I was at Material Good on Wooster on a smugly sunny Saturday, post-Barry's, pre-brunch, the ritual where Reilly and I mood board our future tax write-offs. Yoni, her jeweler slash confessor, always lets us try on the rocks by the window so the light hits the diamonds just right. Is it insane to have your engagement ring picked out before the guy? Please. That's not crazy, that's strategic estate planning. Don't worry, we're pitching it to Goldman PWM soon.
"Blue cashmere sweater, Mars Yards, ten o'clock," Reilly whispered to me, locked in. She grazed a KAWS on her fake-bathroom recon and nearly cost us a Birkin. Why men pay Hermès money for Lego statues is beyond me. It's not getting you laid, buddy. You're more likely to get asked to babysit my nephew. She came back glowing. "Thirty-two, maybe forty-one, rainbow Daytona, no ring." Jackpot. Yoni sighed. "That's Wally. Nice guy. One of my best customers. Daytona collector. He's a nice guy... and you two are professionally exhausting." Which, sure, that's our brand. But as Lauryn Hill said, I'm only bout that thing.
I drifted toward the vintage Patek case adjacent to Wally. "Yoni, can I see the 5711?" I asked, all casual, with the tone of a collector. Yoni sighed, "Sure," already knowing I don't buy anything that doesn't naturally sparkle. I'm not into lab grown. He handed it over. "Wait," I said, inspecting the lugs, "has this been polished?" Wally turned immediately. "They always ruin the bevels," he said, tragic and professorial. And that was it. The tone. The knowledge. The energy of a man who understands depreciation curves. I could see us together, and how I'd negotiate the settlement. In crypto, obviously, because hell will freeze before I pay fifty percent on the blood, sweat, Prada, and blowouts that got me here. Praise be, Gwyneth. I smiled, handed the watch back, and said, "Why don't you text me."
Two weeks of silence. I was mid-spiral texting Reilly a stream of consciousness about how men ghost like it's a sport when it hit: Hey, sorry, was in Japan skiing. Dinner Saturday? Japan skiing is stealth wealth for "I'm too good to ski in America." My kind of man. I texted back "sure" like I hadn't already Zillow-stalked his townhouse and thought about how I'd hold property in trust so a similar twenty-nine-year-old couldn't find it twenty years from now. I'd planned some estate moves for when we got serious. Rookie move.
Emmett's, he said. I assumed Grove. When I arrived, I realized I may have been mistaken. Deep dish. Plastic cups. Cheese measured in pounds. Wood benches. My Reformation skirt, The Row top, YSL jacket, and four-inch Manolos screamed wrong location. As condensation from the water pitcher inched closer, I stared in horror at the droplets migrating toward my Bottega. Suede. I tried to act chill like Alexa Chung at Glastonbury on some sort of shrooms, but you can't fix suede, so I certainly wasn't. I texted Reilly: This is not Emmett's on Grove. Suede in danger. Also I wore heels to a pizza place. He's going to think I'm unwell. She replied: Rainbow Daytona. Potential John Mayer money. Persevere.
Wally flipped the menu, where "house wine" was printed in bold at the top. Did they think I was cooking my own pizza and they'd be providing the ingredients? "The reserve list," he said. "Let's do the ninety-seven Harlan Estate." A twenty-five-hundred-dollar pizza wine. I could love this man. He wore a gold 6263 with a Cartier-stamped dial. I'd watched enough Hodinkee to fake fluency. The man had taste, which is to say money.
We split the pizza, and he called me "Megs." I let it slide because my serotonin was decanting. Somewhere between the crust and the last glass I started to feel something fluttery. The kind of feeling I usually reserve for a Delta One seat or a text from my Hermès SA about a Kelly in stock. I touched the 6263 on his wrist to confirm reality. Heavy. Cold. Real.
He asked if I wanted a ride. Outside, an Escalade with plates reading NOT UBER idled. Of course it was his. The kiss was immediate, deliberate, and honestly kind of perfect. He dropped me off, and I snapped a photo of the plates, sending it to Reilly: Private driver. We're one step away from NetJets. She replied with three key emojis, approval and jealousy in picture form.
Emmett's on MacDougal: five out of five. Maybe the true joy of New York and good men is that they can make you forget you're drinking out of plastic cups. read more