Birkenstock Boston Clog, Reviewed: The Internet's Favorite Slides Are Worth the Hype

The Birkenstock Boston clog is one of the most recognizable and riffed-upon shoes in the business—but until recently, it was also one of the most polarizing. From the outset, the centuries-old German footwear brand was loathe to bill its shoes as fashion items, instead categorizing them as “health products” and marketing them accordingly.

Birkenstock might've been hesitant to cater to the fashion crowd, but the feeling wasn't mutual. And no silhouette did more to endear the brand to the non-geriatric set than the Boston, a closed-toe clog the brand introduced in 1979. In the time since, the Boston has experienced a few buzzy moments—it was ubiquitous on college campuses in the ‘80s, it started showing up in stores next to outdoors-y shoes in the ’90s, it became a very #menswear off-duty staple in the 2010s—but none quite as impressive as the one it's enjoying now.

As recently as last fall, select pairs were going for twice their retail price on the aftermarket. In October, The New York Times reported that sales of the Boston were “up double digits”; in December, the Boston topped Lyst's ranking of the hottest products of the quarter. Which means after decades of hanging out on the periphery of the fashion conversation, the Boston is no longer the sole domain of farmer's market regulars or low-key style gods (though, of course, it remains a favorite of both): it's officially gone mainstream.

Thankfully, supply of Birkenstock's hero product has finally adjusted accordingly. It's no exaggeration to say that the Boston is everywhere right now: on your timeline, your TikTok feed, those grainy paparazzi shots you saved down in your “summer vibes” folder. If, somehow, you don't own a pair yet, you're probably wondering what all the fuss is about—and whether they're remotely worth the ruckus. So as a longtime Boston acolyte, I’m here to make the case.

What Are They Made Of?

The Platonic version of the Boston features a suede upper, suede-covered cork footbed, a touch of natural latex, and a rubber outsole. Over the last few years, the brand has also rolled out versions made with oiled leather, shearling linings, or a proprietary synthetic nubuck it calls Birkibuc, but the OG suede joint still sets the standard. It offers just enough structure to protect your foot, but it's still soft enough to wear like a house shoe.

Birkenstock offers two versions of its footbed: the Classic and the Soft. The Soft footbed (SF) is exactly what it sounds like, and it makes for a shoe that's about as plug-and-play as sneaker alternatives get. You can easily wear yours fresh out of the box without missing a beat—or messing up your feet.

The Classic footbed (CF), though, requires a little bit of breaking in. I tend to wear new pairs around the house until they soften up, but once you've worn for them a little, they mold to your feet impressively. Why bother with the CF at all, then? Well, the Bostons equipped with the Soft footbed might be more comfortable, at least initially, but they tend to wear out a bit faster and, in my experience, offer a slightly less precise foot mold. Though the CF requires some front-end patience, the result is a long-lasting, near-custom footbed as comfortable as any other.

How Do They Wear?

I’m now on my ninth—or is it tenth?—pair of SF Bostons. My previous pair (pictured above) clocked about six months of near-daily wear, and I logged some serious miles in them: per my snitch-ass iPhone, I’ve walked an average of 5.6 miles per day over the past six months, or roughly 12,500 steps—as evidenced by that terrifying heel drag. My gait isn’t what you'd consider “light on footwear,” either, and those Bostons were present for probably 50 percent of that distance. They lasted at least five and a half months without the hole you're eyeing in horror, and only started really breaking down after about the four-month mark. For those following along at home, that’s over 650 miles logged without any noticeable deterioration—and my feet still feel great. (If that hole is making you nervous, my alternatives were limited given the supply shortage, and I only wore them with pretty thick socks; things just escalated quickly once I hit cork.)

How Do They Fit?

Comfort is king here. The Boston was designed as an orthopedic shoe, so if your feet are hurting, something's amiss. The toe box is wide, the upper is soft, there’s nothing eating at your achilles, and your arches are more supported than your friend with a trust fund. With socks or without them, during (dry) winter months and (most) summer months, walking for hours or sitting on your couch: there’s few contexts they won’t service you well in.

Size-wise, the Boston hews pretty close to standard sneaker convention—I wear a 9 in most sneaker brands, and 42 in these—but with a two-tiered caveat: there are no half-sizes, which means that, because of the footbed’s fairly pronounced heel cup, it’s probably best to size up if you’re in between. That being said, the cork midsole compresses with molding, the suede stretches a little bit with wear, and you don’t have a back to keep you anchored, so you don’t want to go too big.

How Do They Look?

For most of their existence, Birkenstocks were considered almost anti-style, and their granola-adjacent placement didn't help. But that doesn't matter much in the context of menswear's extinction-of-rules, wild-style era. Because in that context, they look absolutely fantastic.

The wide toe-box syncs up easily with wide(r) hemlines—break, cuff, cropped, you named it—and the earthy tones make color coordination an afterthought. The vamp frames the ankle in a way that encourages some exposure, but also plays nice with thick, marled camp socks. The overall silhouette looks killer with all the pants I’ve worn them with—and the scale of my pants collection is so vast I’d lie about it on my deathbed.

But Are They Really Worth It?

So, does all of that make the Birkenstock Boston clog worth it? (If you thought my answer here was going to be anything other than an emphatic “hell yes”, you might want to scroll back to the top and start over.) My hallway is overrun with shoes, but somehow the Boston wins at least half of the Out the Door Battles. It's the most comfortable shoe I own, it pairs with an obscene number of silhouettes, and its unfussy disposition makes slipping it on the easiest decision of my day.

There are, of course, a handful of cons to consider, but they're fairly negligible. They get beat up easily (most suede shoes do); they can wear down in strange ways; the toe box has a propensity to stretch; and I can't really recommend wearing them to do any strenuous physical activity—though I do have a friend who occasionally rock climbs in hers, so the potential to surprise is there. Other than that, though? Pretty damn unimpeachable.

Sure, there are copycats on the market—some nice, some less so—but none do it quite as well as the original. So if you walk away from this convinced you're about to buy the bodega-run shoe of your dreams, more power to you—but fair warning, they'll get promoted to your permanent rotation pretty soon, and once they crack that rotation, they'll stay there for good. Don't worry: We’re in great company.