Okay, so… I was supposed to be meeting Monica in Williamsburg for brunch (yes, I’ve become that person, but in my defense, brunch is practically a required personality trait when you live in New York), and I got there super early because I took the L train and—miracle of miracles—it didn’t break down. Wonders never cease.
I had about 40 minutes to kill, which for me usually means hovering awkwardly outside the restaurant trying not to stare at other people’s food. But then I saw this charming little sign in loopy chalk outside a narrow doorway. It said:
“Books, tea, and other things you didn’t know you needed.”
Which, I mean… hello? That’s basically my autobiography.
Chapter One: Into the Stacks I Go
The doorway led down a few creaky stairs into this not-at-all-what-I-expected basement bookstore. Think less fluorescent lights and Dewey Decimal, more candlelit nooks, old rugs, and air that smelled like old paper and bergamot (??). If Belle from Beauty and the Beast and a French grandmother opened a literary speakeasy, this would be it.
The shelves were overflowing. There were stacks of books on the floor, on chairs, even on what looked like a vintage bathtub repurposed into a poetry trough. I wandered in deeper, absolutely pretending to be the kind of girl who reads Russian short stories for fun, when I heard faint music.
I followed it like I was under some kind of Parisian spell, and I swear, I turned one corner and boom—
Chapter Two: Surprise Jazz Band, Très Chic
There, in the back of the store, was a little loungey area with velvet armchairs and low lighting. And there, casually nestled between a recipe book about natural fermentation and an Ottoman Empire history tome, was a four-piece jazz band. Like… actual musicians. Playing actual French jazz. In a bookstore. In Brooklyn.
I could NOT make this up.
The setup was so intimate—no microphones, just pure acoustics and the scent of chamomile—which may actually be my new favorite drug.
The band was called "Petite Lumière" (of course they were), and they were just so cool in that effortless, unbothered way that makes you want to throw out your entire wardrobe and start over with linen blends.
The singer, Sylvie, wore this sparkly headband that I’m now obsessed with, and she crooned in French in a way that made me dramatically contemplate every romantic decision I’ve made since 2018.
Chapter Three: A Cappuccino, A Sonnet, A Small Existential Crisis
So what was originally a quick bookstore detour turned into a 90-minute soul affair. I never met Monica for brunch (don’t worry, she Instagram DM’d me a passive-aggressive pic of her eggs Benedict), but I did:
- Drink a tiny overpriced cappuccino that was definitely made with love and oat milk.
- Read half of a poetry collection called You Might Be Lonely, But At Least You’re Interesting.
- Have an emotionally confusing moment over a stranger’s corduroy blazer.
And you know what? It was worth it.
“Sometimes, the best parts of New York are the ones you don’t plan for.”
— Some girl in an oversized blazer I saw on the subway last week.
Takeaways (because I’m trying to be helpful now):
- Let yourself get lost. Even if that means in a bookstore basement that smells like something Jo Malone would charge $120 for.
- French jazz makes everything feel like a movie, even your caffeine jitters.
- Brooklyn is weird and magical and makes me reconsider ever moving back to the Upper East Side (okay, except for the shoe closet situation).
So yeah. I didn’t find the Emily Brontë edition I was looking for, but I did find a little bit of Paris in a dusty corner of Williamsburg. And honestly?
Worth missing brunch.
Sorry, Mon.
Xoxo,
Rachel 🖤📚🎷
