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Speakeasy 86 Apr 2026

And remember: the password changes every night. Tonight, it’s “Pac-Man Fever.”

“Who invented the moonwalk?”

The cocktail menu is written in a hybrid font—Art Deco with a digital glitch effect. The DJ isn’t a DJ. It’s a jukebox loaded with bootleg 7-inches. One minute, you’re listening to Duke Ellington’s “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)” . Halfway through, the needle scratches, and the beat drops into an instrumental of “Billie Jean” —same tempo, same snare snap. It works disturbingly well. speakeasy 86

Later, a saxophonist walks through the crowd playing a lonely solo over the top of “Blue Monday” by New Order. Nobody claps. Nobody talks. They just feel . 1. The Glove Game On the bar sits a single white sequined glove. If you put it on, you must challenge another patron to a round of Dance Dance Revolution on a cabinet in the corner. Loser buys a round of Gin Rickeys (1922) or Jäger shots (1985). There is no middle ground. And remember: the password changes every night

If you press it between the hours of 11 PM and 4 AM, a sliding panel opens. You won’t see eyes, just the faint glow of a CRT monitor. The voice behind the steel will ask one question: It’s a jukebox loaded with bootleg 7-inches

It’s a place for the bootleggers of nostalgia. For the people who grew up watching The Lost Boys on VHS while listening to their grandparent’s Benny Goodman records. For the romantics who believe that the best parties happen when you’re not supposed to be there. Ask for “The Reagan Flapper” : Prosecco, Jolt Cola, a splash of Batavia Arrack, garnished with a Pop Rocks rim. It tastes like election night 1984 if the 19th Amendment had a drum machine.

There is a door in the back of a laundromat on the edge of the Arts District. It has no handle, no signage, and a doorbell that plays the first four bars of “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” in a minor key.

A Smarter Approach to Everyday Living

And remember: the password changes every night. Tonight, it’s “Pac-Man Fever.”

“Who invented the moonwalk?”

The cocktail menu is written in a hybrid font—Art Deco with a digital glitch effect. The DJ isn’t a DJ. It’s a jukebox loaded with bootleg 7-inches. One minute, you’re listening to Duke Ellington’s “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)” . Halfway through, the needle scratches, and the beat drops into an instrumental of “Billie Jean” —same tempo, same snare snap. It works disturbingly well.

Later, a saxophonist walks through the crowd playing a lonely solo over the top of “Blue Monday” by New Order. Nobody claps. Nobody talks. They just feel . 1. The Glove Game On the bar sits a single white sequined glove. If you put it on, you must challenge another patron to a round of Dance Dance Revolution on a cabinet in the corner. Loser buys a round of Gin Rickeys (1922) or Jäger shots (1985). There is no middle ground.

If you press it between the hours of 11 PM and 4 AM, a sliding panel opens. You won’t see eyes, just the faint glow of a CRT monitor. The voice behind the steel will ask one question:

It’s a place for the bootleggers of nostalgia. For the people who grew up watching The Lost Boys on VHS while listening to their grandparent’s Benny Goodman records. For the romantics who believe that the best parties happen when you’re not supposed to be there. Ask for “The Reagan Flapper” : Prosecco, Jolt Cola, a splash of Batavia Arrack, garnished with a Pop Rocks rim. It tastes like election night 1984 if the 19th Amendment had a drum machine.

There is a door in the back of a laundromat on the edge of the Arts District. It has no handle, no signage, and a doorbell that plays the first four bars of “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” in a minor key.