Oh. My. Gawd. You are not even ready for what happened to me last night. What started as a mundane Wednesday with a towering pile of laundry somehow turned into a full-blown speakeasy situation — and I’m here to tell you, I am never separating whites and colors anywhere else again.
So I May Have Avoided Doing Laundry for Two Weeks…
Okay, maybe three. But in my defense, I work (and I say work very lightly) in fashion, and there’s nothing more tragically uninspiring than fluorescent lighting and the smell of overused fabric softener sheets. So when I finally dragged myself — and my army of tote bags — to this laundromat in the East Village that Monica said has “vintage machines and an actual detergent bar,” I wasn’t expecting… this.
The Secret Door Behind the Dryer
No, seriously. Dryer #7 was making this weird humming sound. And being the naturally curious (read: nosy) New Yorker that I am, I peeked behind it. AND IT MOVED. Literally — it was not bolted to the wall. It swung open like some Narnia-meets-Brooklyn art installation. Inside: twinkle lights. Velvet wallpaper. A neon sign that said “Hot Spin Club.” And jazz music. Live jazz. Underground.
What even is my life.
“I am just trying to fluff my towels, and suddenly I’m in a room that looks like Gatsby ghost-designed it.” — me, loudly, while slipping on a cheetah-print booth
Things I Loved (Besides Everything)
Let me just paint you a picture. This wasn’t your average Williamsburg-in-a-mason-jar bar.
✔ The Cocktails
Everything was laundry-themed. I had a “Bubble Cycle” — gin, lavender foam, elderflower, and a tiny clothespin clipped to the rim. Monica had a “Downy Negroni.” Joey didn’t get invited because he thinks laundry is a conspiracy.
✔ The Vibe
Dim but sultry. A girl was slow-dancing with an actual dryer sheet (ironically, I think). The bar stools were made from washing machine drums, and someone told me the soap dispensers in the corner are actually vodka taps.
✔ The Jazz Trio
A trumpet, a piano, and what we think was a guy playing an ironing board with a spoon. I died. In a good way.
Can I Room Here?
I briefly considered moving in. I mean, tiny apartments are a thing anyway, right? Who needs natural light when you have ambient chandeliers made of coat hangers?
But they were very clear: the club only opens after 8pm, and you must pretend to do laundry if you're gonna enter. I may or may not have walked around holding a single sock for an hour like some weird couture orphan.
Final Thoughts From Someone Who Still Doesn't Know How to Use Bleach
This is why I love New York. One minute you're grumbling about having to wash every blouse you own because you committed emotional damage to your dry cleaning budget, and the next you're sipping elderflower off of a dryer with strangers who look like they escaped from a Wes Anderson film.
So yeah. If you’re in the East Village with a bag of laundry and a sense of adventure — keep an eye on dryer #7. But maybe don’t tell too many people. Not that I don’t want you to find joy… I just also don’t want to wait in line with people who don’t even fold properly.
xoxo,
Rachel
(Laundry minimalist. Speakeasy maximalist.)
