Okay, so this all started because Alexa (not the robot, my friend Alexa F.) told me I needed to “expand my literary palate,” which, let me tell you, sounded way too much like homework. But she promised there’d be snacks. And wine. Obviously, I said yes.
But what she didn’t say was that this was not just a book club. Oh no. This was an invite-only, password-required, secret-speakeasy-meets-literary-salon in the back of a Brooklyn bar that used to be a hat store. I mean—can you even?
Welcome to the Most Brooklyn Night of My Life
We met at a nondescript door in Williamsburg (of course), knocked three times, whispered “Gatsby” (yes, really), and slipped through a velvet curtain into what I can only describe as F. Scott Fitzgerald meets Wes Anderson. There were vintage leather armchairs, jazz vinyl spinning softly, and one guy in suspenders who looked like he invented a zine.
I’m over here thinking I’m just going to chat about some cute romance novel, when suddenly people are referencing Virginia Woolf and liberally using the word “juxtaposition.” And I—who accidentally spilled my whiskey on my copy of the book—was like:
“Okay but, is it just me or is Mr. Rochester kind of… emotionally unavailable?”
They nodded, like I had said something deeply profound. So, naturally, I took a sip of my drink and went with it.
Let’s Talk About the Whiskey
Now, listen—I thought I hated whiskey. I once called it “the perfume department of liquors,” and not in a good way. But this place? This place changed me.
Every meeting, the bartender, who goes by “Ezra” and has a mustache that could be in the style section of The New York Times, curates a pairing. That night’s was a smoky single malt from Hudson Valley that he said had “a narrative arc.” I rolled my eyes—until I tasted it.
I won’t pretend I’m a whiskey expert, but I do know this:
My Whiskey Journey (So Far)
- Neat = sophisticated but dangerous
- With one perfectly clear ice cube = peak cool
- Bourbon = sweet enough that I’m suspicious
- Scotch = still very grown-up, but I’m getting there
- Anything “peaty” = no thank you, I’m not drinking a forest fire
Now I’m that girl who swirls her glass and says things like, “It has a caramel finish” and “I’m picking up notes of rebellion and oak.”
Who even am I?
The Book Club Part (Yes, We Actually Read)
Honestly, between the whiskey and the decor and someone reading poetry aloud in the corner (unironically), I started to get it. Books are more fun when you’re not being graded. Our first read was “The Secret History” by Donna Tartt, which is all murder-y and mysterious and somehow made me want to wear tweed.
We discussed:
- Who we’d cast in the movie (I said Timothée Chalamet, obviously)
- Whether Julian the professor was charismatic or just a narcissist in great tailoring
- The ethics of murder, but like in a sexy intellectual way
I even said things like:
“The prose feels decadent—like it wants to be drunk slowly.”
Who am I quoting? Myself. I literally wrote it in my notes. On purpose.
Do I Belong Here?
Honestly? At first, I thought I was too… I don’t know, not deep enough? I mean, I once cried because I accidentally shrunk a cashmere cardigan. But after a few chapters and a couple whiskeys, I realized that being passionate—about anything—is what really matters.
So what if I’m still drawn to books with gold-foiled covers and unreasonably small dogs? That doesn’t mean I can’t hang with the tweed-wearing intellectuals under fairy lights in the back of a secret bar.
Besides, the snacks are amazing. Like, there’s a woman named Laurel who makes literary-themed charcuterie plates. Last week she had a whole “Brie-owulf” situation happening and I haven’t emotionally recovered.
What I’ve Learned
If you’re thinking about joining a book club—do it. Even if the only thing you’ve read lately is a candle label.
Even if you don’t think whiskey’s your thing.
Even if you show up in a silk blouse and everyone else is in slouchy thrift-core cardigans.
Because suddenly, you’re discussing morality and identity and unreliable narrators, and somewhere between page 87 and your third sip of rye, you realize that you’re having one of those perfect New York nights where you feel cooler by association.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Until next time—Chapter 3 and a splash of bourbon,
Rachel 💋📚🥃
