He tends to head to the Marché aux Puces de Vanves in the south or to the Porte de Clignancourt. "I have this thing about old clothes, old shoes, and handbags," admits Jacobs, who's always on the hunt for vintage Charles Jourdan shoes and anything Halston.
Jacobs and his design team also frequent Didier Ludot, a dealer in couture and luxury accessories from the beginning of last century to now, located in the serene gardens of the Palais Royal. This is vintage shopping of the superior kind, with racks of rustling silk dresses and lunching suits by Balenciaga, Chanel, Vionnet, and Dior, as well as Hermès bags and Vivier and Perugia shoes.
"In a way it's a cop out, in that it's all pre-edited and phenomenally expensive," shrugs Jacobs, "but sometimes we can't resist. I think it's the best selection of vintage anywhere." His most recent purchase was a flat 1970's crocodile handbag that the whole Vuitton studio is currently obsessing over.
Sometimes Jacobs spends the day with Tiger, simply wandering all over town. "I look in every shop window, and I find everything so appealing, so enticing—even foods and things that I really have no interest in," he says. "I find myself mesmerized."
After three years, he has honed his list of restaurant haunts and has adopted a Rive Gauche bias. For dinner his local is Brasserie Lipp, just a five-minute walk from the house. It's that typical Parisian brasserie mix of Saint-Tropez tans and sneaker-shod tourists whipped into shape by waiters with an attitude. Sunday night is the chicest time to go: it's sneaker-lite and humming with Lionel Jospin and Lauren Bacall.
Jacobs has his own Lipp ritual, always ordering the archetypal meal: a dozen snails, steak au poivre with french fries, and the house delight—a mille feuille (Lipp diners have been known to fight over the last mille feuille). "I used to come to the Lipp when I was younger, and it's still the same. I like that you can't use cell phones there. I even like the grouchy waiters."
For a more "fashiony place" Jacobs heads farther south to Natacha, an artlessly cool bistro tucked away on a residential street in the 14th arrondissement. On a Saturday night, you sweep back the velvet curtain at the entrance and step into a pure Paris social club of Mario Testino, Yves Saint Laurent, Jean-Paul Gaultier, plus the odd tourist—of the Madonna, Leonardo DiCaprio kind. "It's one of my favorite places to go because it's like a party. I always know people there, and I always have a fun time hanging out and eating," says Jacobs.
Also strong on fashion ambience is Le Stresa, an unassuming-looking Italian restaurant, with Peter Beard photos on the walls and balding scarlet carpets. "I absolutely love the food," says Jacobs, recommending the tender vitello alla milanese (breaded veal sautéed in butter) and a dolce nougatine (part ice-cream, part pistachio meringue). "For me it's like the Da Silvano of Paris." The crowd here is mainly buffed and glossy, although it gets a little sugary daddy on the weekends.
For a more contemporary feel, he heads to Georges, where he dined just the week before with fashion hero Alaïa. Once in a while, he will go to Paul Minchelli for the superb fish and seafood, cooked with plenty of steam, tomato, basil, and olive oil. "For someone who doesn't eat a lot of fish, it's kind of amazing that I love it there," jokes Jacobs. He raves about the lobster pasta dish that "feels like a meal and dessert all in one."
Another new habit he's picked up is caviar. "All my life I thought I hated caviar. Then I tried it on the Concorde—and realized I'd just never eaten it," he says, a little sheepishly. "I was completely hooked." He satisfies his habit at Caviar Kaspia, an elegant restaurant that's been serving caviar since 1927. He could dine upstairs, done in White Russian décor, but Jacobs prefers to swing by the downstairs store. "I pick up the caviar and take it home for a big pig out," says Jacobs.
Some things in Jacobs' life haven't changed. He is still a music fiend with an insatiable appetite for th new, lapping up bands like Luscious Jackson, Veruca Salt, and L7. He shops for CD's at Frédéric Sanchez, who has created the soundtracks for Jacob's fashion shows and who last year opened a music store in the Marais. Sanchez only sells what he deems to be the coolest sounds of the moment, be that techno, opera, dance, kid's music, or this season's big trend—lounge with an experimental electronic edge. There are around 550 CDs on offer, with 10 new titles every week—a defiantly edited selection that is utter relief for anyone who finds the average eight-floor music store overwhelming.
Another Jacobs shopping stop is Colette, a sort of shrink-to-fit, post-modern department store specializing in the zeitgeist. Opened only a couple of years ago, it's already a Paris institution. "They are good for the latest of everything," comments Jacobs. He goes there for bulk buys of underground fashion magazines and books.
He's not really a big clothes shopper ("God knows, I have no reason to buy clothes", he quips). But when necessary, he picks up Martin Margiela designs at Maria Luisa. This small menswear boutique is a favorite (and closely guarded) address of the fashion elite, who arrive at the beginning of the season to pick their wardrobe from designers such as Ann Demeulemeester, Helmut Lang, Gaultier, and, of course, Marc Jacobs.
And if after a day of walking the Paris streets he's in need of a little American home cooking, Jacobs has two solutions: a hamburger and french fries at Joe Allen (with a steak tartare thrown in for Tiger) or a whip round Grande Épicerie, which Jacobs calls his Paris version of Dean & Deluca. This is where he stocks up on Ocean Spray Cranberry juice, peanut butter, and tortilla chips.