In 2017, the clothing brand Everlane opened its first brick-and-mortar store in Nolita. Right down the block from the former location of the bookstore McNally Jackson, it was a beacon of retail at the time, austere, brightly lit, and installed with shelving that brought to mind a gym locker room at an upscale hotel. It stocked blandly tasteful basics, both men’s and women’s, that promised something like a middle-class millennial American dream: You, too, could wear a white oxford shirt, flat-front chinos, and flesh-colored ballet flats; commute to an office job that mainly consisted of sending e-mails and looking at the internet; and get a craft cocktail at happy hour for ten dollars without having to go home and change.
Everlane was founded in 2011, a paragon of the direct-to-consumer startup wave that saw dozens of well-funded, instantly omnipresent retailers popping up to sell thoughtfully designed toothbrushes, kitchenware, suitcases, and any other mundane accessory that people once would have bought at a department store. The establishment of an Everlane store seemed to represent a triumphant moment for the company’s understated, aspirational vision. The brand’s logo did not appear obviously on its clothes; the designs were resolutely uninteresting, even ignorable. Yet the materials were high-quality, the prices were affordable, and labels informed customers which Chinese factories made up its supply chain. Everlane’s hallmarks were efficiency and transparency—admirable qualities, though they didn’t necessarily inspire long-term loyalty or enthusiasm. Anodyne office wear became less relevant in the era of working from home; it fell to the wayside after the pandemic, as fashion trends veered flashier and logo-heavy. Last week, Everlane was subsumed by the Death Star of online fast-fashion retailers, the Chinese company Shein, best known for its extremely low prices and its habit of duping newly popular designs. On Tuesday, the Everlane co-founder Michael Preysman announced a new project that sounds like a plea: Still Radical. “Same principles, but a new take,” the website reads. “And this time: no venture capital, no private equity.”
Many of the brands that marked the peak of millennial consumer culture have lately been deconstructed or sold off. This year, Allbirds, maker of the squishy sneaker that defined the tech-bro wardrobe, sold its intellectual property to the fashion conglomerate American Exchange Group, and the resulting shell pivoted to building infrastructure for artificial intelligence. BuzzFeed, the publication that defined viral content, sold a majority stake to Byron Allen, a media entrepreneur who also owns the Weather Channel; its founder and C.E.O., Jonah Peretti, stepped down. Blue Apron, the meal-kit startup that shipped prepackaged, pre-sliced ingredients that busy young adults could throw together and feel virtuous about cooking, sold to Wonder Group, an expanding chain of ghost kitchens promising cheffy delivery “for every craving.” Outdoor Voices athleisure, Parade underwear, and Dollar Shave Club toiletries have all disappeared into conglomerates. One Medical, a boutique primary-care provider notable for its soothing, pastel-colored interiors and text-message-based care, sold to Amazon, falling to the same mediocritizing fate as Whole Foods.
Most startups fail, of course. In 2021, I wrote a column about how many of the products offered by these companies were not particularly good to begin with, and how they cloaked their flaws in sleek graphic design and suggestions of “community” with one’s fellow consumers. But this recent wave of consolidation follows a larger pattern. Companies that were initially flooded with investment have found themselves out of cash; what Derek Thompson called the “millennial lifestyle subsidy,” when venture capital incentivized the development of cheap, technologically mediated products ranging from Ubers to wide-legged denim, was revoked. After a number of such companies subsequently flopped, all that was left for the remaining owners or private-equity investors to monetize were the shreds of attachment to the brand names. We are now in that zombified phase when it’s hard to know what the brands even consist of anymore. What was once marketed as a new form of authenticity has degraded to naked profit extraction.
