Published on a rainy Thursday while sipping an oat milk latte in SoHo.
The Night Started with Cat Litter and Pinot Grigio
So there I was—eyeliner slightly smudged, carrying two bags of what I thought was "lavender-scented" cat litter (spoiler alert: it was not)—when I ducked into a random bodega on Broome Street to escape the drizzle. You know, one of those quietly iconic New York corner stores that sells coconut water, batteries, and an entire wall of Hot Cheetos. Standard.
I was on my way to meet Monica and Chandler—yes, they’re married and adorable, please don’t bring it up—for a movie night that somehow involved both a projector and vegan cheese. But then, the universe had other plans.
As I waited in line to pay for my totally unneeded cat litter (I don’t even have a cat—long story), I noticed this guy in a vintage denim jacket pull open what looked like a refrigerator door in the back. Except—it wasn’t. It wasn’t even pretending.
Wait. Is That a…Refrigerator?
Okay, so here’s the scene: Fake fridge door, dim blue lighting glowing from behind it, and a faint hum of jazz. Real jazz. Like, Ella Fitzgerald is probably in this room sort of jazz.
I hesitated for 0.3 seconds, reminded myself that this is exactly the kind of quirky NYC story Carrie Bradshaw would write a column about, and followed denim guy through the door.
Instant chills.
Welcome to the Coolest Room Behind Pickles and Paper Towels
What. A. Vibe. Exposed brick walls, velvet bar stools, tall candles flickering in vintage wine bottles—I had entered a speakeasy that literally no one would believe existed unless they were with me when I found it, or possibly drunk.
I asked the bartender (who looked like he moonlights at The Met Gala) what kind of drinks they had, and he suggested something called a “Lavender Negroni.” I don’t usually do negronis—too bitter, and I’m sweet, obviously—but I tried it.
I swear to you, the lavender hit me like a memory from a past life where I was glamorous, French, and definitely always on time.
Why We All Need a Hidden Door Moment
Sitting there—suddenly not caring that I was two hours late to Monica’s movie night—I realized something: New York is still magic.
I mean, sometimes it smells like hot garbage and the rats feel a little too confident, but then…you turn left instead of right, follow a denim jacket into what looks like a meat locker, and boom: you're sipping lavender under a disco ball that someone probably installed during the Great Gatsby era.
This is the thing about New York that I can never quit, even when rent is insane and you have to politely dodge rats like they're ex-boyfriends at a benefit gala: it surprises you.
And me? I need a little surprise now and then. It keeps the edges of my soul from getting too neat. Like, who wants to be folded laundry when you could be a pleated silk dress flung over a chair at 2am?
Rachel’s Quick Guide to Finding Your Own Secret Door Moment
In case you, too, want to stumble into magic one rainy Thursday, here are my non-expert, completely unverified, but personally tested tips:
- Always be curious. If it looks sketchy or weird or oddly placed, it’s probably worth exploring. Unless it smells like feet. Trust your gut.
- Talk to strangers (with a filter). I asked Denim Guy for his favorite drink rec. He didn’t murder me. Big win.
- Wear cute shoes. Because if you do magically end up in a candlelit situation, you want to feel confident when you cross your legs.
- Say yes more. Unless someone offers you a drink called “The Pickle Martini.” Then… maybe.
One More Thing
I never told Monica and Chandler what actually happened that night. I just said I got caught in "something very Manhattan." She rolled her eyes, and I knew she got it.
Some nights you plan. Some nights, New York plans for you.
And if there's a lavender-scented cat somewhere missing their litter… I'm really, really sorry.
xoxo,
Rachel 👠
P.S. If you know of any other secret spots, drop them in the comments. Just don’t tell Ross. He’ll try to categorize them. 🙄
