How Much Are Those Manolos in the Window?

The expert in question is one Angel Milou, 61, a Haverford shoe and clothes designer for whom the study of appearance has become a lifelong interest that transcends even the study of people. When vandals spray-painted a bridge down the street from where she lives, Milou went out and painted over the graffiti herself. Twice. To Milou, there’s no reason even a trolley bridge shouldn’t look its best.

Angel Milou, the ex-wife of a certain infamous, overly tanned Philly restaurateur, is now happily married to meat magnate Ernie Milou, and is the daughter of a shoemaker who has learned many of his skills. Though her shoe stock numbers around 400 pairs, this is not the collection of someone who merely likes to shoe-shop; it is also an impressive array of artifacts, each pair with its own story. She shows me a jeweled high-heeled shoe made in the 1940s, which she calls the Herbert Levine Springolator, and I am surprised at how similar it looks to today’s shoes. Why wouldn’t it? I don’t know what I’d been expecting. It’s as if I had been thinking that people back then had toes on the backs of their feet. She also has a gray Andrew Geller (note how I just dropped the designer’s name … I’m talking like a shoe person) she bought in the 1970s, and other shoes that she has completely remade to fit her own vision, sewing petals and straps on to change the design. Whereas most of the women I’ve spoken to say they view shoes as works of art, Milou views them as works of art still in progress.

She doesn’t seem the least bit discouraged by my total lack of insight or knowledge of the subject, and she explains everything in simple terms. A slingback, I learn, hardly has a back at all, and pumps have nothing to do with the movement of fluids. Mules are not made to carry heavy loads. She shows me shoes with rhinestones, feathers, studs, straps, high heels, kitten heels, sculpted heels, round toes, square toes and pointy toes.

Besides being a lifelong shoe enthusiast, Milou fancies herself a Liz Taylor look-alike; she has performed onstage and helped promote Liz’s cosmetics. She shows me a pair of lavender Fendi pumps, which are exactly what Liz would wear. I nod. Of course, if she had shown me mud-caked work boots and said that Liz wore shoes just like those, I would hardly have called her on it. But I’m sure she wouldn’t do that.

I learn terms and become an expert. “So this is a … pump, right?” Milou nods patiently. When we get ready to leave for the shoe store, I feel like a fashionista. I’m ready to apply at Vogue.

First stop, Mainly Shoes on Main Street in Manayunk. It occurs to me that I’ve never been in an actual shoe store before, at least not one that doesn’t sell sneakers. Seriously. Usually when buying shoes, I’m somewhere where I can do one-stop shopping, and get motor oil and toothpaste before I hit the checkout line. Here, there are just shoes, and even a novice like me can tell they’re nice.

I pick up a pair of men’s Italian loafers, turn them over, and look at the price: $275. But I can see they’re worth it. They’ve got a look about them, the appearance of someone having put some effort into their creation. This is that je ne sais quoi I’ve been asking women to explain. Now I get it. This stuff is nice. I’m learning. I can tell nice stuff from crap. I have to concede that the impoverished Asian prisoners making my own footwear really aren’t trying as hard as I thought.

“Italian,” I say knowingly to Angel Milou, putting the loafers back.

She nods, unimpressed by me or the shoes. While I was looking at the loafers, she has already gone over the entire inventory and decided there’s nothing for her today. We head off to the Burlington Coat Factory on Baltimore Pike to sample the selection there, stopping only to get a $100 ticket for having an expired inspection sticker. By the time I drop Angel off at home, I imagine she thinks she is lucky to be alive, having spent the day with an idiot who knows nothing about shoes or auto safety.