Foreign policy at the shoe cobbler
Philadelphia serving up its finest.
There’s a buffet of historical meat to chew on in Philadelphia.
Between the Liberty Bell, Benjamin Franklin, the Declaration of Independence, and the numerous other memorials, museums, and artifacts, there’s plenty of fodder to take you back in time.
But for me, the real historical treasures are found hidden down dirty lanes, forgotten back streets, or neighborhoods that have stubbornly thumbed their nose at gentrification.
Small and independent businesses, many of which have been in business for decades, sit underneath fading signs and run-down storefronts. They share their craft—whatever that may be—with the City of Brotherly Love, holding on tightly to the way things used to be.
Philadelphia has managed to hold onto its charm in this way. Unlike New York, where the price of rent has forced out small businesses and local trade in favor of big-name retailers, franchise restaurants, and venture-backed brands.
Old and storied shops shilling famous pizzas, cheesesteaks, antiques, water ice and frozen custard, milkshakes, hardware, diamonds and jewelry, furniture, and of course, booze.
There’s always a different feeling to patronizing these old-timey places.
For one, the people actually care about the quality of work and the quality of service they deliver. That’s a sad and low bar to set but feels rarer by the day.
Then there are the characters you meet, which is the best part of it all. Sharing a brief few minutes experiencing the quirks and meandering conversations of people who have been in the same place, and doing the same thing for eons is one of my favorite things.
Such was the case when I entered Benjamin’s on the Row, a dusty little shop squeezed between the diamond dealers and antique shops on Jewelry Row at the edge of Center City. It’s the top-rated shoe cobbler in the area—the perfect place to take my disintegrating shoes.
“This is just plastic, I could glue this back on a hundred times and it’ll still peel off,” Benjamin says as he thumbs the soles of my shoes with leather hands.
Benjamin is a wily-looking man. Aging but not old. His tan skin stretches over a thin frame, accentuating the veins on his arms and the cheekbones on his face. He’s the look of a guy who has been around long enough not to care what people think of him.
My soft leather loafers cost me a pretty penny but in the rough hands of Benjamin, I’ve come to realize how cheap they are. He’s focused on the left shoe, pulling its sole off to highlight the lack of craftsmanship. A tinge of embarrassment pricks me in the guts.
“Forty-five dollars,” he says.
“For both shoes?” I reply dumbly.
The woman who’s sat behind the counter to Benjamin’s right bursts out laughing, throwing her head back and placing her hand on my forearm in a motherly kinda way. Benjamin cracks up, too, looking at the woman. They look like old friends.
“We don’t do a-lar-carte, man. It’s forty-five for both shoes. What do you think this is?” He’s chuckling to himself while still sharing a look with his lady friend.
“Too precious,” she adds.
In moments like these, I feel younger and dumber than I am. I obviously haven’t spent enough time with shoe cobblers.
“Hey, you from Ireland or somethin’?” Asks the woman.
“Australia,” I say.
“Australia! Wow! I thought you sounded funny,” she says.
“All those British accents, you gotta be careful, man,” says Benjamin, speaking to the woman. “Cause if you get it wrong they don’t like it. You can’t say they Irish when they English, or English when they Australian. They all sound the same and they hate it if you get it wrong.”
When Benjamin speaks he’s animated and nods his head in rhythm with his words and gestures with his hands like he’s conducting an orchestral concert.
The woman nods and apologizes sincerely. I feel as if I’m on the outside looking in on two chummy friends talking about me as if I’m not here.
“Australia though? Man, niiice!” He’s nodding his head with a big smile before turning back to the woman and saying matter of factly: “They just pissed off the French by rejecting their submarines. Classic, man.”
He’s referencing a recent decision by the Australian government to cancel a deal for French-manufactured submarines, in favor of nuclear-powered subs from the UK and US. I’m surprised by the swift and deep cut into international foreign policy. I’ve barely been in the shop for 60 seconds.
He’s talking mainly to his friend, but glances at me briefly to ensure I’m part of the conversation.
“They basically said, ‘we don’t want your diesel-powered trash,’ man. HA!”
I offer enough chit-chat to keep the conversation going but it’s clear Benjamin has plenty more opinions to share on the topic.
“The French are whores, man.” He turns back to me to elaborate. “You know when I was a kid, I was a real liberal kid, my dad was in the military and I asked him one day ‘Why do we sell guns to both sides?’—such a liberal question to ask, you know?—anyway, my dad said, ‘because if we don’t, the French will. They’ll sell anything to anyone.’”
He doesn’t get much in the way of response from me or the woman and the brief silence is long enough to develop a sour note.
“Whores, man. Right?” His arms are open and he’s still nodding with a wide smile. “Anyway, I told my friend about that story one day and she’s French and she said it wasn’t far from the truth. So I guess, you know, it’s true. The French, right?”
I nod.
“So forty-five dollars. Here, I’ll write you a ticket.”
He grabs a piece of paper, scribbles my details on it with the price and a phone number, tears it off, and hands it to me.
“It’s cash upfront. And they’ll be ready in a few days.”
“No worries,” I say.
“Call that number on the paper in three days to see if they’re ready. They should be, but we don’t follow a tight schedule here and sometimes things get busy or don’t get done so they might not be. You gotta call.”
“Ok.”
“You know, we have a saying around here,” he looks at the woman, who nods in agreement. “The women call, and the men show up three weeks later asking if their shoes are ready. So call the number.”
“Call the number. Got it,” I say.
I fold the piece of paper and pocket it. I look up and the woman smiles one last time before waving me off.
Ah, Philadelphia, for all your faults, you still have so much charm.
And for all those wondering, Benjamin’s a top-notch shoe cobbler. Maybe the best. Next time you’re in Philly, go pay him a visit.
Just don’t get him started on the French.