Prohibition Ended Over 80 Years Ago, or Lessons in Getting over It Already

If there’s one thing I am tired of hearing, it’s diatribes against what has become of New York nightlife. How many times must I hear people lament the loss of the great equalizing clubs- where preppies, prostitutes and everyone in between used to play. I remember someone once recounting an exceptional evening at 54 where they partied with a clown, a transvestite, an ‘artiste’ and a socialite in an effort to invoke some feeling of collective loss in all of us. Well you know what? I rather enjoy spending my evenings not blowing rails with a veritable circus.

There is one nightlife trend, however, whose latent airs of exclusivity really get under my skin, and this is the “speakeasy”. The speakeasy formula is this: take one space no larger than a walk in closet, place a buzzer the size of a gnat in an alley outside, add a ‘celebrity bartender’ who carves his ice out of glaciers in Antarctica, et voila. First there was Milk and Honey, then Little Branch, La Esquina, and Old Rabbit 124…and now you can’t drunkenly make out against an unassuming door without some bitch with a clipboard making ultimate judgment as per your coolness. Apparently, you can save a lot of money on hiring a bouncer if you hide a bar so far up the city’s asshole that it disappears.

Such is the case with a new bar I was reading about this weekend, the Submercer, the “ultra exclusive”, “cavernous” club hidden beneath the Mercer Hotel. From Urban Daddy:

“To get there, pass the Mercer Hotel (no. 147) and enter a little nook in the wall (no. 147 1/2). You'll know you're there when you see two unassuming henchmen hanging out in front of a doorway—just walk on by and enter the industrial freight elevator. Two floors underground, cruise down a long dark hallway stocked with bathroom supplies, turn left, pass the boiler room and then turn right through a heavy red door. One more hallway filled with wine and the faint sounds of lounge music will lead you to the promised land.”

This is ridiculous. It took me long enough to get used to walking through La Esquina’s kitchen only to get the faint whiff of tortilla stuck in my hair for the remainder of the evening. Now I have to dodge heaps of toilet paper, sweat through a boiler room, and let rats gnaw at my ankles before I can spend a day’s salary on a drink? Like, who are these souped up drug dealers/ nightlife entrepreneurs trying to impress with this shit? And if they are really trying to cull the crowd for the makings of a good night- why don’t they do so strategically, by creating an obstacle course that weeds out the unfit, stupid and prude amongst us?

In order to properly address this, I’m thinking of opening my own place called “EatMe.” From Eff the Police:

“To get there, pass the bum who calls you “GQ” and force yourself into the sewer next to where he pisses. You’ll see a pile of leftover syringes and a woman called Shaniqua- just walk on by like you know what the fuck you’re doing and enter a room full of mats. Here you will fight an American Gladiator called Xena. Kick her off her pedestal with a big foam baseball bat. Cruise on by into the next room where you will take on a Mensa candidate in a grueling game of chess before exhibiting your diverse skill set whilst performing oral sex on a banana. Turn left, scratch a hole into the dirt wall with your fingernails, and crawl through into the promised land.”

Soft opening Thursday night, open to the public NEVER.