Nothing Really Matters is a hidden New York bar with another secret
The Instagram Thing is an occasional column highlighting things you’ll want to Instagram. Our previous editions have highlighted ten foot snake topiary at the Standard East Village, the Pegasus at Serendipity3, the Bovine Tartar at Little Mad, the Bikes at GupShup, the giant moose at Spaghetti Tavern and the Cheesecake Creature at Sacristy.
I have already established this Nothing really matters has merits beyond its bathroom. The drinks are good with the aim of being “the best cocktail bar in the universe”, it is by the way hidden entrance is a hoot, and this place, adjacent to train platform 1 going downtown at 50th street and broadway, is about as close to home as you can get. . . provided the house is somewhere between the greater Times Square area and South Ferry.
But this occasional column spotlights Instagram Things, the things you’ll wish for on Instagram, and Nothing Really Matters’ contribution to this category is her sparkling jeans.
Selfies in the bathroom used to really means something in this city. They were a means of transmitting, not only did i visit this hotspot, but i stayed long enough to have to use the potty. And Nothing Really Matters is the first place in the post-vaccine pandemic to honor this august New York history.
Regular readers will know the drill here: Head down the stairs to the subway on the south side of 50th Street, just west of Broadway, stop before the bend, and hang quickly right into the dark bar door . Rows of bright spirits are straight ahead, stools dot the space on the left, and a few cozy nooks suitable for bands and/or canoods are on the right, along with a somewhat inconspicuous disco ball that foreshadows what lies a little beyond.
Keep going past the westernmost end of the bar and the bathroom is on your left. The previous statement paraphrases the instructions I was given when I first asked where the bar toilets were a few months ago. And in a city full of hype, exaggeration and PT Barnum-esque subterfuge, these jaded directions betray the dazzling destination.
Remember the disco ball. Now imagine that you are Polly Pocket, residing within that same sphere. Your animal companion is a plastic dog, which is nice, your existence is undisturbed by the elements, and you have plenty of accessories. Life is Beautiful. And it’s all covered in glitter that illuminates your complexion like the poreless, lacquered idol you’ve always known.
The Nothing Really Matters bathroom wraps you in brilliance. Its gleaming walls are covered in a refracted finish designed to catch the light just right. It’s tempting to want to reach out and touch their surface with the flesh of your fingers – only to feel their topography rumble under the thin edges of your fingernails – but this is still a semi-public toilet, so maybe don’t. be not. Or else, I don’t care, and all that happens is between you and the endless reflections of your beautiful face from every tiny metallic peak and valley of the countless, tiny reflective surfaces of the momentary sanctuary. It’s probably a metaphor for something, but then again, it’s a bathroom in a bar, and someone’s probably waiting outside, so take a selfie and keep the deeper thoughts to your own classic owner’s toilet.
When they have to go, you have to go.
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