The unsexy work of building a thriving vintage business

It all started in bins, not on a boutique floor: For years, LE NINETY’s founder Steven Labbé built a business sourcing, washing, and trading vintage clothes long before they ever hit a rack. 

“It’s not a sexy process,” co-owner Cédric Comte explains. “You end up washing tons of clothes from export warehouses in commercial laundries.”

When Comte met Labbé in 2022, the back-end had outgrown the basement. There were partnerships in Toronto, pop-ups under his belt, and a dream to open a store in Montreal. Comte, a marketing professional and event producer, saw the potential.

“Steven is like the heart of the company,” he says. “At some point, all of the items people have bought throughout the years… have been touched at least once by Steven.”

Now, against the odds and in the middle of a tough retail landscape, LE NINETY's since opened a second location in the Mile End. That kind of growth is rare for vintage shops in this city, but that was always part of the plan.

“We both wanted to make sure the brand we would build would be apart from everything else,” Cédric says of his collaboration with Labbé. “Without that integration with the community, I don’t think we would have survived a year.”

On road trips and wash cycles

Together with Adam Phaneuf, Colin Bonnefoi, and Christian Saunders, Steven and Cédric helped evolve LE NINETY from a hustle to a storefront.

“We brainstormed and created a brand. We called it. We renovated. We defined what kind of experience we wanted people to have,” says Comte.

The name LE NINETY nods to vintage tags, but it’s also a tribute to a decade that embodied self-expression for the team. “It came from the respect we had for the era,” Comte adds. “There was no social media. People were more eager to express themselves.”

Ironically, none of the partners were born in the 90s. “It was a way for us to say, this is a destination,” he adds. “And it was also just a respect for that era.”

From the beginning, LE NINETY was envisioned as a hybrid space. “He saw a vintage store, and I saw an event space,” Comte recalls of his first visit to their Saint-Denis location. “And we said—why not both?”

That philosophy helped them turn the boutique into a cultural venue. They’ve hosted a wide range of events: a partnership with Angèle, an open mic night with 250 attendees, a listening party with Mike Clay, a pop-up with Belgian-Congolese rapper Damso, video clip launches, podcast tapings, quiet meetups for emerging artists.

“We’ve always been very proud to be that kind of space,” says Comte.

And what a space it is: Today, LE NINETY even has a café on site through a partnership with Le Camas. “We don’t have a transactional approach to items,” Comte explains. “The store is about people. The clothes, the events, the space—it’s all part of healing that relationship.”

That relationship, though, is hard-earned.

High on supply

“People can think we’re robbing them because we’re selling clothes that were used,” Comte says. “But they don’t realize the amount of love and care that’s put in.”

Every item is sourced, transported, sorted, washed, sometimes repaired, and only then tagged and sold. The cost of getting a single t-shirt to the sales floor can be three to five times what people imagine, says Comte: “Nobody in the team is planning on becoming a millionaire. We’re doing this because we believe in this.”

That belief includes a commitment to transparency. On Earth Day this year, LE NINETY published a post lifting the veil on their process. “Everything you need already exists,” it read—a hopeful statement rooted in hard truth. 

“I think it’s true,” says Comte. “There is so much shit that exists already. People should buy less new stuff. Not just for clothes. For sofas. For toasters.”

The post resonated in ways most branded content doesn’t. “Sometimes you feel like it’s just a drop in the water,” Comte says. “But I want LE NINETY to be the first in that commitment.”

It's about getting people to understand that the current system is broken as well. “The system that supports the import and export of the fashion industry—it can’t survive without businesses like Le Ninety,” Comte says.

He points to two myths: one, that vintage stores “steal” donations; and two, that donating clothes actually helps people overseas. “Instead, we have these ecological nightmares in third world countries. Not only do we exploit them to make the clothes, we send them our waste when we’re done.”

Despite the odds, LE NINETY has maintained a 99.9% sell-through rate. The secret, they says, lies in curation.

The art of the drop

There are fashion trends to keep up with—Carhartt jackets, Y2K silhouettes—but the heart of the process is instinct. “It’s a calling,” says Comte. “When I see an item I like, it’s not an item I like—it’s an item I love and want and need.”

Their picking team includes specialists and curators who help guide every drop. “We go to extreme lengths to make sure the items we sell are high quality, high value, and are desired by our community.”

In a city booming with secondhand options, LE NINETY still feels singular. Comte credits that to values, not trends. “You have to justify your right to exist,” he says. “You occupy public space. You’re creating noise. You have to provide value.”

At LE NINETY, that value is measured in transparency, intention, and cultural relevance. “We don’t think that more vintage stores are a threat to us. It creates a hub,” Comte says. “And every dollar spent at a thrift store helps circularity.”

The store might be named after the past, but it’s perspectives and moves like this that are carving a new kind of future out.