Why the Rolex Datejust Ref. 1601 Might Be the Only Watch You Ever Need

It’s the kind of question that seems simple at first.
The obvious move? Go grail. Go loud. Pick the one that makes the guys at the table nod in approval. But the longer I sat with it, the more I realized how layered that question really is.

Because when you’re talking about the one, you’re not talking about hype.
You’re talking about something that shows up every day and still feels right.
You’re talking about longevity. Balance. Quiet confidence.
A piece that doesn’t beg for attention—but earns it.

And that’s when I kept circling back to a reference I’ve lived with, traveled with, and returned to again and again. A reference—and more broadly, a model—that I’ve handled literally hundreds of times over my tenure as a vintage watch dealer. Every shape, size, era, configuration, metal composition. I’ve seen them all.

Now, you might ask: Why a 1601 with a silver dial?
Isn’t that the most basic version—the plain-Jane setup?
Why not the 1603 with the engine-turned bezel? Or the 1600 with the smooth steel? What about the gold variants? The two-tone stuff? Or something with a bit more character—an exotic dial, a ghost, a linen, maybe even a mosaic?

Fair questions. And don’t get me wrong—those are great watches. I get just as excited about hunting those down as the next guy.

But that’s not what this is about.

I’ve been dealing vintage watches for over a decade now, and at this point, I’ve had—hell, I don’t know—hundreds of Rolex Datejusts pass through my hands. Some familiar. Some weird in all the right ways. There’s no shortage of variety. The Datejust is one of those references where the deeper you go, the more endless it feels. You could build an entire collection around them and still never hit bottom. So many dials, bezels, bracelets, metals—just when you think you’ve seen it all, something else shows up that changes your mind.

But for the sake of the “Case Study” series—and to spotlight what I think is one of the most iconic executions—this specific example from 1973 felt like the right candidate. If we’re gonna talk Datejusts, and more specifically the 1601, this is the one worth holding under the light.

Rolex began producing the ref. 1601 in the late 1950s, with most examples dating from around 1959 through the late ’70s. Eventually, the four-digit Datejusts were phased out in favor of the newer five-digit range—models like the 16014, which brought in the Caliber 3035 and the convenience of a quick-set date. You start seeing that shift in the late ’70s, fully realized by the early ’80s.

And don’t get me wrong—I’m a big fan of Rolex’s transitional periods, especially within the Datejust line. Those in-between years often produce some of the most compelling watches—subtle design shifts, oddball combos, and moments where the brand was clearly figuring things out in real-time.

But there’s just something about a four-digit Datejust that hits differently. It’s not trying to be clever. It’s not trying to evolve. It just is. Solid. Certain. No frills, no fluff—just Rolex doing what Rolex did best. When I see a clean one, I can’t help but nod. Maybe even smirk a little. It feels like home base. Like no matter how far out into the weeds this rabbit hole goes, this is the one you can always come back to. Just last week, the Hodinkee team was out in L.A. for an event, and I had breakfast with my old friend Rich Fordon at the Sunset Tower Hotel—a local haunt I find myself in often. As we were walking to our table, I noticed a well-dressed guy across the room, suited up, having his own breakfast. On his wrist? A silver dial ref. 1601.

As we passed, he looked up and said, “Hey Cam.”
It was Hodinkee’s Deputy Editor, Tim Jeffries.

I complimented the watch immediately—because, like a cobbler with shoes, I usually clock what’s on someone’s wrist before I even look at their face. We got to talking about the reference, and both agreed—it’s the kind of everyday piece that doesn’t leave anything on the table. It works with a suit, it works with a T-shirt. It doesn’t care what you’re wearing, and it doesn’t ask for permission to belong. That’s the beauty of it.

The 36mm case strikes a perfect balance. And coming back to that “one watch, and one watch only” idea—36mm is kind of the sweet spot. It’s not so small that it feels like a dedicated dress watch, like a Patek Philippe ref. 96, but it’s not so large or loud that it loses its versatility.

Now, I get it—the old rules about case size and what qualifies as a dress watch are pretty dated. That whole size-equals-formality thing? Archaic. But 36mm, in my experience, just hits that timeless, always-appropriate middle ground. It wears with presence, but never demands it. It just fits—visually, physically, philosophically.

