A Dark, Secluded Place

By ALEX KUCZYNSKI

THERE are few experiences more quintessentially American than summertime mall-shopping. On an afternoon in late June, I pulled my car into the parking lot of the Westfield Shoppingtown Garden State Plaza in Paramus, N.J., and was cut off by a gaggle of slow-moving teenage girls winding their way to the entrance, cellphones pressed to their temples as they pranced, oblivious, before the oncoming traffic.

Inside the mall the bright thoroughfares teemed with dazed-looking fathers and aerobicized mothers, young parents pushing strollers, and mall walkers in cross-trainers on their daily stroll. The adolescents - boys in basketball jerseys, girls in flounced cotton skirts, their tanorexic brown stomachs tilted outward - strode with a sense of purpose, as if this were their dominion. The aroma of French fries and pizza mingled with the tonic nonsmell of excessive air conditioning.

The merchants were typical mall fare: booths selling silver jewelry; bustling department stores like Nordstrom and Macy's; Banana Republic, Foot Locker. But just outside the Neiman Marcus entrance was something provocative and different: a store with the brick facade of a New York City town house with a wrought-iron fence and potted topiary. A startlingly handsome man with bright blue eyes and black hair stood guard, his posture identical to that of a nightclub bouncer on the watch for good-looking customers.

The store, Ruehl, is the invention of the clothier Abercrombie & Fitch, which is seeking to extend beyond its core teenage market to include older customers with more expensive tastes. The company operates some 360 Abercrombie & Fitch stores for 18- to 22-year-olds, and in 2000 it began opening Hollister stores for 14- to 18-year-olds. Its five Ruehl stores are aimed at 20- and 30-somethings.

The store, according to the company's publicity material, takes its name from the Ruehl family, who moved from Germany in the mid-1800's and opened a leather goods emporium at 925 Greenwich Street in Manhattan. Abercrombie bought the rights to the name from the family in 2002.

Or so goes the corporate fable. Although the labels on all the clothes read "Ruehl No. 925 Greenwich Street, New York, NY," there was no Ruehl family. There is no Ruehl store in New York City, and there is no 925 Greenwich Street. (Greenwich Street ends in the 800's.)

Inside, the store resembles a plushy nightclub. Moody black-and-white photos hang on black walls, and divans in barely lighted corners look as if they were set up for canoodling. Shelves hold books about artists like Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning. (Get it? This is supposed to be Greenwich Village.)

The apparel is generally more sophisticated than what you would find at A&F. Men's polo shirts, $68, bear the Ruehl logo, a bulldog. A display in the store explains the dog, named Trubble: "Upon opening their shop in Greenwich Village, little did the Ruehl family realize that their first customer would be an inquisitive little bulldog with a steadfast demeanor and a confident attitude."

For women there are slip dresses, beautifully made handbags, lingerie, gauzy silk skirts and canvas jackets. Ambitious pieces include a beaded bolero jacket woven with metallic thread for $248 and a gold clutch with a serpent closure for $198.

The problem was, I could barely see the clothes because the store's interior was so dark. So dark that I had to approach each step tentatively, tapping my foot out first. So dark that I couldn't tell what color the clothes were. A backlit display of filmy lingerie rendered each piece an indistinguishable shade of sludgy gray-brown-beige, even though they were different colors.

Taking an armful of items into the changing room, I hoped to see if the skirt I was holding was black or purple or neon-tangerine. There was just enough light for me to see that the skirt was brown. I think. Apart from that, I couldn't tell how it would look in daylight or at dusk. I could, however, tell how it would look on a moonless night if I were standing in a cornfield 100 miles away from the nearest light source.

That would be: dark.

In the retail world, low lighting is supposed to project an upscale image; darkness also suggests mystery and inspires exploration. This is great in concept, but the execution doesn't jibe with the bright white of the mall. I actually saw customers stand and blink for several seconds after they left the store, their eyes adjusting to the daylight.

The darkness may also encourage another problem: the five-finger discount. Having shoplifted one item in my entire life, I can safely say that even I could have cleaned this place out in a few minutes. (O.K., it was a tennis skirt from Lord & Taylor. I was 13. It was a dare. I live with the shame to this day.) Perhaps this was why there seemed to be an inordinate number of security guards at Ruehl; every time I turned a corner, I ran into a burly guy in a T-shirt. Not the most relaxing way to shop.

Will men and women in their 20's and 30's be drawn to Ruehl? I'm not sure. People at that age aspiring to the heights of sangfroid that Ruehl appears to promote would never deign to exert effort to find the right size, let alone spend 10 minutes squinting at a skirt to discern its color. This is a shame because the clothing is worth the time and the money.

Finally there is the name. What it conjures for me - and I am in the target demographic - is an image of Mercedes Ruehl, a talented and vivid actress. But she is best known for playing roles like the hapless girlfriend (in "The Fisher King"), the babbling wife (in "Lost in Yonkers") or the nerdy shrink (in "The Mary Kay Letourneau Story"). Hapless, babbling and nerdy. Try as it might, the name just doesn't sound cool.

Ruehl

At Westfield Shoppingtown Garden State Plaza, Paramus, N.J.; (201) 845-8108.

ATMOSPHERE Dark. Booming music.

SERVICE Among the sales staff, there is a lot of vigorous fluffing and folding and a lot of "Hello, how are you?" but a lot less actual assistance.

KEY LOOKS Distressed jeans and button-down shirts; slip dresses and shrugs.

PRICES Reasonable. $158 for the best-selling "destroyed" blue jeans; $198 for a woman's canvas jacket with ribbon tie.