Your Bar Is Not a Speakeasy. And the Mob Would Be Ashamed.
Unless you're actually getting raided
I was invited to the opening of a new speakeasy a couple of weeks ago. It was announced, as any self-respecting underground drinking den should be, with a press release.
I could probably stop this Hot Take there, because while I may not have been alive during prohibition, I’m also pretty sure Al Capone wasn’t calling his publicist every time he started an illegal jazz club, trying to get the New York Times food critic a table.
But 90 years later, speakeasys have made a bigtime comeback. And now you see them everywhere - in subway stations, on cruise ships, and occasionally at very exclusive preschools.
The idea is cute: Knock on a secret washing machine, say a secret password like “Don’t eat the Tide pods,” and you’re escorted into a room lit only by a single lightbulb/Care Bears nightlight. You’re seated in a sea of velvet couches, and handed a menu so long that finishing it should earn you a personal pan pizza. The drinks all have 65 ingredients,…
