Trying On Time in Munich

There’s something about the Germans and time. Not just the usual jokes about punctual trains (which, let’s be honest, in recent years are often late enough to feel oddly comforting to the rest of us), but a deeper fascination. Wander around Nuremberg and you’ll find the old ateliers where horology was once half craft, half wizardry — the kind of places where an apprentice probably spent three years learning how to polish a screw. I’ve written about that before, so if you’re inclined towards dusty manuscripts and ticking mechanisms, there’s a link somewhere in the archives.

This trip, though, wasn’t about the past. It was about the present — or rather, about resisting the future. Specifically, the very shiny and very dangerous future that lurks along Maximilianstraße in Munich. A place where every shopfront seems to size you up and murmur, “Step inside, sir, we have just the thing to ruin your financial stability.”

Munich will happily sell you a beer the size of a flower vase and a pretzel with its own weather system. I, however, went for something smaller: wrist-sized moments. A short walk, a shirt with sleeves that actually roll, a confident posture, and a curiosity that can only be described as financially irresponsible but emotionally honest. I wasn’t there to buy. I was there to learn what watches feel like when they stop being photographs. And so began a small tour — four stops in all — each one offering its own kind of lesson.

Boutiques have a reputation for aloof glass and velvet indifference. Maybe that’s true somewhere, but not here. Step in from the sun and the city seems to muffle itself: soft carpet, softer lighting, staff who somehow manage to be warm without hovering. Whatever else “luxury” might mean, good hospitality is really just good manners — and Munich still teaches that in primary school.

While the plan was loosely mapped, I didn’t exactly leap into the first boutique I saw. In fact, only one of the stops had been booked in advance — strategically, I might add. I’d chosen a slot one hour before closing time, hoping for a quieter space, less foot traffic, and maybe even a touch more conversation. It felt like the horological equivalent of sitting near the emergency exit: a little extra room, with the unspoken understanding that you’re taking this seriously. That appointment was with none other than the watchmaker’s watchmaker: Jaeger-LeCoultre. There’s a reason Jaeger-LeCoultre is often called that way: long before it was selling icons like the Reverso or the Master series, JLC was quietly supplying movements to brands who would never dream of making their own — including names like Audemars Piguet, Vacheron Constantin, and yes, even Patek Philippe. The people who signed the dials often relied on Le Sentier’s workshop to make the ticking bits actually tick.

They didn’t just make ebauches either — they made complications, innovations, entire families of calibres. If you’ve ever worn a vintage Patek (I’d be happy to meet you btw!) and wondered why it felt a bit different, chances are it had a JLC heartbeat. They’ve never been the loudest voice in the room, but they’re often the one that trained everyone else how to sing.

Now, when I’d emailed ahead, they’d asked if there was anything in particular I wanted to see. I mentioned a few models. Just like that, a small handful were set aside for me. Nothing extravagant. Just... considered.

The boutique itself is modest by luxury standards — calm, bright, and pleasantly unflashy. I was greeted by name (still mildly disorienting, no matter how many times it happens), offered a coffee or water, a cookie, and told the associate would be with me shortly. A few minutes later, I was invited into a quieter area, seated comfortably, and presented with a small tray of watches, laid out with the kind of precision that somehow makes you sit straighter. No sales pitch, no theatrics. Just the sense that someone had taken the time to get things right.

Then came the interview. Not a formal one — no clipboard or tie — but the kind of conversational dance that starts when two people realise they speak the same slightly obsessive dialect. The gentleman could tell, right away, that my interest leaned toward the icon: the Reverso. But given the list of references I’d mentioned in my email, it was also clear my mind wasn’t quite made up. A man unsure of his Reverso is still a man of taste — just one with commitment issues.

What followed was a quiet ritual. A leather tray was set down. Gloves offered. A loupe. And then: “Take your time.” One by one, the watches were introduced — not sold, just… presented. I tried them all. Commented. Asked questions. Nodded. Frowned. Admired. There was no pressure, just a shared understanding that watches need to be tried on — not stared at on a screen — before any decisions are made. The conversation naturally shifted to movements and finishing. That’s when the loupe came back, handed over like a library card. Under magnification, the bridges I’d barely noticed earlier revealed crisp, hand-polished edges — no two quite the same. Guilloché, that word you see everywhere in brochures, actually moved when the light caught it. It made sense now — not in theory, but in person.