The range of dials—and the condition they come in—across the four-digit Datejusts can vary wildly. Some are crisp. Some are cooked. Some are more rare or uncommon than others, and some have that perfect middle-ground wear—the kind that tells a story without screaming for attention. But no matter the condition, there’s one detail I’m always a sucker for: the pie-pan dial.

If you know, you know. But if you don’t—it’s that slight step down around the outer edge of the dial, a recessed ring where the minute track lives. It’s subtle, but it adds depth and dimension. And once you’ve seen enough of these, you start to miss it when it’s not there. You mostly find them on the earlier Datejusts, especially the four-digit references. Over time, it’s become one of those quiet design cues that serious collectors obsess over, whether they admit it or not.

This 1973 example checks that box. Sure, it’s a silver dial—the more common variant—but the thing still pops. Bright, clean, legible. Like it might have looked back in ’73, before it saw five decades of wrists and sunlight. But the kicker? Every single tritium lume plot is still intact. That’s not just a nice bonus—it’s a signal. This one made it. It’s not just clean—it’s survived.

Now, look—a missing lume plot or a little crumble here and there? That’s not always a dealbreaker when it comes to vintage Datejusts. It’s common. Tritium doesn’t glow anymore anyway, so it’s not like it’s adding much in terms of functionality. But when all the plots are there, evenly aged, sitting right where they should be? That gives the watch a little extra lift. Especially to someone like me—someone who obsesses over the tiniest nuances, even if most people wouldn’t notice them at all.

The white gold fluted bezel on this 1973 example is sharp—like it should be. And circling back to why the 1601 makes the perfect reference point for this Case Study, the answer starts right there: with the bezel.

A smooth steel bezel, like you’d find on a 1600, or even the engine-turned version on a 1603—they’re fine. They have their place. But they don’t hit with that traditional Datejust feel. That unmistakable Rolex language. The fluted bezel is the Datejust, and on a 1601, it’s white gold. Subtle, not showy. It doesn’t flex the same way a two-tone might. And don’t get me wrong—I love a good two-tone under the right circumstances. But there’s something about that quiet little glint of white gold on steel that just works.

It’s refined without being loud. It elevates the watch without screaming for attention. And because it’s gold, it wears the decades a little differently. That’s why so many 1601s out there have soft, rounded bezels—white gold doesn’t take kindly to poor polishing jobs. But when you find one like this—crisp, intact, still catching light the way it was meant to—it reminds you what the bezel is supposed to look like. Not melted. Not washed out. Just right.

The most common bracelet you’ll find on a 1601—or really, most four-digit Datejusts—is the Jubilee. The Oyster bracelet did show up, but you’re more likely to see it on the 1603 or the 1600, depending on the configuration. But for a 1601, the Jubilee just feels like home.

Rolex introduced the Jubilee bracelet in 1945 to mark the brand’s 40th anniversary. It debuted on the very first Datejust—ref. 4467—in solid gold. From day one, the Jubilee was positioned as the more refined option. With its five-piece link construction, it was meant to be dressier, more supple than the sportier, three-link Oyster. And it stuck. The Jubilee became part of the Datejust’s identity—though it’s shown up on GMT-Masters and even the odd Explorer along the way.

Personally, I love a Jubilee on a Datejust. It just feels right. It adds an elegance to the watch without feeling fragile or overly delicate. One of my favorite versions is the rolled-link 6251H. There’s almost a mesh-like feel to them—not in the construction, but in how they wear. The links are hollow, but they were built to last. Yeah, they stretch over time, but that’s kind of the point. I’ve handled a few mint, NOS examples over the years, and when they’re fresh, you realize they were designed to move—to mold to the wrist. One quick side note about rolled-link Jubilees: if you’ve got a hairy wrist, they can tug a bit. That’s just part of the deal. Thankfully for me, that’s not a problem—I’ve been shaving my arms for years. When your wrists have been photographed as much as mine have over the last decade, it just makes sense. Personal preference, sure—but if I’m showing a watch, I want you to see the watch… not fight your way through a bushel of arm hair to get there.

Now, onto the non-quick-set movement.

Yeah—I get it. If you don’t wear the watch regularly or keep it wound, setting the date on a non-hacking movement can be a real pain in the ass. You’re cycling through days one crown pull at a time, and if the watch has been sitting a while, that can feel like a cruel joke.

