Okay, so let me just start by saying: I was not trying to find a bar. I was trying to find the Uptown 6 train, which, for some reason, seems to move around like it's avoiding me. One second it's at 68th, the next it's… a door marked "Maintenance Only" that's actually hiding the most miraculous little cocktail heaven I’ve ever sipped mezcal in.
Welcome to my accidental love affair with a subway-speakeasy. Let me set the scene.
It All Started With a Shoe Emergency
So, I left my apartment in SoHo to meet Monica for dinner on the Upper East Side (just a casual Tuesday night Korean BBQ—we’re going through a thing). I was wearing the new Balenciaga boots I may or may not have traded a week's groceries for—don’t judge me, they’re patent leather perfection—and by the time I hit Astor Place, I realized something: New York concrete is not kind. I needed to sit. I needed a drink. Preferably, both at the same time.
I turned a corner near 77th and Lexington, following a sad little sign for the subway, and then I saw it: a guy walk through this super sketchy gate labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.” Now, normally I mind my business… Okay, no, I don’t. So I followed him.
And that’s when I discovered it.
A Bar Hidden Behind MTA’s Worst Kept Secret
You walk through this grimy-looking hallway—it smells like metal and someone’s leftover pretzel—and suddenly you’re hit with this faint thrum of jazz. Literal. Jazz.
There’s a guy in suspenders and a bowtie behind a desk. I think he winked at me? Either way, he pressed something under the desk, a wall panel slid open (I kid you not—like Hogwarts for grownups), and there it was.
A candlelit bar. Velvet chairs. People drinking cocktails with foam so perfect it looked Photoshopped. And not a MetroCard in sight.
The Vibe? Think Gatsby Meets Brooklyn
Here's what you need to know:
- The bartender’s name is Leo. He makes a smoked rosemary Negroni that literally healed my entire soul.
- They only let in like 20 people at a time, so you feel like you’re part of a very chic secret. Which you are.
- There’s a mini piano stage where a woman named Eliza sings jazz covers of Cardi B. I haven’t emotionally recovered from her rendition of "Bodak Yellow"—and I don’t want to.
- They serve truffle popcorn in mini silver bowls. I didn’t even know that’s what my life needed until now.
“It’s like Narnia but with Aperol spritzes,” I texted Monica from the velvet banquette while deciding whether I should ever leave.
Spoiler: I almost didn’t.
Why I’m Obsessed
I’ve lived in New York for years now and somehow it still sneaks up on me. I love that in this city, you can be cursing your broken heels and five minutes later be taking slow-motion videos of your drink getting blowtorched while a saxophone plays “No Scrubs.” That’s the magic. It’s chaotic and accidental and a little grimy, but then it surprises you with something effortlessly… fabulous.
Also—how very me is it to find a new signature bar because I couldn’t read a subway map?
Oh—and in True Speakeasy Fashion…
I promised Leo I wouldn’t share the name (sigh) because, “if everyone knows, the magic dies.” Very dramatic, very New York.
But I will give you this: next time you’re at the 77th Street station, look for the green maintenance door with graffiti that kinda looks like Anna Wintour in sunglasses.
If you've passed it? You’re already close.
💋 Rach
P.S. I may have made out with an architect named Thomas on the way out. We bonded over mezcal and mutual confusion about the Q train. Stay tuned.
P.P.S. If you find any other hidden bars that require minor trespassing but maximum glam, please message me immediately. I now collect them the way some people collect Chanel.
xo