The media brand Food52 is an exemplary case. The company was founded in 2009 by former Times food writers Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs. The site established itself with a friendly, intimate, yet professional tone, gently instructing its readers on how to cook like a grownup. It was early to embrace digital video, making instructional cooking videos and kitchen tours for YouTube, and it capitalized on its authority to launch an e-commerce marketplace, selling starter knives, cutting boards, and ingredients, then manufacturing its own cooking tools. In 2019, the private equity firm T.C.G. acquired a majority stake in Food52; the company immediately scaled up, using the investment to acquire Schoolhouse, a cult-favorite lighting manufacturer, and Dansk, a historic Danish cookware brand. It seemed as though a new cultural landmark was being built, driven by Hesser’s refined taste as C.E.O. Then it all fell apart. T.C.G. installed executives from Walmart and then West Elm. According to reporting in Inc., efforts to scale up and speed up production in the homewares brands caused costs to outpace sales. Layoffs ensued and then, in 2025, Food52 filed for bankruptcy. Schoolhouse and Dansk were sold at bargain prices to more experienced manufacturing operators, while the remaining shell of Food52 was later acquired by one of its chief rivals, America’s Test Kitchen. The financial need to be everything at once, to sell to as many people as possible, denatured a brand that once had devoted fans.
“Slop” is fast becoming the central metaphor for the cultural output of the late twenty-twenties. A.I. produces slop, but so do vampiric private-equity investors and rapacious billionaires, through corporate consolidation and hollow brand-licensing deals. The central promise of the millennial life-style brand was that, with the help of digital technology, new businesses could produce higher quality by cutting out the layers that had accumulated between producers and consumers. If this did not exactly amount to something artisanal, it at least represented a hope that corporate slop could be functional and positive, that products could be both mass-manufactured and part of a better-made, less mediated world. In the Shein era, the offering has declined to unapologetic slop, an ephemeral transaction that loses its appeal once a cycle of online attention has moved on. Just look at Blank Street, a venture-capital-backed international chain of coffee shops with an Everlane-esque aesthetic palette, minus the pretense of conscientious consumption. Unlike the striving third-wave cafés of the twenty-tens, Blank Street stores don’t convey any ideals; they promise neither taste nor provenance, only speed, price, and availability.
My wife, Jess, still owns three of Everlane’s “Boxy Oxford” shirts, in white, that she bought nearly a decade ago. The shirt is made of thick cotton that resists wrinkling. It is cropped in a proportion that is still fashionable. It looks great over a pair of high-waisted pants, which were also a signature Everlane item; the brand’s versatility and modularity made it possible to imagine a whole life measured in sturdy, androgynous basics. We recently bought a crib for our infant son from Nestig, a latecomer to the direct-to-consumer scene that was founded in 2020. It is made of hardwood, pleasant to the touch, and is designed to expand as he grows into toddlerhood. It’s an object that, like so many others, pitches itself into the future—even if it increasingly seems like a relic of the past. ♦
Facts Only
Everlane, a direct-to-consumer clothing brand, opened its first physical store in Nolita, New York, in 2017.
The brand was founded in 2011 and focused on minimalist, high-quality basics with transparent supply chains.
Everlane’s designs were intentionally understated, with no visible logos, targeting millennial professionals.
In 2024, Everlane was acquired by Shein, a fast-fashion retailer known for low prices and design replication.
Everlane’s co-founder, Michael Preysman, announced a new venture called Still Radical, emphasizing no venture capital or private equity involvement.
Allbirds, a shoe company, sold its intellectual property to American Exchange Group in 2024 and pivoted to AI infrastructure.
BuzzFeed sold a majority stake to media entrepreneur Byron Allen, and its founder, Jonah Peretti, stepped down.
Blue Apron, a meal-kit company, was acquired by Wonder Group, a ghost kitchen operator.
Outdoor Voices, Parade, and Dollar Shave Club were absorbed into larger conglomerates.
One Medical, a primary-care provider, was acquired by Amazon.
Food52, a cooking and homewares brand founded in 2009, filed for bankruptcy in 2025 after private equity acquisition and expansion failures.
Food52’s assets, including Schoolhouse and Dansk, were sold off, and the remaining brand was acquired by America’s Test Kitchen.
