Disclaimer: I am not responsible for any spontaneous jazz dancing, carb-loading, or meet-cutes that may result from reading this post. You’ve been warned.
It Started With Brunch (Obviously)
Have you ever had one of those Saturdays where you only meant to get a latte and, by sunset, you’re sipping something amber out of a coupe glass in a jazz bar that may or may not have once been a speakeasy?
That was my Saturday.
It was one of those perfect New York mornings—sunshine-y but slightly moody, like the city wanted to be hugged. I threw on my favorite vintage Levi’s, a white tank, oversized sunnies (because, please… I was not about to do mascara at 9AM), and met Monica for brunch at Buvette on Grove Street.
Let’s talk about Buvette. If Audrey Hepburn had opened a café in the West Village, it would look like this. Little marble tables, mirrored walls, croissants that actually flake (not crumble), and espresso that makes you slightly more fluent in French.
“We’re just going to split something light.”
—Famously untrue things we say before ordering three dishes and a bottle of Prosecco
What we actually had:
- A croque madame that made me briefly forget Ross’s last name
- Warm lentils with poached egg (it’s like health food if I don’t count the bread… right?)
- Chocolate mousse that came out “for the table”… aka for me
The french vibes and fizzy wine went to our heads, and before I knew it—with Monica off to run errands—I wandered into a vintage bookstore I’ve passed 47 times but never entered.
Don’t Judge a Bookstore By Its Sneeze Factor
It smelled like old paper, secrets, and maybe a tabby cat named Hemingway. I loved it immediately.
I found a 1962 edition of Vogue Paris that is now officially the most fabulous mistake I’ve ever purchased. (Seriously, I’d frame the page on the fall trench coat spread and build an entire wardrobe around it.)
I was flipping through, daydreaming about someone noticing it on my bookshelf like, “Oh, this? Just a little flea market find in the 6th arrondissement,” when the owner played a Billie Holiday record.
Something about her voice paired with the fall sunlight through the dusty front windows completely slowed me down. And I realized: I didn’t actually have anywhere I had to be.
Which, if you’ve ever lived in New York, is RARE. This city runs on plans, backup plans, and backup backup brunch reservations.
Wandering Is a Vibe
I wandered.
Truly wandered. Like a rom-com heroine looking for a plot twist. I meandered through the tree-lined streets, past brownstones where I mentally re-decorated every stoop (“Yes, Veronica, that topiary is adorable, but what if we went with lanterns and a fiddle leaf fig?”), and found myself at Murray’s Cheese Bar.
I didn’t go in, but I blew it a kiss.
Somewhere between Jane Street and “Wait, how did I end up at Hudson again?” I found myself in this tiny record store. I don’t even own a turntable. But I stayed for 30 minutes, flipping through dusty covers and pretending I was looking for something very obscure, like "Sinatra’s forgotten jazz demos" or "Aretha sings Italian lullabies."
A Back Alley, a Bassline, and a Bit of Magic
And then—I heard it.
Jazz.
Live. Low, sultry. The kind of sound that pours like honey. It was coming from a door without a sign, hidden between a fire escape and what looked like an outdoor storage closet. Obviously, I did what any girl would do: I texted my location to three friends just in case it was a front for something sketchy, fluffed my hair, and stepped inside.
It was everything.
Candlelit tables. Exposed brick. A double bass taller than me. A trio of musicians in suspenders and fedoras who looked born to play. And the smell—bourbon and vintage perfume.
I ordered a Manhattan (I mean, when in Manhattan, right?), slid into a corner booth, and let the music take over.
Somewhere between the second set and the chocolate torte I definitely didn’t order (thanks to a charming stranger who “couldn’t finish it,” yeah okay), I realized:
I didn’t plan this day. And it was perfect anyway.
New York, You Chaotic Queen, I Love You
I keep thinking I need to “figure things out.” Get serious about my next big step. Plan life like one of Monica’s color-coded parties with matching napkins. But then…
Then a day like this happens. A day that reminds me: this city is best experienced off-script. Without reservations. Following jazz you didn’t know you needed.
So here’s what I’m taking into next week:
- Schedule less, wander more
- Say yes to live music, even if your heels aren’t ideal
- You can’t plan magic—but you can wear cute earrings just in case it finds you
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to look up turntables. And possibly go back for that croque madame tomorrow morning. For research.
xoxo,
Rachel
💋
🖤 If you enjoyed this post, sprinkle some claps, share with your fellow brunch lovers, and let me know: ever stumbled into something unforgettable in NYC? ✨
