It’s not hard to explain New Yorkers’ thing for speakeasies. The bigger the sweaty, elbowing crowd in a given location, the stronger the craving for exclusivity. The principle has generally been applied to the night-life realm—not to home goods. But that may be changing. Grace Edwards, a writer for the Netflix show “Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt,” recently found herself in need of a mattress. She wanted better customer service than could be found at a chain like Sleepy’s (now Mattress Firm), so she consulted Yelp.
She was surprised to discover that the best-reviewed mattress store in town was not a cool, venture-backed startup like Casper but an outfit called Craig’s Beds, in midtown. Edwards went to the address, which, she said, turned out to be “a shitty office building near Penn Station.” No sign of a mattress store. She took an elevator to the sixth floor, where she found empty hallways and a sign taped to the wall: “Craig’s Beds Is by Appointment Only.” There was a phone number and an explanation: “We want each visitor to get the personal attention they deserve.” She called the number. “Hello?” a voice answered. “This is Craig.” He told her to come back the following week.
At the appointed time, Edwards knocked on the door of Suite 605, and a cheerful, bespectacled man opened it and invited her in. The “store” turned out to be a small room that contained a dozen bare mattresses. Here’s where a shopper’s internal danger meter might begin flashing yellow. Edwards had wanted personal attention, “but I didn’t realize it would be just me and Craig,” she said. But then Craig began asking about her sleep habits. They established that she was a side sleeper with lower-back pain. She tried out some mattresses.
Within an hour, they’d covered her life and her career, and Craig had introduced her to his side project: taking aerial photographs of New York City. (His Instagram account, @craigsbeds, has nearly a hundred thousand followers and is mostly cityscapes.) Edwards settled on a mattress called the Jennifer—“A hybrid that has latex and shit in it”—which cost twelve hundred dollars and appeared to have been manufactured by Craig himself. She likes it. “Honestly, I have no complaints,” she said.
The following week, Edwards recounted her experience to her colleagues, who found much to discuss. “They thought I definitely could have gotten rolled up in one of those mattresses,” she recalled. But, mostly, “they enjoyed that his name is Craig.” The name conjures up Craigslist, and is therefore redolent of the thrills and perils of anonymous Internet encounters. “It’s a little creepy,” Edwards said.
Soon, word of the store made its way to these offices. The number was called, and an appointment was made. At 11 A.M. one recent Wednesday, Craig—last name Fruchtman—answered the door of Suite 605. This time, he was joined by an older man with a white goatee. “Dad, could you step out for a minute?” Craig whispered. (The man was Barry Fruchtman, Craig’s father.)
According to Craig, the speakeasy approach happened by accident: he’d been working for Barry, who runs a textile business from an office across the hall, and he began selling mattresses over the Internet to gain some independence. At first, he sold Simmons Beautyrest to online shoppers. But local customers kept wanting to stop by and try out the merchandise. So he set up his appointment system, and business grew by word of mouth. The phone number is his cell phone, and he tries always to answer it. “Even if I’m eating, I’ll say, ‘Hey, I’m just finishing my dinner. Can I give you a call in fifteen minutes?’ ”
Customers like the personal attention. “And New Yorkers especially like the feeling of discovery,” Craig said. “Of finding something that’s not a chain and nobody else knows about it.” Do they ever seem troubled by being alone with a stranger? “Put yourself in my shoes,” he said. “Sometimes it’s weird for me! People have done some strange things in here to try out beds.” (He described a male customer who insisted on simulating his lovemaking technique.)
Craig will sell national brands like Serta and Simmons upon request. But these days he makes most of his own inventory, with the help of a fabricator, in New Jersey. They’ve re-created all the popular styles: foam, coil, hybrids, and an old-fashioned, two-sided tufted model, which can be flipped over. “I call it the Cranky Old New Yorker,” he said. “It’s for the person who says, ‘Why can’t I just get a mattress like they used to make?’ ” Prices range from five hundred to two thousand dollars. Craig’s own mattress line is called Summerfield—his paternal grandmother’s maiden name. Why not Craig’s?
“Well,” Craig said, “I didn’t break all the rules.” The mattress industry generally names its products for streets and women: Rachel, Tiffany. Female customers think it’s cute. “And guys don’t want to sleep on a guy’s name. Nobody wants to sleep on Harold.” Or Craig. ♦
