Okay… so remember that time I tried to be “adventurous”? Yeah. That.
Let me paint you a picture: It was a Wednesday evening, I had just survived a very intense day at Bloomingdale’s (one woman actually cried in the fitting room over a cashmere blend—tale for another day), and all I wanted was a quiet glass of rosé and potentially some light flirting with a bartender who called me “ma’am” in a confused-but-respectful way.
But thaaat’s not what the universe had planned. Oh no.
It All Started With a Door
So I’m walking down West Broadway (in what I will graciously call “heels I regret”), when I notice this tiny, almost invisible doorway nestled between an overpriced plant store and a place that only sells Japanese denim.
It was black. No name. No nothing. Just an old man standing outside wearing the kind of hat that says “I know what a saxophone sounds like.”
Naturally, I stop.
“Looking for the show?” he asks.
Okay. First of all, yes. Always.
So I nod, like this is totally normal for me and like I haven’t just stumbled into what sounds like the plot of a noir film where I might end up a glamorous missing person.
He opens the door. I go in.
Inside: Jazz and People Who Pretend Not To Notice You
The space is dim—like “is this a bar or a dream sequence” kinda dim—and filled almost entirely with people who dress like they definitely own limited-edition vinyl.
A woman in crimson velvet nods at me. I trip slightly on the entrance rug. (But like, an elegant trip.)
There’s live music—real jazz. Not background music, not Spotify’s “Chill Vibes,” but actual humans making magic with brass and sweat. I instantly feel like I should be wearing elbow gloves and chain-smoking while discussing the meaning of loneliness.
Honestly? It. Was. Incredible.
I sat at the bar (yes, I ordered a martini, and yes, the bartender had a handlebar mustache, and yes, I died a little), and let the music do what it does best—make you forget that there are dishes in your sink and an ex in your DMs.
What I Learned from Jazz and Mistaken Identity
Somewhere between the second set and me thinking I could pull off jazz hands in real life, I realized no one had asked me to pay. Or show a ticket. Or even confirm why I was there.
Lucky for me, someone at the next table said:
“Wait, are you Stephanie’s friend?”
To which I replied, with the confidence of an accidental con artist:
“Yup. That’s me.”
Was I Stephanie’s friend? No. Had I ever met a Stephanie who ran what I now believed to be a Very Cool Underground Jazz Club? Also no. But had I, in that moment, spiritually become a Stephanie’s-friend kind of woman? Absolutely.
Pro Tips for Accidental Jazz-ing in SoHo
If you, too, should find yourself stumbling into a secret Soho jazz club, here’s what I suggest:
- Look like you know what you’re doing. A strong walk and a soft smile go a long way.
- Order with confidence. “Gin, something dirty” works if you forget how martinis are made.
- Don’t ask if this is the speakeasy. Just don’t. Let it be a vibe, not a quiz.
- Prepare for no Wi-Fi. Apparently, Wi-Fi kills the mood in places where men in fedoras make eye contact and talk about Miles Davis.
Final Thoughts from a Former Non-Jazz-Girl
I walked out of that club two hours later a changed woman. Not in like, a rush-out-and-buy-a-trumpet way. But I knew something had shifted. New York gives you these little unexpected dips into drama and glamour and music and mess, and sometimes you just have to walk through the nondescript door.
Also: shoutout to Stephanie, wherever you are. You’ve got great taste in music and possibly in friends.
—
Song still playing in my head? “My Funny Valentine.”
Shoes I threw in my bag halfway through? Those regretful heels.
Memory I’ll be talking about when I’m ninety and drinking wine with my therapist’s granddaughter? This one.
Until next accidental adventure,
xo Rachel 🥂
📍NYC (and apparently…weather-permitting…SoHo’s secret jazz underbelly)
