Okay so—let me set the scene.
It was one of those perfect New York evenings when the air feels like movie magic, the city smells almost tolerable (you know, like street pretzels instead of trash juice), and even though my group chat was being totally useless, I decided I wasn’t going to let the night go to waste.
So naturally, I put on a pair of heels that I instantly regretted and met a guy—yes, a guy—off of Hinge. I know. Who am I?
But here’s where it gets interesting. Somehow, I ended up on a date. In a speakeasy. Behind a freaking laundry mat. I swear I’m not making this up. I couldn’t even make this up in my Central Perk daydreams.
The Setup: Me, Hinge, and Questionable Life Choices
Let’s rewind six hours.
I’m in my apartment in the West Village, sipping a green juice I pretended to like, swiping with the kind of detached optimism you only get after two oat milk cappuccinos and an impulsive facial. Suddenly—there he is: Nathan. Tall. Smiley. Said something in his profile about being “emotionally available and excellent at folding a fitted sheet” (which I absolutely verified later).
He suggested we “start at a place I know near Delancey—trust me, it’s a vibe.” Now, normally, that’s exactly the kind of message that makes me immediately text Monica saying “HE’S GOING TO MURDER ME.” But I had a weird feeling I should just go with it. Spoiler alert: I did not get murdered. I got mezcal. 🔥
Behind the Laundry Mat: I Mean… Really?
So I get there. It’s a basic, slightly sad-looking laundromat—fluorescent lighting, faint smell of bleach, one lone sock on the counter. I text Nathan:
“Are you punking me? Because that would be really uncool. And also original but mostly uncool.”
He replies:
“Push the dryer door. Trust me.”
Now, I’ve been in NYC long enough to know that at least 50% of cool things are hidden behind uncool doors. So I push. And yes—THE WALL BLOODY OPENS. Like I'm suddenly in some martini-fueled version of Narnia.
Behind it? A dimly lit speakeasy straight out of a black-and-white movie. Velvet booths, candles flickering everywhere, and a playlist that somehow knew every single song I forgot I loved. Think Billie Holiday meets Lana Del Rey meets…me.
Drinks, Eye Contact, and Absolutely Zero Folding of Fitted Sheets
So we sit. I order something called “Spicy Tango Dream” which comes with a chili rim and a warning. He tells me about his job at a climate nonprofit (actual good human) and his adorable one-eyed rescue cat named Bowie.
There was laughter. There was a lot of good banter. There may have been a moment where my heel got stuck under the booth and I gracefully tried to play it off like I was dancing. Spoiler: I was not. But he laughed. So, gold star for him.
And then, halfway through a second round, he looks at me and says:
“So, do you always let strange men take you behind laundry machines?”
And I swear, you guys, my inner sarcastic queen straight-up high-fived me.
I replied: “Only when they claim emotional depth and expert linen-folding.”
What You Need to Know (for when your inner Carrie Bradshaw takes over)
Let this be your sign to:
- Say yes to something spontaneous (Life begins when you stop reading Yelp reviews).
- Push weird dryer doors (unless they’re in actual murder basements).
- Always wear lipstick—you never know when you’ll be sipping cocktails in a secret bar with a nonprofit guy who smells like cedar and idealism.
I may not have found my lobsters just yet (Monica, if you’re reading this—don’t gloat), but I did find a little slice of magic on the Lower East Side.
And honestly? That’s enough for tonight.
xo,
Rachel 💋
