Late last week, I had lunch with my friend Jodie, a costume designer and the most stylish person I know. She lives on Lower Fifth but, because she had some errands to run, she asked if we could meet in SoHo. “Sure,” I said, since this location meant one less stop on the F. “Where do you want to go?”

“Hmmm,” she said, clearly thrown. She was on her cell phone, walking her new dachshund puppy, Morrys (“with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘i’, ’cause she’s a girl”). “There’s that cute masala dosa place, but it can be tight on seating … ” her voice trailed off for a moment, but then came back with a sharp, “No, don’t eat that!”

Since the only place I could come up with was Dean & Deluca, we decided to meet by the ATMs in the lobby of a corner Chase bank.

“One of us will have thought of something by then, or we can walk around a find a place,” she said, then added, “No, Morrys, that’s not yours!” followed by a sheepish, away-fromreceiver “Sorry!”

We arrived at the appointed time, kissed hello, and noted we were wearing the same sandals – those Dr. Scholl’s with the plastic bottoms that came out last year. Hers were red and mine were orange. I’m always thrilled to discover we have a clothing item in common.

“I love these shoes,” she said.”They’re like a godsend.”

“I know,” I said. But, I wondered, was our both wearing these shoes really a good thing?

When I lived in the West 70s, I always knew that minute’s about-to-be-last-minute’s trend. All one had to do was walk down the street and count the passing pastel pashminas. I remembered the day I passed a street vendor and saw that those Longchamp totes had gone the way of those square black Kate Spade bags.

Where I live now, people definitely have style. But Brooklyn lacks critical mass and volume – and, of course, I work from home – so I had no idea how to gauge current fashion hierarchies.

Last year, I discovered what I thought were the greatest pair of sneakers. They were black leather, and, from a distance, could almost be mistaken for real shoes. And, perhaps most magically, they made a Velcro closure look cool.

I bragged about them for days until someone said, “Yeah, the Puma Mostros.They’re everywhere now.” Living in Brooklyn had totally dulled my trendar. “Is everyone wearing these shoes now?” I asked. “No,” she said, catching my drift. “Everyone’s wearing metallic-colored sandals.” “Metallic-colored sandals,” I nodded, very in-ter-est-ing. I’d totally missed that one. “Yup,” she said. “About a week ago, I was thinking ‘Oooh, those are cute, maybe I should get some.’ But a couple days later, I realized they were the next Marc Jacobs rectangular hobo bag.” “Ummm,” I said, nodding. Missed that one, too. How many trends behind was I? Did I even care now? Should I care that I wasn’t sure I cared? Rather than sussing this out further, I turned my focus to the task at hand – finding a suitable lunch place. “The new Bloomingdale’s cafe is supposed to be nice,” Jodie said. “But something about it depresses me.” Concluding that Broadway was the problem, we headed westward. “There has to be something better this way,” Jodie reasoned. “Something more neighborhood.” We wandered for a few more blocks, but still came up empty.The streets were packed with teenagers in strapless velour baby-doll dresses. “It’s weird,” Jodie said. “I live – what? – 15 blocks from here, but I never come here.” I nodded, able to see why, and Jodie said, “I’m just glad I dropped Morrys off at her doggy daycare.” About 10 sweaty minutes later we found ourselves in front of a high-end chainstore selling French bath products. A blackboard sign touted its second-floor cafe. “Well,” I said, “it has nice windows. And at least we know it’ll smell good in there.” “Yeah,” said Jodie, now too hot to care,”like soap and olive oil.” We entered, and, making our way to the restaurant, took in the store’s generic Frenchness. “They do have nice hand lotion here,” Jodie told me on the staircase. The cafe itself was pretty full, and the window views were indeed nice. Once seated, we each ordered the quiche-and-salad special advertised on the sign outside. Our waitress, a pretty if plain, Midwestern-looking girl, thanked us for our orders. Jodie leaned in and said, “Okay, Eve, I don’t want to complain, but take a look around here.” I put down my water and began scanning the room. A New York City guidebook rested on a good three-quarters of the tables.At the one directly next to us a tan man with bright white teeth was giving his lunch companions a hard pitch on spa products. “Where are we?” Jodie said. “I don’t know,” I said. “Las Vegas?”