In the 1980s, when Great Britain and Argentina were at war over the Falkland Islands, Prince Charles required some new polo boots, so he did what any horseman in need of the best equipment in the world would do—he called Casa Fagliano. Essentially off the books and untraceable, the order was a clear violation of the wartime embargo, but that's what Fagliano does to people.
Polo, of course, is the sport of kings, and the family-owned Fagliano workshop—in Hurlingham, a Tudor-themed, polo-friendly suburb of Buenos Aires, named after the famed gentlemen's sporting club in London—has become a necessary stop for both roughneck champions and assorted royals who saddle up and take the field. But there's nothing fussy about the place: The Faglianos keep their business where it has been for 114 years—a stone's throw from the railway station, on the wrong side of the tracks.
Inside, the octogenarian Rodolfo Fagliano and his 40-something sons, Eduardo and Hector, make several variations on the customary knee-high polo boots, which guard riders against collisions and mallet thwacks while keeping their ankles fortified for stand-in-the-stirrups maneuvers. Some models have a Western look—they're cowboy brown with curly stitching—but there's also the softer, shorter, redder, Spanish style. Nicest of all are the extra-tall black specimens, for formal occasions. Casa Fagliano also makes a select array of polo accessories—leather knee pads and jodhpurs—and some street shoes, including bucks, brogues, and Chelsea boots.
Lined up along one wall are decommissioned polo boots, scuffed by spills and knocks, sometimes donated to the makers in exchange for a new pair. There's also a caricature of the game's legendary ten-goalers, as the highest scorers are known—two pairs of Argentine brothers, the Heguys and the Harriotts. Another wall features scores of testimonials and thank-yous, and even signed photos of the game's finest.
But for all these artifacts, Casa Fagliano isn't just a shrine-—it's a house of hard work. Eduardo ushers me into a cluttered office. His stout, quick-to-laugh brother, Hector, pulls down one of many gray notebooks and invites a flip through the footprints of this lord and that lothario. Each tracing is a starting point for a reorder, so customers need not return when they next need a new pair.
Behind the office is the actual workshop, where several pairs of boots are always in progress. Between cutting, stitching, and hammering, each takes one man more than a week to complete. The men use tools and technology, old and new, from all over the world, like a 100-year-old German sewing machine and the sturdy Japanese zippers they now favor. Hector pulls out a black piece of leather big enough to make into a car seat, and explains that it has just arrived from Chicago. He hands it over so that I can check out its pliability and strength. As far as the Faglianos are concerned, the best hide comes from a horse's haunches, and the only tannery they've found that can provide it is about 5,000 miles away, which explains the show boot's $1,700 price tag.
