Instead of sterile racks of shirts, you'll see saddles, vintage maps of London and late-1800s photos of Richmond, all shipped up from Ledbury's tobacco-warehouse-turned-showroom. (Blame the Surgeon General.) You'll order up a bourbon from the bar in one corner and take in the stylings of the bluegrass banjo player in the other. Presumably, you should expect the Kentucky delegation to walk in shortly thereafter.
Then, and only then, will you begin to peruse the tables of smart summer shirts, the kind that Faulkner might have worn while contemplating the eccentricities of his family. As for your two Southern shirtmakers, they met at Oxford before apprenticing with one of London's top tailors and hatching their plan at a pub on Ledbury Road.