So this actually happened to me last Friday night. I was supposed to meet Monica and Phoebe for "a quick drink" (LOL) before heading uptown, but since Phoebe's idea of running 'a few minutes late' is basically code for 'I’ll get there when I get there,' I found myself wandering around SoHo alone, lightly freezing in a silk top I 100% regret wearing.
I turned a corner looking for something cute and cozy (and — let’s be honest — somewhere I could sit) when I saw this tiny neon sign above what looked like… a janitor's closet? No name, just a glowing martini glass. And I thought, “Rachel. Go home.” But then another part of me went, “Rachel. This is Manhattan. The weirder the door, the better the espresso martini.”
So naturally, I walked in.
Wait. Was This Narnia?
I swear to Prada: I pushed open what I thought was a utility door and suddenly I’m inside the most STUNNING little speakeasy tucked behind what I later learned was a fake bodega. Like, actual cereal boxes on shelves and everything. (Points for commitment.)
There was velvet. There was jazz. Candles dripping wax onto books that no one was reading, but that definitely came from a curated Strand haul. The lighting was low in the way that makes everyone look like they're glowing from candlelight and general success.
I sat at the bar (because fate clearly wanted my night to be fabulous) and was greeted by a bartender with a mustache so perfect I had to check if I was dreaming. He didn’t hand me a menu — he asked me what mood I was in. I said: “Cold, underdressed, emotionally available,” and he nodded like he totally got it.
The result? A cocktail named “Velvet Divorce.” It was smoky, slightly sweet, and came with a tiny square of dark chocolate. Who AM I?
Here's What Made This Place Magical
- No crowds. Like, zero. There were maybe six people total, all speaking in hushed tones like they’d just signed an NDA.
- Live saxophone. Do I like saxophone? I do now.
- Cocktails are basically therapy in a glass.
- Someone’s dog was there. Wearing a sweater. Enough said.
PSA: Regular Bars Are Over
I love a good neighborhood bar. I do. But ever since I was invited (okay, crashed) into this luxurious, moody little underworld where the drinks are named after emotional concepts and time stands still?
I'm ruined.
I tried going to a regular bar two nights later. It was sticky and loud and someone yelled “chug” at someone else. I visibly recoiled. I needed candlelight and a server who intuitively knows when I need to be left alone, thank you.
Tips For the Curious (AKA You)
So, I won't say exactly where this place is because part of the fun is finding it yourself — but I WILL say, if you look for a bodega in SoHo with cereal boxes slightly too symmetrical… try the handle next to the fridge.
Also:
- Dress like the main character, but comfortable enough to sit on low velvet furniture.
- Talk to the bartender. This is not the place to order a vodka soda. Trust them. They’ve read your vibe.
- Bring cash. Not required, but aesthetic.
“It’s not about the drink. It’s about the moment it creates.” – Me, one martini in, fully in love with this life
Anyway. That’s how I accidentally found a portal to cocktail heaven and wound up reevaluating my entire nightlife standard.
SoHo, you seductive little minx. I get it now.
Xoxo,
Rach 💋
P.S. Phoebe eventually showed up. She said she had a feeling I "found something cool" because Saturn was in retrograde and my aura was “fragrant.” Honestly, she’s not wrong.
