Oh. My. God. You guys.
So the other night started like any other Thursday in the Village: I was wearing something cute (obviously), feeling a little flirty, and walking down MacDougal Street pretending I wasn’t looking for the perfect place to "accidentally" have a spontaneous glass of wine in hopes of romantic comedy-level meet-cutes.
Let me just say—mission accomplished. But not on purpose. Which is, you know, kind of the best kind of mission.
How I Became the Accidental Speakeasy Girl
Okay, picture it:
I’m walking by this little bodega with neon signs (which I normally don’t even glance at unless I’m needing emergency cookie dough), and I see this cute guy. Like, leather jacket, tousled hair, probably listens to vinyl and has Opinions about espresso.
He turns down a weird alley with zero signage and I swear I was just planning to continue on my merry way… but then I saw him disappear into a brick wall. Not into it like magic, but behind it. It moved, I swear. Like Hogwarts, but in SoHo. Obviously, I had no choice but to investigate. For safety reasons. (And okay, for hair-flip reasons too.)
You Know You're in a Speakeasy When…
I squeeze past a velvet curtain that absolutely did NOT belong in that alley, and BAM—I’m inside this candlelit wonderland of cocktails, Billie Holiday, laughter, and… poker tables?
(Yes. There were poker tables. No, I did not play. Yes, I absolutely did ask if anyone there had ever seen Casino Royale.)
Here are the things I immediately noticed:
- No one was on their phones. Like, at all. It was very Eyes Up, Drinks Up.
- The bartender wore suspenders and a cheeky grin and made me a drink based on my vibe. Apparently, I give off “bourbon with floral notes” energy. Whatever that means, it was incredible.
- Terracotta walls, flickering candles, velvet booths… It was like someone designed the bar Wes Anderson would go to break up with someone elegantly.
I May Have Impressed the Cute Guy (??)
So… the leather jacket guy? Yeah, he saw me come in. And get this: HE THOUGHT I WORKED THERE.
He actually said, “You don’t happen to be the DJ tonight, do you?”
I played it casual. “Not tonight. I’m just doing a little venue scouting.” (?! This came out of my mouth uninvited. Who do I think I am? A jazz producer?)
We ended up chatting about our favorite album covers, whether or not Dirty Martinis are a cry for help (we’re divided), and the fact that there was a dog sitting in a booth wearing a pearl collar. Her name was Mitzi. Icon.
Why I’m Officially Obsessed
I left two hours later, giddier than I was the time I bought vintage Manolos from a thrift store in Williamsburg for $60. Here’s why this place is my new go-to:
- You have to WORK to find it. Which means:
- No tourists asking where Carrie Bradshaw lives.
- Very low chance of running into exes. (Except for that one time, but that’s another blog post.)
- The drinks. Were. Phenomenal. They have this lavender gin fizz that tastes like angry angels and heartbreak and Paris in the spring.
- It’s romantic in a “I didn’t try that hard but I wore cologne” kind of way.
If You Want to Go (But Also Don’t Because I Want It to Stay Cool)
I won’t tell you the name (because I actually don’t know??) but here are your clues:
- It’s just off MacDougal.
- Look for the bodega with the neon pineapple in the window.
- Follow someone who looks like they say things like, “I preferred their early stuff.”
Or, you know, just wander around looking dreamy and lost. That worked for me.
New York will always surprise you if you let it. One day it’s raining sideways and your blowout becomes a Greek tragedy, and the next you’re sipping bourbon with floral notes in a secret speakeasy next to a dog named Mitzi, wondering if your life just turned into a noir film starring your own perfect shade of lipstick.
More adventures to come. I think this city and I are starting to understand each other.
xoxo,
Rachel 💋
