Mr Pip was once the moniker of Maharaja Vijaysinh of Rajpipla—bon vivant, racecourse darling, and all-round specialist in the finer things. He floated between Rajpipla and Windsor with the ease of a man who considered Rolls-Royces merely a practical solution to weather. The crowds adored him. So did most champagne bottles.

It is this breezy, lightly mischievous spirit that presides over the house today—like a patron saint of impeccable dressing, whispered invitations, and afternoons that accidentally become evenings.

At Mr Pip, we follow the old family tradition of making things properly, which is to say: slowly, by hand, and with craftsmen who have been at it long enough to develop opinions on thread count that could floor a parliament. Our slippers descend from the royal mojaris of Gujarat; our jackets are cut by the fifth generation of the family tailor, a gentleman who has rendered more brocade dreams into wearable reality than seems strictly fair on the competition.

We are not in the business of reenacting history (too dusty, and one is forever tripping over viceroys). Instead, we borrow the best bits—the embroidery that glitters just so, the tailoring that sits with perfect indifference to humidity, and the cheerful conviction that a well-dressed man can rescue any situation, including those of his own making.

The original Mr Pip lived in what some writer once called a “romantic twilight world”—Charleston parties, hospitable Rolls-Royces, champagne that popped at the mere sight of him. Our version is the modern sequel: Bombay with a sea breeze, London at cocktail o’clock, New York when it recalls its upbringing.

If you find life improves measurably with a dash of polish, a bit of whimsy, and clothing that behaves as if it has a social life of its own—you already belong here.

Welcome to the world of Mr Pip.
The champagne is open; do try to keep up