Seattlest was recently in the market for an engagement ring. Knowing almost nothing about diamonds, settings, or the metals they bling on, we guessed that finding the right ring was going to be a long, arduous and intimidating quest. We were What we did know was where to find rings—thanks to the plethora of radio commercials featuring maddening jingles for Jared. Tom Shane expounding on his pleasure business trips to Bangkok, and E.E Robbins inauthentic-sounding proposal tales. Then there’s the place that goes “straight to.” And the place where “every kiss begins And the place “across from the mall.” And the “diamond people.” For the love of capitalism.
We ruled out mall stores because after about 20 minutes in a mall, we start freaking out. Too many people, too much ambient noise, too much visual stimulation. And we knew the help in those stores are like bipolar hawks, swooping upon passersby with commission-hungry eyes and talons of shameless false enthusiasm.
We refused to include Jared in our search simply because of those sorry-ass commercials.
Our first stop was E.E. Robbins. Because it was close to work and we needed to stop at nearby Target for a box of wine.
Ninety minutes after walking through E.E. Robbins’ door, we felt pretty sure that was where we’d buy a ring. Not because the place had a massive aquarium just inside the entry, nice lighting, an open, racetrack-style layout, and no-pressure staff. Not because they offered cold drinks (Frappuccino? Jones soda?) to everyone who came in. Not because the selection of engagement rings bordered on overwhelming (in a good way). But because we’d been given a crash-course on diamonds and precious metals by a very cool woman who, if she was exasperated by our ignorance, didn’t show it at all. We’ll call her Ms. Robbins.
Maybe it was simply a result of E.E. Robbins’ hiring and training standards, but Ms. Robbins was just downright super. She showed us multiple rings—those we pointed out and ones similar to them, nothing that differed from our “we think we like this style” aesthetic. She sat us down at a comfy table and busted out rocks that matched our price range. She showed us a little slide show on the “Four Cs,” and let us pore over stones until we could (sort of) guess the differences in clarity, color, and cost. She let us look at them under a cool microscope. And she never once encouraged the purchase of a larger, more colorless, more expensive diamond. Everything was “whatever works for you.” Our taste, our budget, our comfort zone.
Over the next few weeks, we visited several other jewelers. Everything we knew about major-purchase-making told us that we couldn’t love the stuff we’d seen first. We had to shop around more. We had to compare.
The Shane Co.,, on top of being a strangely sterile, unfriendly place, didn’t offer anything that we liked or that fit our price range. It may be hand-selected in Thailand, but it ain’t thrilling.
International Jewelers was also sterile, but not unfriendly. A giddy woman there tossed out this gem: “You’re getting engaged? That’s always fun!” The ring and diamond selection, and her interest in educating us on both, were less stellar.
The mall stores—yes, we braved a couple—were as expected. Maybe we’d have thought more of them had we not gotten the royal treatment at Robbins, but the help was either overbearing or aloof and the stuff in the display cases somehow sad and desperate-looking.
To check our sanity, we dropped into Fred Mayer Jeweller during a trip for groceries. The experience was surprisingly positive, but friendliness and price weren’t influencing our decision. And honestly, wouldn’t it be odd to purchase a ring at the same place you buy toilet paper?
A second sanity check found us at the E.E. Robbins in Belltown. Was Ms. Robbins an awesome salesperson, or was the business itself awesome? Could our first experience be duplicated? Turns out, yes.
We waited, let all that we’d seen simmer for a while. We stared at Ms. Robbins’ business card and thought about what she’d shown us, how she’d smiled all the while. We heard a few more of those inane radio commercials, and smirked at Robbins’ “how we got engaged” spots. They really sound silly. (Ms. Robbins gave us a book of these proposal stories, too; it reads just as cheesy, but the sentiment is somehow more endearing on the page.)
Finally, we went back to the first E.E. Robbins, to Ms. Robbins, and bought us a fantastically-beautiful-if-we-don’t-say-so-ourselves ring. If the shopping experience (and the free Frappuccino) wasn’t positive enough, she gave us wedding planning books, a coupon for a future purchase (wedding band, duh), and a bottle of champagne. Seattlest felt special.