Blank Street Coffee, a venture-backed chain, exemplifies a shift toward prioritizing speed and price over quality or branding.
The author’s wife owns Everlane’s "Boxy Oxford" shirts, purchased nearly a decade ago, which remain durable and stylish.
The author purchased a crib from Nestig, a direct-to-consumer brand founded in 2020, designed for long-term use.
Executive Summary
The article examines the decline of millennial-focused direct-to-consumer brands like Everlane, Allbirds, and Food52, which once promised a blend of affordability, quality, and ethical transparency. These companies, backed by venture capital, thrived in the 2010s by offering minimalist, aspirational products—from office wear to kitchenware—marketed as alternatives to traditional retail. However, shifting consumer habits post-pandemic, financial mismanagement, and the withdrawal of investor subsidies have led to their collapse or acquisition by larger conglomerates. Everlane, for instance, was recently acquired by Shein, a fast-fashion giant known for low prices and design replication, marking a stark contrast to its original ethos. Similarly, Food52’s expansion under private equity led to financial strain and eventual bankruptcy, with its assets sold off piecemeal. The broader trend reflects a shift from "authentic" branding to profit-driven consolidation, where once-distinctive companies are reduced to hollowed-out shells. The piece highlights how the initial promise of disrupting corporate slop has given way to a new era of unapologetic, disposable consumerism, exemplified by brands like Blank Street Coffee, which prioritize convenience over craftsmanship or values.
The narrative also critiques the venture capital model that fueled these brands, suggesting that the "millennial lifestyle subsidy" artificially propped up businesses that ultimately lacked sustainable demand. As investment dried up, many companies were left with little more than brand recognition to monetize, leading to acquisitions by firms with no commitment to their original missions. The article contrasts this with enduring products, like Everlane’s durable oxford shirts, which retain value despite the brand’s decline. The overarching question is whether this cycle of hype, consolidation, and degradation reflects a broader cultural shift away from meaningful consumption—or simply the inevitable outcome of capital chasing fleeting trends.
Full Take
The rise and fall of millennial lifestyle brands like Everlane and Food52 reveal a broader pattern of venture capital distorting markets by subsidizing unsustainable business models. These companies thrived by selling an illusion of authenticity—minimalist design, ethical sourcing, and community—while relying on investor cash to undercut traditional retailers. The pandemic accelerated their decline, as remote work reduced demand for office wear and financial pressures exposed their lack of genuine customer loyalty. The acquisition of Everlane by Shein, a company synonymous with disposable fashion, underscores the irony: brands that once positioned themselves as alternatives to corporate slop are now being absorbed by its most aggressive purveyors.
This trend reflects a systemic issue in modern capitalism, where the pursuit of scale and profit erodes the very values that made these brands appealing. Private equity’s role in Food52’s collapse is particularly telling—executives from Walmart and West Elm imposed growth targets that prioritized short-term gains over the brand’s original mission, leading to financial ruin. The result is a cultural landscape dominated by "slop": products and services stripped of craftsmanship, meaning, or durability, designed solely for fleeting consumption. The shift from Everlane’s understated basics to Blank Street Coffee’s cynical convenience mirrors a broader degradation of consumer expectations, where even the pretense of quality is discarded.
The deeper implication is a loss of agency for both consumers and creators. When brands are reduced to hollowed-out assets, the relationship between producer and buyer becomes purely transactional, devoid of trust or shared values. The question remains: Was this inevitable, or could a different model—one that prioritizes sustainability over scale—have succeeded? And what does it say about our culture that the most enduring products from this era, like Everlane’s oxford shirts, are relics of a past idealism?
Patterns detected: ARC-0024 Ambiguity (in the framing of "authenticity" as a marketing tool), ARC-0043 Motte-and-Bailey (brands initially promising ethical values but retreating to profit-driven consolidation).
Sentinel — Human
The text functions as a cohesive, highly opinionated critique grounded in specific examples, strongly indicating human authorship focused on synthesizing economic trends and consumer culture.