Then came the wildcard — a piece they’d set aside that I hadn’t expected. A limited edition, they said. Only fifty made per year. No pressure, of course. On one side: the classic Tribute dial in blue sunburst. Elegant, restrained, everything a Reverso should be. On the other side… well, this (see last photo). A skeletonised chronograph dial with retrograde seconds, open-worked bridges, a column wheel, and enough detail to make your brain quietly overheat. I won’t pretend I understood everything I was looking at, but I did understand that I was lucky to be looking at it at all.

Strapped on, it was surprisingly wearable — the Reverso case always looks larger in photos than it feels in person. And while I’m usually drawn to simpler pieces, this one had presence. Not in a loud way. More like someone at a party who doesn’t say much, but when they do, you listen. I gave it back reluctantly, with a polite smile I hoped didn’t look like heartbreak.

We wrapped things up the way these encounters often end: with a warm handshake, the exchange of business cards, and a mutual promise to stay in touch. No hard sell, no “if you buy today” nonsense. Just a quiet understanding that these things take time — and wrists. Before I left, we spoke briefly about another model I’d asked about. A simpler one. No chronograph. No skeletonisation. Just a beautiful, moody Burgundy dial in the Reverso Tribute line. That one stuck with me. Still does.

And maybe that’s the point. Sometimes you go in to see the rarest piece in the collection, and come out thinking about the one that didn’t try too hard. The one that just… fit. I didn’t walk out with a new watch. But I did walk out with a better idea of what I actually want. And a dangerously informative contact saved in my phone.

On the way to my next stop, I made a quick detour — Omega. There was a particular model I’d been meaning to see in person for ages, mostly for its Milanese bracelet. Simple mission. In and out. But walking in, still a bit foggy from the JLC experience, I was greeted by someone who could only be described as an extremely persuasive reason to forget why you came in. What followed was not so much a conversation as a series of fragmented phrases, polite nods, and hand gestures vaguely indicating “bracelet” and “that one, yes, with the mesh.” (What a mesh you’ve made of yourself, buddy…)

Eventually, through photos and shared determination, we found the right model. I tried it on. I admired it. I tried not to notice the price. Then I thanked her, nodded sagely, politely excused myself, and backed away the way one does when exiting a room where someone has just uncorked a bottle of something wildly out of budget.

After those two encounters — one philosophical, the other mildly disorienting — my brain politely requested a reset. I wandered a bit, found a quiet terrace nearby, and sat down for a few minutes. An espresso arrived. I sipped. Breathing resumed. Watches receded into the background noise of clinking cutlery and passing trams, if only for a moment.

Next on my list was Zenith — a brand I truly admire. It’s hard not to, once you’ve heard the story: how, during the quartz crisis, one brave soul (Charles Vermot) quietly hid the plans, tools, and machinery for the El Primero movement in an attic, preserving the brand’s mechanical legacy until the world came to its senses. That kind of quiet rebellion speaks to me. So much so, in fact, that I already own one of their Blueprint models — a love letter to dials, typography, and the geometry of engineering.

The visit itself was brief. The ritual — though not quite as elaborate as JLC’s — still borrowed familiar elements: a tray, gloves, a loupe. Pilot watches were discussed. Heritage models admired. I tried on one or two, nodded approvingly, and considered a leather strap for my Blueprint. Then, somewhere between the words “calfskin” and “€255,” a voice in my head gently whispered, maybe not today. I left the boutique 255 euros richer — or, at the very least, not 255 euros poorer. Which, all things considered, was already a bargain; last time I asked for the same strap in Romania, the local Zenith partner quoted me double. Must’ve been the air freight. Or the air. (Still got the emails to prove it)

Still wandering through the city centre, I found myself drifting — a bit of window shopping at A. Lange & Söhne, a quiet glance at Patek. No real destination. Vacheron-Constantin? Maybe later. The 222 can wait. Just walking then. The kind of walking that happens when the brain needs to cool down and the stomach starts to voice its displeasure at having been ignored.

