I’m sure brunch is a respected weekend meal in other cities…but in New York, it’s a holy sacrament. Under normal circumstances, it would be absurd to wait over an hour for fancy eggs and a Bloody Mary. But somehow, this is an acceptable practice on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Most places aren’t so busy until around 1:00, so if you can manage to haul yourself out of bed before noon you won’t be in brunch limbo for very long.
So I was sitting on the bench outside Cafe Mogador in the East Village a week or so ago, watching all the cute dogs and their cute people go by and slowly roasting in the morning humidity. Then this guy sauntered directly out of 1973. I’ve been listening to a lot of T. Rex and glam lately (it’s perfect summertime music) so maybe I was primed to hunger-hallucinate a Marc Bolan lookalike. Even if I’m exaggerating the resemblance, his throwback rockstar look was still perfect. The big mane of curly hair, Chelsea boots, and all the shiny rings and bracelets call back to the free-spirited fashions of of the late sixties, while the slim black jeans look to the austere punk rock future. The halfway-unbuttoned silk shirt is pure mid-seventies, though. The thin white stripes and cubes are an odd combination, but they work together. In the wise words of T. Rex, he ain’t no square with his corkscrew hair.
Waiting for brunch, however, is about as square as you can get. I can accept that, as long as there are pancakes at the end of it.
See more sketches of the outfits and mysteries of New Yorkers in The Art of Style by Kit Mills.
