When George Hahn is not needling, charming, or entertaining the quarter of a million souls who follow him on Twitter, he is publishing sharp and incisive essays on his eponymous Web site, hosting (and guest-hosting) the occasional podcast, and further refining his sartorial signatures. An ardent, longtime New Yorker and chronic raconteur of city life, Hahn presides over his slice of the Upper West Side with style and gravitas. He’s popular and talked about, for very good reason. Herewith, he shares his key components to the good life. —Ashley Baker
Airline: One that operates on time, with a perfect safety record, plenty of legroom, and a dress code.
Airport: The Pan Am Worldport at J.F.K. in the 1960s.
Alibi: “I was tanning my balls during the incident in question.”
App: Twitter.
Bag: Any great-looking, well-made bag with little-to-no dead animal on it.
Bedtime: Midnight.
Bike: The Brompton. It’s the perfect city bicycle and should be part of the Architecture and Design collection at MoMA.
Birthday: Mine—November 15.
Boyfriend: A smart, handsome, nicely dressed older man who knows how to make me think, make me laugh, make me hard, and make me coffee.
Breakfast, weekday: GoLean Crunch with non-dairy yogurt, blueberries, raisins, chia seeds, and honey. Or oatmeal.
Breakfast, weekend: Farro and quinoa at Tarallucci e Vino.
Car: One that gets from A to B with zero emissions, minimal noise, maximum safety, and ultimate style.
Child: Pass.
Cocktail: Shirley Temple. And not a dirty one. The O.G., with the right balance of a good ginger ale and grenadine.
Cocktail appetizer: Raw oysters.
Couple: Cary Grant and Randolph Scott. I mean, come on.
Date: Cocktails or mocktails, a delicious dinner, perhaps a movie or a show, and really good sex.
Diet: Vegan-adjacent, which allows for the occasional bit of fish and dairy when I’m out and about.
Dinner, weekday: Cafe Luxembourg, Blossom, or Viand, my local diner.
Dinner, weekend: Chipotle or Chinese at home.
Disguise: A baseball cap and a hoodie. No one would believe it’s me.
Dress: Navy wool suit, navy grenadine tie, crisp white poplin shirt with French cuffs, black oxfords, brogues, or chukka boots—or, as I call it, “international-luxury-conglomerate-C.E.O. chic.”
Drive: Back to Manhattan.
Enemy: The one who left town or died.
Escape: Silence.
Excuse: “I was young, naïve, and desperate for the attention and the money.”
Family: One that agrees on how to take care of Mom.
First Lady/First Man: Michelle and Barack. Let’s be real.
Fit: One that conforms to the body but doesn’t squeeze it.
Flaw: A gap tooth, a crooked nose, a scar, a lazy eye, something … because there’s nothing less interesting and more characterless than a perfect face.
Foil: Aluminum.
Friend: Someone who shows up.
Good-bye:
A look, knowing that we’re square, that we’ve said all that needs to be said.
Hideaway: My apartment.
Hotel: The TWA Hotel at J.F.K. It’s respectful of Saarinen’s original Flight Center, with attention to every 1962 detail. It’s a very sexy hotel with a delicious dose of whimsy.
Indulgence: A chocolate-chip cookie from Levain Bakery.
Insult: “You’re worried about getting a better table and you left the house wearing that?”
Jacket: Midnight blue, tailored, with a three-roll-two, three-and-a-half-inch lapels, pick stitching, and functional sleeve buttons.
Kiss-off: “Go fuck yourself.”
Last Meal: Moules frites at the Odeon.
Lunch, weekday: Anything at the Tin Building by Jean-Georges.
Lunch, weekend: An omelette.
Match: Peanut butter and jelly.
Movie: All About Eve.
Name: Steve McQueen.
Neighbor: Quiet, clean, not weird. (Tall order, I know.)
Nonfiction book: How to Be a Man, by Glenn O’Brien.
Novel: The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, by John le Carré.
Pants: Slim-straight jeans from Tellason.
Pet: Rescue dog. No designer breeds.
Piece of advice: “Always do your best.” —Dad
Podcast: Pivot.
President: Obama.
Restaurant: Cafe Luxembourg.
Ride: The subway.
Saying: “Fer mee … ”
Second spouse: We’d have to start with a first one. (See below.)
Shoes: Alden cordovan wing tips or Crockett & Jones chukka boots.
Singer: Ella Fitzgerald.
Spouse: Oh, no, thank you.
Storm: I love a great rainstorm that brings the temperature from 85 degrees to 75. The storm should last no more than a half-hour.
STREET: Minetta Street in the West Village.
Television series: Mad Men.
Theme song to your life: “What Kind of Fool Am I?,” by Sammy Davis Jr.
Time of day: Two p.m.
Toast: Always brief, because you’re interrupting people’s drinking and flirting. It should be three minutes or less, beginning and ending with a good joke.
Vacation: That rare series of days where the world completely fucks off and I have absolutely no obligations to anyone … and a time when I can enjoy the luxury of true quiet.
Victim: One who gets to enjoy the perfect revenge, emerging triumphant.
View: The New York City skyline (or at least a piece of it).
Wake-up time: Seven a.m.
Weekend bag: Voyager Waxed Weekender Bag (in black), by Boarding Pass.
Work of art: F-111, by James Rosenquist.
Writing implement: The Parker Jotter.
George’s Essentials