That’s when I passed a long queue outside Louis Vuitton and couldn’t help but slow down. For a moment, I assumed it was a fire drill, or maybe a heat-induced group hallucination. But no — just people, standing patiently in the sun, waiting to be let in. It was the first time I’d seen a queue for handbags that looked eerily similar to the bread lines of 1980s Eastern Europe. Except now, the scarcity was artificial, and the loaves came with dust bags.

I was about to carry on when something in a nearby window caught my eye. A subtle flash of deep blue. I stopped, stepped back, and leaned in. There it was — a fume dial with large Arabic numerals and cathedral hands, sitting quietly in the far-right corner of the display. I looked at my reflection, tugged discreetly at my shirt (as if rearranging the collar would somehow improve my credit score), and stepped forward. Decision made. The door at the Bucherer boutique opened, revealing a long, elegant hallway. Inside, a gentleman in a perfectly tailored British two-piece met my gaze. He took me in — toe to head, in proper order — and asked, in impeccable English, how he could be of service. In what I hoped passed for confidence, I replied:

“I’m interested in a particular watch model.”
“Certainly,” he said. “Which one?”

That’s when the mental gymnastics began. I didn’t know the reference number, and saying “the one that just stared into my soul from the corner of your window” felt a bit much.
“The blue fume dial one,” I said. “With large Arabic numerals and cathedral hands — far right side of the window.” I raised my left eyebrow in that general direction in what I hoped was the universal signal for “You know, that one.”

“Very well, sir. Would you like to sit down?” he said, gesturing toward a perfectly arranged seating area that looked like it had been plucked from the set of a very tasteful heist film.

I nodded — and before I could fully process what was happening, he’d vanished, presumably to retrieve the piece. A moment later, someone else appeared silently, like a sommelier of serenity, and placed a chilled glass of sparkling water in front of me with a quiet “You’re welcome.” No name, no fuss. Just bubbles and grace.

On the second sip, he returned. And that’s when the Moser moment began.

The watch was placed in front of me — the Heritage Centre Seconds. Deep blue fume dial, luminous cathedral hands, bold Arabic numerals, railway track, no date. Just presence. Not aggressive. Not performative. Just there. It looked like something designed for a different pace of life — slower, more deliberate, maybe even slightly enchanted.

I tried it on. And then just… stared.

Eventually, I took it off and turned it over, the way one might handle something far more fragile than steel. The caseback revealed its own quiet poetry — elegant bridges, blued screws, and finishing that didn’t shout, just invited a closer look. I turned it again. Back. Then again. The gentleman had clearly seen this before — the pause, the moment of suspension — and sat silently, letting me admire it without interruption. Then, gently: “This particular piece is no longer in H. Moser & Cie.’s official collection,” he said. “But we still have it.”

The conversation that followed was easy. Unhurried. We spoke about the movement. The finishing. The rarity. The fact that it doesn’t say Swiss Made on the dial — because, ironically, it’s more Swiss than most watches that do. I nodded. I knew the story. Not everyone does — that’s the funny bit. Most people assume Swiss Made means entirely made in Switzerland. It doesn’t. Legally, a watch only needs about 60% of its value to be Swiss in origin to earn that label. Moser found this irritating enough to simply remove it altogether, in a move that felt equal parts rebellion and pride. A quiet protest from a brand that clearly doesn’t need anyone else's stamp of approval.

Eventually, I handed it back — slowly, like someone returning something they hadn't quite finished reading. The gentleman received it with a nod that said everything: he understood. We spoke a little more — about independent watchmaking, about doing things the hard way, about how simplicity is often just another form of precision. Then silence again, comfortable and unforced. He offered a card, I accepted. I didn’t ask what else they had. I didn’t need to.

I finished the sparkling water, stood up, and thanked him for his time. He walked me to the door — no theatrics, no sudden suggestions — and held it open as I stepped back into the hum of the city. Trams, tourists, street musicians. Everything moving at full speed again.

I checked my watch — the one I came with. It still told the right time. But something about it felt... different. Not wrong. Just a little quieter.