Okay. So.
You know how some nights in New York City you just want a glass of wine, maybe flirt with a bartender who wears glasses and reads poetry, and then go home and online shop for shoes you can't afford? That was the plan. But no. Apparently, my Tuesday night had other ideas—very literary, slightly illegal, and incredibly candlelit ones.
Let me walk you through how I, Rachel Karen Green, accidentally joined an underground book club in the East Village. Spoiler: there were cocktails, secrets, and a woman named Margot who wore a beret unironically.
It All Started With a Dress
I was at this pop-up vintage shop in SoHo (because obviously) and I found this divine 1970s Halston wrap dress. It whispered things to me. Mysterious, glamorous, slightly "I just left my lover in Paris." So I bought it. And then I needed somewhere to wear it.
Cue: Instagram. I saw this vague event flyer—“Silent Stories: A Night of Words & Wine.” No address. Just a DM for details kind of situation. My first thought? Either book club… or cult. Either way, I had plans.
Speakeasy Vibes, But Make It Literary
I show up at this nondescript building on Avenue B. A guy in suspenders and vintage oxfords (I know) opens the door after I knock three times. Actual code. He says:
“Password?”
I panicked, said “Chardonnay,” and honestly, that was correct. And girls—inside, it was like a Nancy Meyers movie set in a bookstore, if Nancy had a dark academia phase. Dim lighting, Persian rugs, candles EVERYWHERE. And people just… reading. In respectful turtlenecks.
Wait, This Isn’t a Bar?
So I head to the back, where I think the bar is, and meet Margot. She’s sipping red wine out of a tea cup because this place is classy and illegal, and she says:
“Welcome to The Banned Chapter. We’re reading The Bell Jar tonight.”
Um, okay? I came for casual Pinot and peacoat flirtations, and suddenly I’m in a Sylvia Plath symposium? In heels?
But Margot had this energy, like she’d just stepped out of an episode of Poirot. And everyone was so into it. Except no one had actually finished the book. Or read it. So technically, my “accidental attendance” was on par.
What We Talked About (Besides Wine)
Here’s what I remember in between deep literary takes and secretly Googling “Plath for Dummies”:
- Someone said the patriarchy is like, a character in the book. Which I nodded at. A lot.
- Another girl—Harper, probably named after Lee—brought homemade madeleines. Who is she?
- I said something like, “I mean, isn’t the fig tree just a metaphor for commitment anxiety?” And everyone snapped their fingers. Literal snaps?? Like I was at a slam poetry brunch.
I don’t know who I was in that moment. But I liked her.
A Quick Note on the Cocktails
Because yes: it was kind of a speakeasy. There was a secret bar behind a shelf of fake encyclopedias (very Scooby-Doo), with cocktails like:
- The Holden Caulfield (bourbon & bitterness)
- Gin Eyre (see what they did there?)
- The Scarlett Letter (pomegranate with shame)
I ordered a Tom Collins and said, “classic, like a Chanel tweed.” Bartender didn’t laugh, but I stand by it.
Am I In a Book Club Now?
Apparently, yes.
I’m now on the mailing list. There’s a Google Doc with our next read (The Secret History) and they made me download this app where everyone anonymously shares dog-eared page quotes?
Also, Margot told me she liked my “aura,” so I might be co-hosting next month. Me. Rachel Green. Talking about books. Unironically.
So What Did We Learn?
- Say yes to strange flyers.
- Always have a password ready. (Chardonnay works.)
- New York City will surprise you when you least expect it, especially in a wrap dress.
Oh—and apparently I own The Bell Jar now, because Margot gave me her copy. It smells like lavender and existential dread.
Till next time, book lovers. Or accidental intellectuals. Or just girls looking for some wine and a night that turns into something magical.
Xoxo,
Rachel
(Wearing glasses now. Just for the aesthetic.)
