Originally written in October 2025 for Fashion Journalism at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Published with minor formatting edits.
On the fifth floor of 544 Park Ave, in a warehouse just outside of the Marcy Houses in Bed-Stuy, sits Berriez – the studio with cultural cachet and supposed haven for plus-size shoppers in a fashion capital that often neglects them. Inside, the walls are adorned with blobby mirrors and wiggly motifs. The décor is intentionally kitschy, but it’s hard to miss the irony – these shapes have long been used to caricaturize fatness itself.
I’ve been coming to Berriez since 2021. The first time I walked in, I was nineteen, freshly employed at my first “big kid” job. My new manager, Theresa, advised me that tees and ill-fitting light-wash jeans wouldn’t cut in on the 20th floor at 40th and Broadway. I’d previously heard about Berriez online and booked my first appointment. That visit was everything; copious options, good ones at that. For once in a long while, nearly everything fit. Store owner Emma Zacks treated me like a dear friend. We gossiped about other plus-size retailers and the fragile politics of the local community – there is a somewhat small (no pun intended) group of chic fat New Yorkers who congregate each June for Fat Swim Day or at the inevitable closet sales of nearby plus-size models.
Since then, Berriez continues to feel less like the store I loved. Each appointment, the racks in my section slowly shrink. On my second visit in 2022, the jewelry selection had nearly doubled. Emma joked that she’d expanded for her customers’ skinny shopping partners, which we both laughed at. Every fat kid at the mall has killed time by a rack of statement necklaces while their friends actually try things on. So when I returned to the store two weeks ago and saw a fully stocked small-and-medium rack, I laughed again, alone this time.
I left with three pieces: a cropped light-blue Liz Claiborne cable-knit turtleneck ($60), an oversized IZOD waffle knit ($60), and a silver sheer Miss Circle top ($50). Cute, but not what I wanted – not to mention I felt pressured to purchase the silver top by the three sales associates eager to make a sale.
It’s fine if Berriez no longer wants to be a plus-size boutique. But a retailer that happens to also carry plus-sizes isn’t the same. Goodwill isn’t suddenly a plus-size store because it has everything, it’s Goodwill. Berriez was supposed to be fresh: a curated space for people this city rarely caters to. And when that experience requires an appointment with a $20 deposit, I shouldn’t be left wanting more as time goes on. I want to see Berriez win. I understand the cost of keeping a small business afloat. But in the moment where everyone seems to be getting smaller, Berriez feels like it’s following suit – in selection and self. For a boutique that once felt so abundant, that’s the real disappointment.
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