I still remember exactly where I was when I first spotted it. Standing in line at my local coffee shop in Williamsburg, killing time on Instagram, dodging emails from my editor about a deadline I was definitely going to miss, when there it was—Reformation’s Caserta dress on my feed. Just sitting there, looking all innocent, like it hadn’t been strategically engineered to make me question every dress purchase I’d made in the last five years. I almost dropped my oat milk latte on the guy in front of me. “That’s it,” I whispered to absolutely no one. “That’s the one.”
What I didn’t know then was that approximately 14,999 other people were having this exact same revelation at the exact same time.
Look, I’ve been writing about fashion long enough to recognize when something is going to hit that sweet spot of mass appeal while still feeling somehow personal. But even I didn’t predict the absolute pandemonium that would follow. The Caserta—a seemingly simple slip dress with the perfect cowl neck, delicate straps, and a side slit that somehow makes your legs look nine feet long—sold out within 48 hours of its release. Then the waitlist started growing. First hundreds, then thousands. Last I checked, it was hovering around 15,000 people and showing no signs of slowing down.
For context, that’s roughly the population of a small town all waiting for the same dress. We could form our own municipality. The Republic of People Who Really Want That One Reformation Dress. We could have elections and everything.
So what makes this particular dress worth the three-month wait that Reformation is currently estimating for restock? God, I wish the answer were more complicated and fashion-intellectual, but it’s stupidly simple: it just makes everyone look good. And I mean everyone. I’ve seen it on my friend Emma who’s 5’2″ and curvy, my colleague Taylor who’s 5’10” and basically shaped like a runway model, and my sister’s roommate who falls somewhere in between. It looks phenomenal on all of them. It’s like some sort of dark fashion magic that shouldn’t be possible.
I have a theory about this, which I developed during the fourteen hours I spent scouring the internet for a similar dress after realizing I was number 8,423 on the waitlist. (To the guy sitting next to me at the coffee shop where I did this research: sorry for my increasingly desperate sighs as each lookalike proved inferior.)
The Caserta has somehow managed to nail what I call the “Triple S” factor—silhouette, simplicity, and stretch. The bias-cut gives it that ’90s Kate Moss vibe that flatters pretty much everyone because it skims rather than clings. The simplicity means it’s a chameleon piece that can be dressed up or down. And the material has just enough give to mold to your body without exposing what you ate for lunch. It’s like the dress equivalent of a really good therapist—supportive but not restrictive, and makes you feel better about yourself.
Plus, there’s that price point—$248. Not cheap by any normal human standard (I can hear my dad having a coronary from here), but in that dangerous sweet spot where you can justify it as an “investment piece” without having to sell a kidney. It’s just expensive enough to feel special but not so expensive that you need to have a moral crisis every time you wear it.
I tried to explain this phenomenon to my boyfriend last week while obsessively refreshing the Reformation website at dinner. “It’s like,” I gestured wildly with my fork, nearly taking out the waiter, “the perfect dress. Do you understand? The PERFECT dress.”
He looked up from his pasta. “Didn’t you say that about the black one you bought last month? And the green one before that?”
I stared at him like he’d suggested fashion was subjective or something equally ridiculous. “Those were different perfect dresses for different reasons. This is the perfect perfect dress. The platonic ideal of a dress. Plato would wear this dress.”
“I don’t think Plato wore dresses,” he said, clearly missing the point entirely.
But here’s the embarrassing truth I didn’t tell him: I actually did manage to get my hands on a Caserta. Through means that I’m not entirely proud of, which involved setting alerts on six different shopping apps, creating a dedicated email address just for restock notifications, and—I’m not kidding—bribing my friend who works at Reformation with an obscene amount of wine to text me the moment they received any shipment. (Jess, if you’re reading this, the Barolo was worth it.)
When it finally arrived, I did what any normal fashion editor would do: I canceled all my plans, tried it on with every shoe and accessory I own, and had an impromptu photoshoot in my apartment, which my neighbors definitely saw because I keep forgetting to buy curtains. And you know what? It really is that good. It’s the unicorn of dresses—the one you can throw on with sneakers for a coffee run, then pair with heels for dinner, and somehow look appropriate for both.
But let’s be real—most of you reading this will still be languishing in waitlist purgatory for months. So what do you wear while counting down the days until your Caserta arrives? I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time researching alternatives, and I have thoughts.
