Four and a half decades of hand tailoring in downtown Lincoln. Stami runs the atelier and remembers the brides. Forty-five years on, the work — and the shop — is still done by hand.
Deligiannis Tailoring is the work of a lifetime spent at the bench: a chalk pencil, the smell of pressed wool and steam, and the patience that hand tailoring asks of anyone who takes it up.
For four and a half decades, the shop has kept to the seventh floor of the Wells Fargo Building — same elevator, same suite, same demanding standards. His wife Stami runs the atelier. She remembers the names of every bride who has come through the door, the colour of her flowers, the year of her wedding.
The work has carried the word. A grandfather's suit, taken in by a quarter inch through the back. A wedding gown brought across three states because the third generation of a family is being married. A leather jacket older than the customer asking for the lining to be saved.
It is not a fashionable kind of work. The garment is examined, then measured, then marked. A written estimate is provided. The work is done by hand, returned in a week or three, and the consultation, like the tea, is always offered. The fitting room is quiet. The shop is by appointment because the work cannot be rushed.
The standards have not loosened. The materials have not been substituted. The lining is Bemberg or silk, not polyester. The lapels are pad-stitched by hand, not fused. The hems are hand-finished. The chalk is real chalk.
Forty-five years is a long time to do one thing. It is also long enough to know how to do it.
"Stami remembered me by name when I came in for my final fitting. My mother had been a bride here too."
"I have not bought a suit elsewhere in years. The fit is better than off-the-rack in any city I have lived in."
"My grandmother's gown had been in a box for decades. Demetrios brought it back. I cried at the first fitting."
The first conversation is free. Bring the garment, or simply bring the question.