Okay, this is the story of how a girl, trying to do laundry on a Tuesday night, ended up swaying to live saxophone under fairy lights with a Negroni in hand. New York, I love you.
It All Started With Dirty Jeans
Let me set the scene: Tuesday night, my SoHo apartment, laundry basket overflowing. Now, in case you were wondering, yes—I do own a washer/dryer in the building, but it was (of course) broken because the guy upstairs decided to wash his entire linen closet at once 🙄. So I grabbed my canvas tote, threw on my “I Swear I Used to Dress Better for Laundry” look (aka oversized tee and Barneys sale jeans), and headed to a laundromat I passed once on my way to brunch. Because naturally, laundry should only exist in my life when brunch is around.
I walked in, claimed a machine, and did what any 30-something New Yorker does when faced with the hum of washers and two hours to kill: ordered a bagel on my phone and went nosing around.
The Back Door That Wasn't Just the Back Door
On the far side of the laundromat—past the detergent vending machine, the mysterious sock someone left in 2004, and the usual “Out of Order” sign—I noticed a door that just looked… suspiciously fabulous. Like, “Hello, I’m not a door to the alley, I’m a door that’s hiding something” kind of energy. It didn’t say “Employees Only” or anything. It said “B Sharp Cleaning Services” in faded gold lettering. Very Gatsby. Very suspicious.
Naturally, I opened it.
And then I heard it—jazz. Real, live jazz. And before I could second guess my sanity, I stepped into the hallway, followed the sound down a short flight of stairs, and boom—
I walked into magic.
Welcome to the Laundry Room Jazz Club
It’s called “The Laundry Room” (yes really), and it might be my new favorite place in the city. Picture this:
- Dim lights strung overhead like stars.
- Tiny tables with mismatched furniture that screams curated thrift vibes.
- A trio—sax, stand-up bass, and the dreamiest piano—tucked in the corner playing Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good.”
Honestly, it took me a second to remember I was there for socks.
“Is this real life?” I whispered to no one. A woman at the next table leaned over and said, “Only in New York, baby.”
I could’ve kissed her.
The Vibe? Immaculate.
You don’t need a reservation. You don’t even need to dress up. I was literally in platform sandals and a headband that hadn’t seen conditioner in two days.
And because this is New York and some bartender somewhere always knows how to read my soul, I got served a Negroni without even ordering. (Okay, fine, I ordered it. But it felt like they knew I would.)
Drinks are decent prices—$14 for a classic cocktail, and there’s a specialty drink called “Spin Cycle” that comes with a tiny clothespin. I mean… I know kitschy when I see it, and this was full-blown adorable.
After Midnight, It Gets Spicy
I was just about to head out when the owner—an older man in suspenders named Vince with the most Brooklyn Grandpa accent you’ve ever heard—asked if I wanted to stay for the late set. And let me tell you, after the pianist switched to a sultry rendition of Britney’s “Toxic,” I had no plans of leaving.
The crowd got cooler as the night went on. Models with messy buns, writers with notebooks, a guy in a Mets cap reading Proust (??). Someone brought empanadas. No one knew where they came from. We all ate them.
Final Thoughts (Also My Socks Are Clean Now)
Look, New York is a ridiculous city. Half the time I wonder why I’m still here when I could be sipping rosé on a terrace in Tuscany. But nights like these? They remind me exactly why I stay.
Because behind laundromats, there are jazz clubs. Because you go out with a pile of laundry and come home with a story. And because even when the washer’s broken and the coffee shop’s closed, this city gives you magic in the weirdest places.
So next time you think you’re just doing something normal… maybe expect secret fairy lights and saxophones.
I did get my laundry done, by the way. And folded. Jazz-folded.
Love from the city that never stops surprising me—
đź–¤ Rachel