First, there’s Aritzia’s Vivienne dress ($98), which has a similar slip silhouette but with slightly thicker straps and no side slit. The material isn’t quite as luxe as Reformation’s, but it has that same flattering bias cut and comes in about twenty colors. I bought it in black and a mossy green, and while it doesn’t have quite the same “I’m a slightly cooler version of myself” effect as the Caserta, it’s a solid 8/10.
Then there’s Realisation Par’s The Naomi ($250), which has been around longer and has that same ’90s slip dress energy, though the leopard print version has become a bit ubiquitous on Instagram. Still, their solid colors are fantastic, and the silk has a beautiful drape that looks more expensive than it is. One warning: the sizing runs small. Like, “maybe size up twice” small. Learn from my mistakes, people.
For a more budget-friendly option, J.Crew has surprised me with their Gwyneth slip dress ($138). It’s more structured than the Caserta and doesn’t have that perfect cowl neck, but the quality is surprisingly good for the price, and it comes in tall sizes, which my 5’11” assistant Caroline says is “actually legitimately tall and not fake tall.” (Fashion brands, please note: adding a half-inch of fabric and calling it “tall” isn’t fooling anyone.)
If you’re willing to go higher-end while waiting, Nanushka’s Sade dress ($395) has a similar vibe with a more architectural feel, and their vegan leather options are unexpectedly comfortable for all-day wear. I wore mine to a wedding last summer and didn’t have that usual “I can’t wait to get home and take this off” feeling by 10 PM, which is basically the highest compliment I can give a dress.
And finally, this is probably fashion blasphemy, but Abercrombie & Fitch (yes, really) has a Cowl Slip Midi Dress ($70) that captures some of the Caserta magic at a fraction of the price. Is the material as nice? No. Will it last as long? Probably not. But it looks shockingly good on, and no one will know it’s not the coveted Reformation dress unless they’re close enough to feel the fabric, in which case you have bigger boundary issues to worry about than fashion authenticity.
Now, when your Caserta finally does arrive (stay strong, number 11,457 on the waitlist), here’s how to style it so it lives up to all your dress-based fantasies:
For daytime, I’ve been wearing mine with a slightly oversized blazer (current favorite is an ’80s men’s Armani I found at a vintage store in the East Village), simple gold jewelry, and either white sneakers or those chunky fisherman sandals that are everywhere right now. The key is to add something slightly unexpected—a brightly colored bag, statement sunglasses, or in my case, the vintage men’s watch my grandfather left me that’s completely impractical but makes every outfit look more interesting.
For evening, it needs almost nothing. Seriously. A strappy heel, maybe some delicate jewelry, and you’re done. The mistake people make with a dress this good is overaccessorizing. It’s like putting ketchup on a perfect steak. Just let it do its thing.
For cooler weather (because I refuse to only wear this dress for three months of the year after all that effort), I’ve been experimenting with a thin turtleneck underneath, which sounds weird but looks surprisingly chic in a ’90s minimalist way. Or a chunky cardigan on top, with the dress peeking out below like you just threw it all together without trying.
The true test of the Caserta’s power came last week, when I wore it to my high school reunion. There’s no more intimidating fashion audience than people who remember you during your awkward phase. (Special shoutout to everyone from St. Catherine’s who had to witness my brief but intense period of wearing two different colored socks with platform Skechers. I regret nothing.)
I walked in wearing the dress with simple gold hoops and black strappy sandals, and you know what? Three different people asked me if I was “still modeling.” I have never modeled. Not once in my life. The closest I’ve come to modeling was being asked to “stand there and try not to trip” during a fashion internship when one of the actual models called in sick.
That’s the power of this dress. It creates an alternate reality where people assume you have a glamorous side career.
So yes, it’s worth getting on that waitlist. In the meantime, try one of my alternatives, or do what I did before my bribery finally paid off: take a screenshot of the Caserta to your local tailor and see if they can make something similar. Mine couldn’t (“Ma’am, I alter clothes, I don’t create couture from photos”), but you might have better luck.
Or maybe just wait. Some things, like finding the perfect pair of vintage Levi’s or naturally mastering the perfect messy bun, can’t be rushed. The Caserta will be there when your number is called, ready to make you feel like the main character in your own life. Even if that character spends an embarrassing amount of time thinking about dresses.
