Okay, so here's the thing: sometimes a girl just wants a cute cocktail, some live music, and maybe—just maybe—a little flirty banter with someone who isn’t trying to pitch a startup.
And sometimes…the universe responds by giving you all three, wrapped up in a velvet-curtained basement that smells like bourbon and saxophones.
Last night was supposed to be one drink and home by 10. What actually happened? I may have discovered the best jazz night in New York City—and yes, it started with me trying to flirt my way into a speakeasy that allegedly “doesn’t exist.” Spoiler alert: it totally exists. And I’m telling you everything.
How It All Began: Me, a Rumor, and Red Lipstick
So there's this whispered-about bar in the West Village—no name, no sign, you just “have to know someone." Obviously, I heard about it from a Pilates instructor who once dated a guy who “manages talent” (unclear what kind). She said the password changes weekly and the door is hidden behind a Korean bakery. I mean…how could I not go?
I wore my best flirty-but-I-can-still-run-for-a-cab heels, threw on a vintage beaded jacket I’ve been dying to post on Instagram, and texted Monica the address with a vague “If I go missing, it’s because I chased a Negroni into a basement.”
The Entrance Situation: A Moment
You guys. The entrance? It’s literally a freezer door. I walk in, smile at the guy sitting on a stool with a clipboard, and try to act like I do this all the time.
I said:
“So…is there a password, or do pretty girls get automatic entry?”
He smiled, blushed a little (I still got it), and whispered:
“Actually, pretty girls usually have the password.”
Okay. Cute, and slightly shady.
But then he looks me up and down (in a respectful, Broadway-usher kind of way) and says:
“You look like you came for jazz.”
Which…I hadn’t. I came for gin and ambiance, but suddenly I was intrigued.
Inside: Velvet, Vibes, and Vince
So I'm inside. Dim lighting. Live plants climbing the walls. Waitresses in silk dresses. And the music? Oh. My. God.
Real jazz. Not elevator jazz. Not Spotify’s “Cocktail Party” playlist. Like, actual humans playing saxophone, double bass, drums, and this woman—VINCE—singing like she just got dumped in Paris and decided to turn her heartbreak into gold.
I sit at the bar, order a ‘Fig Me Later’ (fig-infused bourbon, honey, lemon, and something smoky I still can’t pronounce), and I’m completely floored.
Five Reasons This Place Changed My Whole Night
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Unreal Jazz with No Cover
I know. I kept waiting to be handed a $45 ticket or a Venmo handle. Instead, it felt like a secret gift you just had to stumble into. -
Bartenders Who Actually CARE
I asked for something “autumn-y but not bossy” and the guy legit nailed it without flinching. -
Fashion Show Energy
Every single person looked like they’d been styled by someone fabulous yet low-key. Kind of like…me, when I'm not trying too hard. So obviously I fit right in. -
Silent Confidence Only New York Has
No one was shouting. No TikTokers doing choreo in the corner. Just grown-up energy and quiet flexes. Truly a miracle. -
I Flirted With a Trumpet Player and Learned About Mingus
I can’t say I remember all the jazz history details (I was distracted by the curls), but let’s just say I now know that “Charles Mingus” is not a type of mushroom.
The Exit: Slightly Tipsy, Very Inspired
So around 1:12 a.m., I finally peel myself off the velvet stool. As I'm walking out, Vince (THE singer, remember?) gives me a little wink from the stage and slides straight into a Billie Holiday cover that should not be legal at that hour.
I felt like I was in a movie. A black-and-white one. Where I’m wearing gloves, holding secrets, and maybe later having dramatic feelings on a fire escape.
Final Thoughts While Eating My Post-Jazz Croissant at Home
New York has this sneaky way of giving you magic when you least expect it. One minute I'm flirting for entry, the next I'm having an emotional breakthrough mid-saxophone solo. Isn’t that just so…me?
Would I go back? Try and stop me.
Would I bring a date? Only if he knows Mingus isn’t a mushroom.
Would I recommend it to you? Let’s just say—I'll tell you where it is if you promise to wear something velvet and act like you belong there.
Because you do.
Love from New York,
Rachel 💋
P.S. If you ever want to borrow that vintage beaded jacket for your own jazz night, I’ve got a whole closet full of “accidentally turned into the main character” looks. DM me.
