Mario the Tailor

Literally came in with a dire need to have my patches sown onto my Japanese Gi, last minute, and he did it the SAME DAY. Mario took his service to the next level by helping me fix my buttons on my Calvin Klein dress coat before I left the store. He only charged me a couple bucks to have that done. A man who simply cares about his work and wants to impact the Stamford community. I’ll never go anywhere else.

Being fleet of foot, but not particularly coordinated, I swiftly rounded a stairwell corner in my home when I felt and heard the distressing sound of my $ 1000 suit shredding on the handrail. The pocket had caught. Not good.
Mario saved me from converting one of my favorite suits to a pair of slacks. Given the initial mess I handed him, I am shocked to this day that he could save it. But, he did. And, he is my tailor for the long haul.

Mario «The Tailor» DaSilva began his career in his father’s tailoring shop in Portugal when he was 13. This tells us two things: 1. He’s not an amateur, and 2. His bloodline is that of a nearly extinct class of exquisite Old World European tailoring that includes craftsmen from Italy, Greece, Portugal, Spain, and others.
I handed Mario a Brooks suit whose shape resembled more of a tent than clothing (I shall not expound on the reason why it looked that way but only to say that a steady diet of Special K (without milk of course!) all day can alter a human form rather dramatically).
Rather than humiliate me (which is NOT in the Old World tradition), Mario pinched and pulled, pinned and chalked, discussed cuffs and breaks (all this while some Portuguese radio talk show was going on), and finally pronounced that he was going to take this flannel mess and turn it into a real suit.
I decided not only that I would take him up on this challenge, but that I would go all in and pay him up front! The canny consumer that I am reasoned that I was probably the only customer stupid enough to do this, but that this was the Old World thing to do; that it was a signal of respect and good faith.
While I winced at first at the price, calm befell me when I realized this was about one quarter of the price of the worst suit you could find at the Burlington Coat Factory.
On parting I told Mario about the exquisite suit I had made for me in 12 hours in Hong Kong, which lasted about 6 hours before completely unthreading at the Hong Kong airport leaving me sans one arm. This bit of psychology was cleverly employed to warn Mario that I was no fool in matters tailoring.
As I left the store I looked back to see if Mario was bolting for the nearest Citizen’s Bank but the coast was clear.
Two weeks later I returned. As the drums rolled I emerged from the dressing room (a little license here: if there was a dressing room I couldn’t find it) and stood before a panoramic 3-​D view of the best looking, best fitting suit I have ever seen, let alone worn. Not one teeny alteration required.
I smiled. Mario smiled. The Old World is good!

I had an expensive cashmere sweater, which I accidentally ripped a whole in — in the area around the elbow. Mario was able to do some magic and now it’s looking like new — no ugly patches or stitches. And I don’t have to hide the sweater under a cardigan anymore.