Okay. So, last night started like any other totally normal “I’ll just grab a quick salad and be in bed by 10” kind of night. (Spoiler: I was not in bed by 10. Salad? Debatable.) Instead—I wound up getting serenaded by a saxophonist underneath the streets of Manhattan. Because that’s the thing about this city… it’s always hiding something magical beneath all the construction scaffolding and $7 iced lattes.
Here’s what happened.
The Accidental Detour
So, I was on my way home from the West Village after a very “let's pretend we like quinoa bowls” catch-up with Monica (she’s doing great—still judging my shoe choices, still my best friend). I was walking toward the 1 train when I realized I had left my favorite lipstick in the restaurant bathroom. Cue me running back like a sleep-deprived contestant on Project Runway.
By the time I retrieved it (yes, it was still there—New York, you angel!), the streets were extra quiet in that eerie-but-beautiful kind of way. I ducked into a subway entrance I don’t usually use, mostly because I was wearing heels that could file your taxes and couldn’t walk another block. And that’s when I heard music.
Not like someone-playing-a-Bluetooth-speaker music. Real music. Sultry, lived-in jazz. I’m talking “am I in a Woody Allen movie minus the problematic stuff?” kind of jazz.
Wait… Is This a Jazz Club?
So I followed it—down a grimy little stairwell that did not, I’ll just say, scream “live entertainment,” unless you count an angry rat reunion as entertainment. (And sometimes, let’s be honest, it is.) But when I reached the bottom, there it was: a velvet-curtained doorway, tucked between a newspaper stand and an MTA maintenance door. No sign. No crowd. Just this sound that made you want to wear vintage gloves and fall in love.
Inside? Heaven.
A tiny room. Maybe twenty people. Dim lighting. Musicians playing like they were born holding instruments. And the bar was serving this smoky mezcal cocktail that made me feel mysterious and expensive. I mean. Have you ever accidentally entered a film noir? Because I have.
The Vibe (10/10, Would Descend Into Mystery Stairwell Again)
It reminded me why I love this ridiculous, oversized, romantic, chaotic city. Because sometimes, when you think you’re going one place, life (and the F train) reroutes you somewhere better.
Here’s what I loved:
- 🎷 The music. Obviously. Real jazz. Not Spotify “Dinner Party Jazz” playlist stuff.
- 🍸 The drinks. Classy, strong, and yet somehow didn’t ruin my lipstick. A miracle.
- ✨ The lighting. Like the inside of a dream, or one of Phoebe’s more coherent metaphors.
- 🖤 The people. No cameras, no influencers (okay, me, but I wasn’t working!), just people actually… listening. It was intimate in the best way.
New York, Are You Kidding?
I love how this city is like a giant treasure map, except sometimes the “X” is hidden behind a Sbarro and smells like questionable hot dogs. But the jewels? Oh, they’re there. If you’re paying attention—or if you lose your lipstick.
Would I ever find this place again? Unclear. I left without asking any questions, like I needed it to stay secret. Or maybe I'm just hoping I’ll stumble on it again when the city thinks I need it.
New York doesn't always hold your hand. But sometimes, just sometimes, it'll sing you to sleep.
“I went for the subway and found the soundtrack to a movie I didn’t even know I was in.” — Me, apparently being poetic after two mezcal cocktails.
If you live here, keep your ears open. If you're visiting, good luck. Not all magic is Googleable.
xoxo,
Rachel
P.S. If anyone else has ever been to a jazz bar hidden in a subway station, please tell me I didn’t dream this. Also, should I buy a beret? I kind of feel like I should buy a beret.
