[ad_1]
Waiting behind the men It’s online. “You guys look amazing!” A sweaty man with his workout headphones clearly visible to realize he’s yelling. The men smile, shut up; They stared at him for a moment before placing their hot drink orders.
Fashion Week, or NYFW, comes to New York twice a year — and as veteran attendees like to emphasize, it’s a whirlwind six-day event, a proverbial 26.2-mile run, where more than 75 designers debut their upcoming collections. So every February and September, a new crop of Insider’s Guides advises buyers, reporters, assistants, stylists and the general ticket-buying community where to grab an iced oat-milk double shot latte.
Located at the bottom of Canal Street, surrounded by sidewalk vendors hawking handbags by Prada, Goyard and Fendi, this unique Starbucks is very close to Spring Studios, the main center of Fashion Week since 2015. (Google Maps calls it a six-minute walk, though one has to assume it’s done. In the middle of that time by some desperate assistant on a whimsical morning.) Yes, La Colombe and Blue Bottle (and Bluestone Lane, and Empty Street Coffee, the list goes on), but for die-hard fashionistas running from one show to the next, a Starbucks. What they need is a pit stop. A green and white pedestrian circle with a blue “Rest Area” sign on the highway. It provides all safely Essentials on the go: a quick bite, water bottle, wifi, electrical outlets and crucially in this part of town, a bathroom. is it, By default, the unofficial gas station of New York Fashion Week. Where the global million dollar meets, and the familiar meets the fantastic.
On Saturday, much of this NYFW has yet to open; Around noon, a gaggle of young adults waits in line, clouds of colorful mohair sweaters, platform boots, Telfar bags, spiked loafers. And trembling joy.
“What are you wearing later?” one asks.
“Fashion weekly” Another sings when they leave.
The two tall men sat slouched on the bar stools in the back, shadows still. (“Looks like it’s sold out,” one says to another, scrolling through pictures of the previous night’s shows.) A white faux-fur column—with a center-parted flat blonde chop and gold-framed round sunglasses on top, snakeskin boots—she orders, looking up from her phone. The pole glances over, only to grab the warm pasta off the grill. The giant gold watch on her wrist glinted green and white against the paper bakery bag, then she turned and left, eyes back to her phone.
A woman in a chocolate-colored parka with stiletto boots waits in line for the bathroom, while a 5-year-old girl wears patent leather Doc Martens and a Canadian goose puffer coat. As they waited, the woman told the girl about all the shows they were going to see this afternoon. When the girl starts flirting and then starts crying, they go. Let’s try the one across the street. Other customers with shiny hair and untied shoes simply look at the drinks Line, then duck their head and dart to the toilet.
A Starbucks spokesperson said, “Starbucks is proud to be a meaningful part of the New York City community, and we are honored to serve as a third place to welcome customers and meet over coffee during Fashion Week.”
Edward Wusu, 21, is working the weekend shift. It’s the second fashion week he’s seen in his year as a barista here.
Many fashionable people stop by the workplace every day; After all, Manhattan is downtown. But in early February and early September, there’s a spike in customers who don’t take off their sunglasses when they enter. “I was like, ‘It’s dark in here!’ I mean,” he laughs. And fashion industry clients, “They really need coffee. So many chocolate mochas.
“They have a little something that I don’t know. Almost edge about them,” he said. “A chip on their shoulder.”
On Monday, the 4th day of Fashion Week, our customers look more on edge. A gray-haired, sleek ponytailed female barista in a black double-breasted coat with a long check collar and bright red buttons asks an inaudible question while at work. When he responds in the negative, she nods her head in surprise and walks out. A hunched-over man in sneakers with a camera with long glasses rushes to order hot chocolate and a bag of potato chips. A short, slim man with dark glasses and a black coat with feathered hair draped over his shoulders walked in with a rolled-up suitcase, picked up a frozen drink from the mobile order counter and was out the door within 12 seconds.
A steady stream of customers dressed in head-to-toe black. They’re part of a fleet of NYFW workers who keep the trains running on time (or a nice 30), dressed in black for sophistication and/or inconspicuousness. 40 minutes late)? The only thing that separates them from regular New Yorkers this winter is their official NYFW-branded leggings.
Maggie Yu, a 24-year-old model from London, sits alone in all black as she drinks Spindrift: combat boots, leather pants, a leather trench coat. Today is a day off from going through the shows; Her only appointment before Bach Mai’s show on Tuesday was fitting this morning.
Yu usually spends her off-hours at Fanelli Cafe or the neighborhood coffee place Pause. But today, “I lost data, and I needed WiFi,” she says with a laugh.
As with all of New York City, being here means remembering that you simply cannot be rich enough or beautiful enough to forgo some basic dignity. Even the most glamorous among us have to check email occasionally, hydrate, have to return, have to smell, have to sit down to renegotiate with a sock that keeps on creasing, hot, spongy bacon and Gruyere egg bites on the fly. Whether you buy your bag from the other, glitzier side of Canal Street or from one of the guys outside, here at Starbucks you wound up being human.
On a Monday evening, after dark, three young friends sat at a table far back. Snippets of their speech aired on workers closing up shop. “Sure, you could be at 300k…” “OG influencers…” “…got more followers than Reels…” “…dressed like a Miu Miu model…” “…but you never know what brands are looking for, whether they use your content.
Soon, the fourth – in black shoes, a black scarf and a small black bag on a gold chain – will join. “Cartier?” Asks a seated friend. “Bulgari,” he answered, taking off his coat.
Wusu informed them that it was two minutes before closing time. One of her friends picked up her iPhone charger from the wall. She put them back into her beige coach bag before they all pushed their chairs inside and left.
[ad_2]
Source link
