You guys.
This city never stops surprising me. I mean, one minute you’re out picking up oat milk and organic granola, and the next, you’re deep in conversation with a complete stranger while sipping a $19 cocktail in the back room of… a bodega. Yes, you read that right.
Let me walk you through how I ended up on what I think was a date (??) with a man I met twelve minutes earlier at a cash-only sandwich counter.
Step One: All I Wanted Was a Breakfast Sandwich
So it’s Sunday morning, and I’m wearing what I thought was just a quick bagel-run outfit (think oversized NYU hoodie—stolen from a college ex, don’t ask—and yesterday’s jeans). I’m in SoHo. My hair’s doing that “I didn’t sleep on a silk pillowcase” frizz. Honestly, not my best.
Anyway, I walk into this little bodega I've never noticed before on Mott. It’s somewhere between sketchy and charming—like, you’re not sure if they sell lucky scratch-offs or fix iPhones in the back.
But guys. The egg and cheese? Life-changing. Crispy bacon. Buttery bun. Whatever.
Step Two: Meet-Cute at the Coffee Fridge
I’m reaching for an iced coffee when I hear this voice behind me say, “They always hide the good oat milk in the back.” Which—okay, first of all, flirt with me, why don’t you? Second, this man, let’s call him "Bodega Boy" (real name TBD), was wearing the exact same hoodie as me.
I turned around. We did that mutual “Wait… are we in a sitcom?” stare. I laughed way too hard. He offered to pay for my sandwich. I said no. He ignored me and paid anyway.
And then. He says, “Come with me.”
Excuse me?
Step Three: There’s a Trapdoor Behind the Beef Jerky
I followed him (I KNOW, I KNOW), past a rack of Tabasco-flavored Slim Jims, through a narrow hallway that looked like it might lead to… disaster. And then—he knocks twice, says a password (I won’t tell, but it was very 90s-R&B), and a door literally slides open.
Cut to me, standing in this mood-lit speakeasy with vintage velvet booths, a neon sign that said “Trust Your Gut,” and a bartender who looked like she moonlights in a punk band. In the middle of a bodega.
New York, man. Never boring.
Step Four: Is This a Date?
We sit. He orders us drinks—lavender bourbon something-heaven. We talk music. We talk careers. (He’s in branding. Obviously. He has very strong opinions on serif fonts and minimalist packaging.)
At one point, I said, “This city makes me feel like I’m on a date even when I’m just trying to run errands,” and he smiled, then said:
“Well… this could be both.”
AND I BLUSHED. Hard.
Step Five: We Didn’t Kiss. Don’t Be Mad.
After about two hours and one very intense debate about whether Friends or Seinfeld was the more “New York” show (excuse me, sir??), we walked out into the sunshine, euphoria still buzzing like the espresso in my veins. He asked for my number. I gave it.
He texted me later that night:
“Hey Speakeasy Girl. Next weekend? No passwords required.”
Final Thoughts from a Girl Who Accidentally Dated a Stranger in a Hoodie
If someone had told 24-year-old me fresh off the train from Long Island that someday I’d be eating pickled okra in a candlelit bodega bar with a stranger who looks like he fell out of a J.Crew catalog, I would’ve screamed, “Ugh, is he seeing anyone?!”
So here’s your reminder, babes:
Let the universe surprise you.
Say yes to weird doors.
And never trust a bodega that only sells Gatorade in the front.
xo,
Rachel
✨ PS — If you’re obsessed with secret bars like me, let me know in the comments. I might just drop a guide to NYC’s best hidden drinks. (Or worst dates. TBD.) 🍸
