Okay, so let me start by saying this weekend was supposed to be chill. Emphasis on the “supposed to be.” I had one goal: finally Marie Kondo the disaster that is my closet. But instead, I accidentally found myself sitting in a velvet booth, sipping a lavender gin fizz, petting a French bulldog named Reginald—at a speakeasy I didn’t even know existed. And yes, I absolutely changed my weekend plans.
It Started With a Dog. Obviously.
I was walking through the West Village (because a girl needs a matcha and Whole Foods was out of that oat milk I like), and I spotted this absolutely adorable Frenchie strutting down the block like he owned it. He had this tiny little plaid coat and a snort that demanded attention. I smiled, waved like a total dork, and then realized—he didn’t have an owner in sight. Just trotting ahead, tail wagging, full confidence.
So, naturally, like any responsible New Yorker with an affinity for accessories and animals, I followed.
And then… he disappeared.
But not like, disappeared, disappeared. Like, he pushed his squishy little snout against the grey door of this old bodega I swear I’ve walked by a million times and never noticed. The door cracked open. He sauntered in. I hesitated for maybe three seconds before following him. Because I am Rachel, queen of impulse decisions and questionable hallway shoes.
Welcome to “The Velvet Paw”
I stepped into what can only be described as the most Instagrammable room I’ve ever seen. Picture this: candle-lit tables, moody jazz, velvet everything, and people sipping cocktails so fancy they come with their own backstories. It was giving Great Gatsby meets Brooklyn cocktail elitism, in the best way.
And the best part? Apparently, this whole place is dog-friendly. Like, not just “we tolerate your emotional support Chihuahua” dog-friendly. I mean, Reginald (yes, that’s really his name) has a favorite booth. He knows the bartender. He gets a bowl of cucumber water with mint.
And the bodega front? Total decoy. The guy behind the counter winked at me when I left and handed me a dog biscuit “for your friend.”
I. Am. Obsessed.
I Made Friends. With People. Not Just Dogs.
So there I was, alone, mildly confused, sitting on a velvet cushion trying to act like this was just another Friday night for me (it is not), and this girl next to me goes, “It’s your first time, huh?” Classic Manhattan energy meets warm neighborhood charm. Her name was Janelle, she wore a vintage sequined blazer because of course she did, and she works at a tiny indie gallery that I’m now going to pretend to be a regular at.
By the end of the night, I had:
- Two new phone numbers in my contacts (one is labeled “Spelled Her Name With a Y?”)
- Three bar snacks I cannot identify but would 100% eat again
- A petting appointment with Reginald next Wednesday
- A new favorite drink: the Violet Fog (gin, lavender syrup, lemon, and allll the New York magic)
What This Taught Me:
Sometimes, following your instincts (or a random dog who looks like he shops at Prada) leads you somewhere unforgettable. I started the evening thinking I’d organize my shoes by heel height. Instead, I found a secret bar behind a fake bodega and a dog who might know more about cocktail culture than me.
“When you let this city surprise you, it usually does. Painfully fashionable speakeasies and all.”
So yes, my closet still looks like Monica’s secret storage closet (you know the one), but my heart? Totally full. And slightly intoxicated.
Next time you're in the West Village and see a dog in a blazer headed down an alley… maybe follow it. Just make sure you're wearing something that works with candlelight.
With love (and possibly a mild gin hangover),
Rachel 💋
P.S. Closet cleanout rescheduled for Wednesday. Unless Reginald wants to hang again.
