I'm not a terribly nostalgic person.
Even when I watched in horror as low-waisted jeans came back and influencers celebrated scoring a "vintage" Juicy Couture tracksuit, my pragmatic side always seemed to win out.
Even as report after report declared that Gen Z just wanted to watch Friends and other shows from the early aughts because the pandemic made them long for what they perceived as simpler, safer times, I thought: not me.
Well, I certainly can’t claim the latter anymore. Though I didn’t fall prey to Friends, my husband and I have watched the procedural drama Bones from start to finish. It stars Emily Deschanel and David Boreanaz solving crimes for nearly twelve years, starting in 2005.
What I want to say is that lately I’ve been feeling pangs of nostalgia, with some regularity, for the NYC of my twenties. Not that I long for it, but that I enjoy being reminded of it.
It started innocently enough: dinner at Konban (I recommend it) to catch up with some friends. Afterward, we wanted another drink but needed to stay near the comedy venue where I was headed to see Nataly Aukar. The “speakeasy” Bathtub Gin was perfectly placed, and after laughing about how long it had been since any of us had been there, we decided to go.
Bathtub Gin opened in Chelsea in 2011, tucked behind the facade of a coffee shop that has never sold a cup of coffee. It peaked a couple of years later. Yes, it has a bathtub inside, and when we walked in, a couple in their fifties was happily lying in it for a photo.
Caroline remarked that the air reeked of truffle oil. “Remember The Stanton Social,” she mused. “Remember how they’d bring out those free trays of truffle fries and sliders on Mondays?” The space overall didn’t look bad; the design just felt dated in this funny, nostalgic way. It felt kind of nice.
A few days later, in my pursuit of trying something new, I was reminded of something old. I finally made it to Librae Bakery near Astor Place, and as I walked up, it seemed like the building was connected to the Standard Hotel. I have many fond memories of that particular location, from karaoke nights to RuPaul’s Drag Race watch parties.
Inside, I asked the girl at the counter if the bakery was connected to the hotel. She said she didn’t think so, but that the restaurant looked good because it was always packed. She’d just been so busy at the bakery that she hadn’t made it over there herself.
“Have you eaten at the restaurant?” she asked.
“Not really, I’ve just gone to a lot of events there over the years. It’s a pretty classic NYC hotel,” I replied, and recounted the drag race parties and karaoke nights.
“Wow, cool! Thank you for letting me know!” she replied earnestly.
I guess we’ve reached the point where I’m getting thanked for teaching twenty-year-olds about The Standard Hotel. A new high or a new low, I’m unsure.
I could see what she meant about being too busy at the bakery. People kept trying to come in past closing time. There was no bread left; the only offerings were espresso pain au chocolat and plain croissants. I also tried a tahini date latte, which honestly mostly just tasted like a normal latte but was delicious nonetheless…maybe not for $7.
When I got home that evening, I opened this very app and clicked on an article titled: “San Vicente Bungalows West Village Is the AI Slop We Deserve.” I took the bait, expecting criticism of the members-only club.
What I got instead was another pang of nostalgia, this time for the Jane Hotel, the storied venue this location of SVB replaced, and which the author, Saint Obvious, describes well: “The Jane was not a democracy—no fashionable nightclub has ever suffered from excessive egalitarianism—but it at least permitted the possibility of surprise. Actors, models, and celebrity DJs mingled with college students, unknown artists, and normal people with jobs.”
When I think of dancing on the couches of The Jane Hotel, I feel my mouth curve up into a slight smile. Perhaps it’s a collective memory for anyone who was young in New York in the 2010s.
The author continues:
“The drawing room was bizarrely hostile for a room whose only apparent purpose was sitting down. Two fussy blue velvet couches were framed by equally fussy cream-colored wingback chairs…The contrast with the Jane was palpable. People used to dance on the couches here. Now we were afraid to sit on them.”
Perhaps the author too, is feeling nostalgic.
If you missed the last dispatch, I have a new job:
Ok bye! 🍊
Thanks for reading!