I Accidentally Walked Into a Speakeasy Behind a Deli—And Now I Have a Favorite Bartender Named Tony

Okay. So.

Let's all just agree that I should not be in charge of finding lunch spots on a Tuesday.

Especially not in a city where your deli could actually be a front for a full-blown speakeasy. Yes, apparently that’s a thing now. And yes, I walked directly into one wearing heels that were 93% for show and 7% for surviving cobblestones in the West Village.

Let me back up.

The Pastrami That Changed Everything

So there I was, strutting down MacDougal Street after an, um, less-than-inspiring meeting for a “collab” that was actually just a guy showing me mood boards made of Pinterest screenshots and telling me I “might be perfect for something down the line.” I needed food. I needed pickles. I needed deli. Full stop.

Enter: this tiny, unassuming place called Carlo’s. Wood sign. Faded awning. One guy behind the counter who looked like he’s seen things. I walked in, ordered a pastrami on rye like it was my job (which, if you ask my dad, it kind of is), and then I heard someone say, “You lookin’ for Tony?”

I blinked. “Tony who?”

Guy nods to the back. “You’ll find him past the freezer door.”

I mean, what? Obviously I went.

Behind the Frozen Peas? A Vibe.

I pushed open the heavy metal door expecting, I don’t know, dry goods. Or maybe a very confused cat. Instead?

Mood lighting. Velvet barstools. Billie Holiday playing faintly in the background. And a bartender—Tony—who looks like he walked out of a 1940s movie and also possibly a Diesel commercial.

“First time?” he asked, sliding over a cloth napkin like I wasn’t four seconds from tripping over my own surprise.

“Definitely,” I said. “Unless I’ve been blacking out and moonlighting at other speakeasies recently.”

Tony laughed. He had dimples. Like, full-blown, illegally charming dimples.

What I Sipped and Loved

Let me be clear: I don’t usually trust anyone who says “I’ll make you something off menu,” because nine times out of ten that ends with me drinking something green and chalky and pretending I love it because everyone else is nodding.

But Tony? Tony understood the assignment.

What he made was:

• Fizzy, but not too fizzy
• Floral, but not like a candle
• Slightly sweet, but in a “your ex still texts you” kind of way (a little dangerous, very addictive)
• Topped with an edible flower (hello, Instagram)

I took one sip. Tony winked. And just like that—I had a new favorite bartender.

How Is This Not on TikTok Yet?

I mean, maybe it is? But honestly, that’s kind of the charm of it. No giant neon signs. No influencers putting their ring lights on the bar (not that I haven’t done that… let’s be real). It’s the kind of place you find by accident, stay for two drinks, and end up talking to a screenwriter named Mitchell who’s workshopping a play about pigeons.

(Art. It’s alive and well.)

Lessons Learned

So here we are. My very unexpected Tuesday takeaways:

1. Always say yes to the freezer door. Metaphorically and literally.
2. Don’t sleep on the West Village. It still knows how to keep secrets.
3. There is a cocktail in this city with your name on it—you just have to find your Tony.

Until then? I’m keeping this one to myself. Kind of. I mean, I’m telling you. But only because you’re cool and I trust you not to bring a bachelorette party in there.

Probably.

xo,
Rachel

“In New York, there’s always a door you haven’t opened yet. Unless it’s a secret bar in the back of a sandwich shop—then there’s probably also a password.”
—Me (after two of Tony’s cocktails)

🖤 Claps welcome. Or send pastrami. Either works.