Those commercials might sound lame and made-up, but we’re betting they’re very real—and partially inspired by experiences in an E.E. Robbins store. We won’t be volunteering our story for anyone’s listening (or reading) pleasure, but we’ll definitely recommend the Robbins folks to those going engagement ring-hunting.wrong. It wasn’t arduous.
We ruled out mall stores because after about 20 minutes in a mall, we start freaking out. Too many people, too much ambient noise, too much visual stimulation. And we knew the help in those stores are like bipolar hawks, swooping upon passersby with commission-hungry eyes and talons of shameless false enthusiasm.
We refused to include Jared in our search simply because of those sorry-ass commercials.
Our first stop was E.E. Robbins. Because it was close to work and we needed to stop at nearby Target for a box of wine.
Ninety minutes after walking through E.E. Robbins’ door, we felt pretty sure that was where we’d buy a ring. Not because the place had a massive aquarium just inside the entry, nice lighting, an open, racetrack-style layout, and no-pressure staff. Not because they offered cold drinks (Frappuccino? Jones soda?) to everyone who came in. Not because the selection of engagement rings bordered on overwhelming (in a good way). But because we’d been given a crash-course on diamonds and precious metals by a very cool woman who, if she was exasperated by our ignorance, didn’t show it at all. We’ll call her Ms. Robbins.
Maybe it was simply a result of E.E. Robbins’ hiring and training standards, but Ms. Robbins was just downright super. She showed us multiple rings—those we pointed out and ones similar to them, nothing that differed from our “we think we like this style” aesthetic. She sat us down at a comfy table and busted out rocks that matched our price range. She showed us a little slide show on the “Four Cs,” and let us pore over stones until we could (sort of) guess the differences in clarity, color, and cost. She let us look at them under a cool microscope. And she never once encouraged the purchase of a larger, more colorless, more expensive diamond. Everything was “whatever works for you.” Our taste, our budget, our comfort zone.
Over the next few weeks, we visited several other jewelers. Everything we knew about major-purchase-making told us that we couldn’t love the stuff we’d seen first. We had to shop around more. We had to compare.
The Shane Co.,, on top of being a strangely sterile, unfriendly place, didn’t offer anything that we liked or that fit our price range. It may be hand-selected in Thailand, but it ain’t thrilling.
International Jewelers was also sterile, but not unfriendly. A giddy woman there tossed out this gem: “You’re getting engaged? That’s always fun!” The ring and diamond selection, and her interest in educating us on both, were less stellar.
The mall stores—yes, we braved a couple—were as expected. Maybe we’d have thought more of them had we not gotten the royal treatment at Robbins, but the help was either overbearing or aloof and the stuff in the display cases somehow sad and desperate-looking.
To check our sanity, we dropped into Fred Mayer Jeweller during a trip for groceries. The experience was surprisingly positive, but friendliness and price weren’t influencing our decision. And honestly, wouldn’t it be odd to purchase a ring at the same place you buy toilet paper?
A second sanity check found us at the E.E. Robbins in Belltown. Was Ms. Robbins an awesome salesperson, or was the business itself awesome? Could our first experience be duplicated? Turns out, yes.
We waited, let all that we’d seen simmer for a while. We stared at Ms. Robbins’ business card and thought about what she’d shown us, how she’d smiled all the while. We heard a few more of those inane radio commercials, and smirked at Robbins’ “how we got engaged” spots. They really sound silly. (Ms. Robbins gave us a book of these proposal stories, too; it reads just as cheesy, but the sentiment is somehow more endearing on the page.)
Finally, we went back to the first E.E. Robbins, to Ms. Robbins, and bought us a fantastically-beautiful-if-we-don’t-say-so-ourselves ring. If the shopping experience (and the free Frappuccino) wasn’t positive enough, she gave us wedding planning books, a coupon for a future purchase (wedding band, duh), and a bottle of champagne. Seattlest felt special.
Those commercials might sound lame and made-up, but we’re betting they’re very real—and partially inspired by experiences in an E.E. Robbins store. We won’t be volunteering our story for anyone’s listening (or reading) pleasure, but we’ll definitely recommend the Robbins folks to those going engagement ring-hunting.wrong. It wasn’t arduous.
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