacket. Ammar and I share a birthday, we’re both sober, and for a moment it feels like we’ve both been orbiting this strange Parisian constellation long enough to speak the same language without words — to see eye to eye.
When it’s time to negotiate, he winks and gestures me closer:
“Viens avec moi, tu vas me défoncer.”
We haggle. It’s a dance. And in the end, everyone’s happy.
From the woman who crashed the cabaret stage, to the vial of oil from church gift shop, to my new-old trousers pulled from the bottom of a box — I believe that the things that really stay with us are the things no one else could ever claim as their own. Identity is personal like that.
If you made it all the way here, thanks for spending part of your Monday with me. If this nudged you to notice new, little things only you could ever collect — scents, suits, stories, whatever — hold onto that carry them into the rooms you walk into this week. I think that’s what it’s all about.
Next Week in Wherelse,
we will receive a dramatic and life changing proposition.
Have suggestions or stories you'd like to see?
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A Note to New Readers:
Welcome! I’m Jackson Greathouse Fall, an American based in Paris, living on the road. I write stories about the places I go, the people I meet, and how it all fits together.
Wherelse is my handmade weekly dispatch: part travelogue, part love letter, and a guidebook for the emotionally adventurous.
I’m also on Instagram and TikTok, where I share reels and engage in more visual storytelling. If you like this, you’ll love that.
Avec Grand Plaisir,
The writing is always incredible but the DESIGN! Holy shit!! Just waiting for the book 😭😭😭