When I was a kid, shoe stores were large and had ‘X-ray’ machines. I stood on the machine—which was sort of like a locker room weigh scale—poked my feet into the space at the bottom and looked into a viewer at the top. The image was all green and I could see my feet, bones, the whole works. That’s what I remember, anyway.
Harry’s is like that kind of store minus the machines, all of which are probably buried and still toxic.
It’s huge, for a shoe store. They appear to have everything you could want. Maybe if you need some $3500 Parada’s or Tricker’s, this is not the store for you. But if you want shoes that can be resoled, are comfortable, will get you through a year and a half of walking before needing repair, you owe it to yourself to take a look. Huge selection, plenty of old-timey sales people roaming the floor, not pestering, but paying attention.
So, you can order online, take a chance on fit, or walk into Harry’s, get blown away by choice, try some on, and walk away. Your call.
The shoes I wear today I discovered here maybe ten years ago. I’ve gone through probably five pairs. Made in the United States, Arkansas. Real leather—buffalo or something. Stitched together. Some pairs I’ve had resoled twice. I’ve got no problem with that.
Upper West Side, on Broadway at 83rd Street.