At C+T, before we send a watch out to a client, we always set it—day, date, time, everything—down to the minute. Maybe it’s part of the customer experience, or maybe it’s just our own mild-case obsessive tendencies. Honestly, probably both. We care about the details.

And trust me—on a daily basis, I’m still living in non-quick-set purgatory. I’m setting dates on at least a couple of watches every day. It’s just part of the rhythm. Slightly annoying? Sure. But you get used to it. And if you love the watch, you don’t mind the extra step. You respect it, and for me, it sometimes encourages me to wear the non-quick set date variants of watches in my collection more. The 1575 isn’t glamorous. It’s not some mythical, ultra-rare, high-complication piece of mechanical wizardry. But it doesn’t need to be. What it is—flat out—is reliable. Purpose-built. A workhorse, through and through.

Introduced in the mid-1960s, the 1575 is basically an upgraded version of the earlier 1560, with the addition of a date function. It’s automatic, 26 jewels, and beats at a smooth 19,800 vibrations per hour. It was never designed to show off—it was designed to run. And it still does.

No quick-set, no hacking seconds, sure—but it’s durable as hell, and when properly serviced, it’ll outlive most of us. I’ve seen 1575s that haven’t been touched in decades and still keep time within spec. There’s a kind of mechanical honesty in that—no gimmicks, no unnecessary complexity. Just gears, springs, oil, and time.

For me, part of the charm of the 1601 is knowing there’s a 1575 ticking inside. It’s like an old pickup truck with a bulletproof straight-six under the hood—not the flashiest thing, but you trust it. It’ll start every time. It won’t let you down.

At the time I’m writing this, the watch is still up on the C+T site. But let’s not kid ourselves—it won’t be for long. It’s too damn good. Too clean. One of those pieces that moves before we even have time to hit publish.

And here’s where it gets complicated—there’s this strange, low hum I feel with certain watches. A mix of jealousy and sadness. Not because I don’t want it to sell, but because I know I’ll miss it when it does. It’s that familiar sting—the kind of ache I’ve come to welcome. Because when that feeling’s gone? That’s when you know you’ve burned out. And I’ve seen too many in this game go down that road—just going through the motions. Detached. Clocking in and out of the “business.”

But this feeling? This bittersweet little gut punch? It reminds me I’m still in it. Not just as a dealer, but as a collector. As someone who still gives a shit.

That’s the sweet part. The reminder that this isn’t just inventory—it’s personal. It’s a connection. To the watches. To the people who get what we’re doing here. To the clients who spot the same magic I saw when the piece first hit the bench.

Even if it’s “just” a plain-Jane 1973 Rolex Datejust ref. 1601.

Ask any of the old guys in the trade, and you’ll hear it: “I never should’ve sold that one.” That sentence haunts this line of work. And the moment this 1601 hit the bench, I felt it in my gut. That bittersweet pang. The quiet certainty that this one’s gonna hurt a little when it goes.

The ref 1601 isn’t trying to be anything it’s not. It’s not rare. It’s not precious. It’s not leaning on hype or scarcity or some artificially inflated narrative. It just is. Honest steel. White gold where it counts. A movement that was built to run until the sun burns out. And a design that doesn’t need explaining.

The 1601 is the kind of watch you can put on in the morning and forget about—until you catch it in the right light and remember why you love it. It’s subtle. It’s sharp. It’s everything a good watch should be, without ever raising its voice.

In this hobby—and let’s be honest, in this industry—we’ve gotten used to reaching for the extremes. The obscure reference. The tropical dial. The prototype clasp. The rarer, the better. And sure, there’s a time and place for all of that. I’ve chased it. I still do. But at the end of the day, there’s something deeply grounding about a watch like the 1601. A reminder that not everything great needs to be complicated. That sometimes, the best answer is the obvious one.

It wears with jeans. It wears with a tux. It wears with whatever the hell you feel like throwing on that day. You don’t have to baby it. You don’t have to explain it. It just works.

That’s why this reference and this specific example deserves its place in the Case Study series. Not because it’s flashy. Not because it’s some unicorn. But because it represents the core of what collecting can—and maybe should—be about. A watch that earns its keep not through price or pedigree but through time. Through mileage. Through that sense of familiarity that only comes from something you keep coming back to, even when you didn’t plan to.