NECKS craned for a glimpse of Patti Smith as she settled at her customary corner table at Da Silvano in Greenwich Village, a favorite afternoon haunt, earlier this month. The wonder was that the patrons, silver haired and sleekly buffed, could pick her out at all. Ms. Smith was understated, even self-effacing in her mannish jacket, boater shirt and beat-up jeans. Watching her sip hot water and lemon, you could easily have mistaken her for one of any number of androgynous downtown hipsters adopting skinny jeans and boyfriend coats as a low-key urban armor.

Was she trying to merge with the scenery? Ms. Smith shrugged, noncommittal. “My style says ‘Look at me, don’t look at me,’ ” she said, a hint of testiness ruffling her easy composure. “It’s, ‘I don’t care what you think.’ ”

So it was surprising to learn that her roomy gray jacket, with cuffs that unfasten at the wrist, was designed by Ann Demeulemeester, a high priestess of Parisian vanguard chic. Her jeans were Ralph Lauren, prized by Ms. Smith for their racy lines. Her boots, a gift from Johnny Depp, who wore them as the Mad Hatter in “Alice in Wonderland,” were the perfect fit, Ms. Smith exulted, “like when the magic cobbler made your shoes.”

She has a rarefied feel for that kind of evocative detail — no stray seam escaping her scrutiny. That might stun her fans, who think of Ms. Smith as a gnarly rocker, thrashing and howling soulfully on stage. But style-world insiders embrace her as a kindred spirit whose discerning eye and sensitive fashion antennas might be the envy of a veteran stylist. Ms. Smith’s look, after all, is nothing if not rehearsed.