admin On my way out of the grocery store last week, a floppy-haired dude in Jordan 12s sized me up, squinted at my feet, and snickered. I looked behind me, suddenly terrified I was trapped in a bizarro Tim Robinson sketch on checkout etiquette. Then I looked down. I was wearing the Birkenstock Gizeh, a pleasantly crunchy, quasi-Egyptian flip-flop the brand introduced in the ‘80s—and if anecdotal evidence is any indication, it’s been dividing onlookers ever since.
As far as I can tell, the Gizeh’s cushy bona fides aren’t the issue. Folks seem to have few qualms with its orthotic cork-latex footbed, a hallmark of Birkenstock’s more popular styles. They don’t have beef with its EVA outsole, either, which is charmingly squidgy and extremely supportive, characteristics you’ll appreciate when you’re schlepping groceries home and need the extra cushioning. What really grinds their gears is the synthetic leather strap that criss-crosses the upper expanse of the foot, tapering to a single thong that slots neatly between the toes. (The Gizeh is technically billed as unisex, but Birkenstock also sells the Ramses, a near-identical men’s version equipped with a marginally thicker strap.)
They’re flip-flops for the health-store crowd, basically—and unlike the widely beloved Boston or the long-since-canonized Arizona, they’ve got no shortage of haters. Which, to be clear, is a very good thing. Because the Birkenstock Gizeh accomplishes what all divisive swerves should: earn you a few knowing nods from the real heads who salute your game while riling up the purists still bleating about the fundamentals.
I get it, to some extent; a couple of years ago, I would’ve been just as skeptical as they are. For decades, flip-flops represented menswear’s third rail, famously dunked on by taste gods like Tom Ford and the otherwise kind-vibed braintrust behind this very publication. The Gizeh, though, feels less like a flip-flop and more like the fisherman sandal’s Deadhead cousin, and it makes a strong case for reconsidering the silhouette’s non grata status. If you can get past the gnarly tan lines, what the Gizeh really promises is the chance to borrow the stoner cool of the guy manning the honey stall at your local farmer’s market, who probably inherited the farm from his parents, and definitely whips a sick vintage Jeep.
Their remit extends far beyond the beach, too; the less expected the context, the more righteous the flex. They downplay the formality of any outfit you’d normally wear with loafers and up the weird quotient when your canvas beaters feel too tame. I’ve worn them with a double-breasted linen blazer and faded jeans, fraying chino cutoffs and a pocket tee, and a striped button-up and double-pleated trousers—a combination that made me look like a dad who’s trying to do better and can’t understand why the kids never visit him in the Hamptons. Sure, occasionally it bums me out to expose my toes for free, but slapping a fresh coat of polish on my blushing piggies feels like a tantalizing enough compromise until my FeetFinder pops off.
Along the way, they’ve elicited a chorus of chortles, harrumphs, and tsk-tsks, including from one apoplectic Allbirds fan who glanced at my shoes and promptly turned into a sentient version of the steaming face emoji. To which I say: Enough already. Birkenstock’s granola-adjacent pedigree gives off a vaguely peacenik vibe, but if I see you fellas laughing at me in the grocery store you might just catch these feet.
