You guys. I have a story.
So the other night started like any gorgeous, early-summer evening in the East Village: warm air, the hum of jazz from a second-floor apartment, and me in vintage Ralph Lauren, wearing shoes that said “I read, but make it couture.”
I had just left my favorite overpriced florist (yes, I buy myself flowers, thank you!) when I got a text from Sam—this girl I met at a CFDA mixer who wears headbands unironically and knows every rooftop with a secret password. It said:
“Meet me at this place. No sign on the door. Ask for ‘Chapter 4.’ Trust me.”
Which, by the way, is not ominous at all.
But naturally, I did it, because when you’ve lived in New York long enough, things like “no sign on the door” just mean “probably delightful.”
Here's What Happened
I show up at this little bodega on 7th and Ave B that looks like it hasn’t sold a working can of soda since 1998. I walk in… and there’s this guy in a leather apron making homemade bitters behind a deli counter. No one even looks at me weird, which I find both chill and suspicious.
So I clear my throat and say, “Um, hi. I’m here to see… Chapter Four?” (Yes, like I was ordering prosciutto.)
He looks up and just nods. Then he pulls a copy of The Bell Jar from under the counter (because of course) and presses a button inside. A panel in the back of the store literally unlatches, and a wall opens.
At this point, I was 58% sure I was being kidnapped and 42% intrigued. Guess which part won.
Inside the Book Club (Spoiler: There Was Absinthe)
I walked through the wall (just casually, like I do this every day), and suddenly I’m in a dim, candlelit room that looks like it was decorated by someone who mainlined Edith Wharton and smoked cigars with Oscar Wilde. Velvet chairs. Heavy curtains. A neon sign that said “Read Responsibly.”
And there, around a circle of mismatched armchairs, were about fifteen New Yorkers sipping deep red cocktails out of tiny teacups and arguing about get this—Virginia Woolf’s use of time in Mrs. Dalloway.
Yes. This was a book club.
Apparently, it’s invitation-only, moves locations every month, and you only get in if someone recommends you and sends you that week’s password, which is always a chapter from the book they’re reading. (As someone who once pretended to understand Proust to impress a guy who actually read French on the subway, I respect this.)
And before you ask: no, I absolutely had not read the book.
Faking It But Definitely Feeling It
I found Sam, who greeted me with a teacup of something very herbal and very alcoholic, and whispered, “Tell them you loved the unreliable narrator. That always works.”
So I did.
And it did.
I ended up spending two hours listening to an architect named Leon argue with a florist named Juniper about existentialism and the illusion of continuity. I nodded a lot. I said, “Wow that’s so true,” and "It really captured how we live now," which I’m pretty sure could apply to any book ever written.
But! Here’s the thing:
About halfway through, I stopped faking it. I started getting it. There’s something about being in a plush room of wildly interesting strangers, sipping absinthe with a twist of lemon, debating literature like you're in 1920s Paris—but with better skincare—that just pulls something out of you.
I left that night with a copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God tucked under my arm, lipstick smudged on the rim of my teacup, and a little group text invite to next month’s “chapter.”
Final Thoughts (Aka, Why New York is the Best)
Only in New York can you step out for dahlias and end up in a hidden literary speakeasy. This city is like a really well-cut vintage blazer: full of secret pockets.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do (and a dramatic opinion about Zora Neale Hurston to develop before the next meeting).
Until next time,
Rach x
“She had waited all her life for something, and it had killed her when it found her.”
— Zora Neale Hurston 👏📚💋
P.S. If anyone wants my tips on pretending you’ve read 19th-century novels with confidence and style, drop a comment. I got you.
