A Designed Experience: Raines Law Room
In the dim, quiet hours of morning she dressed for day with thought of the night ahead. Like the characters in old photos she is a vision of grayscale; black stockings, heels, and a voluminous dark gray skirt with a belted waist. Her eyes are painted with heavy shadow and generous eyeliner. Later, when sun goes back to where it came from, when the next morning is closer than the one she’s in now, she’ll patronize Raines Law Room, a hidden speakeasy. Down a nondescript stairway, advertised only by a small, six inch plaque, a handsome maître d’hôtel will answer the rung bell and allow entry. Shortly after that she’ll be sipping a Manhattan or a South Side Ricky. Whisky or gin, or maybe one of each.
She is me, the more sophisticated version. She speaks softly and cradles her cocktail with sophistication, sits gracefully on flush velvet beneath sultry lighting. She is vintage glamorous: the retro atmosphere of Raines Law Room lends its aura, a romance reminiscent of prohibition era nightlife in New York. This is just the latest example of the speakeasy themed bar, an increasingly popular trend. A certain mood is promised with entry into a modern day speakeasy. A Gatsby experience.
The entrance, on 17th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues, is intentionally ordinary. The door, and coincidentally, the address, is protected by a temporary vestibule. Whether meant to shield visitors from elements or shield the bar from detection, it does both. It’s hard to find. Even the quickest sleuth walks past the bar, once, maybe twice, before identifying its location.
Entry will be delayed at the door. How many patrons, I wonder, perform the same routine: apprehensive steps towards the door, reassurance at the presence of signage, albeit small, and a timid yank on the handle only to be thwarted. It’s locked. A second examination at the tiny framed letters reveal the secret. Ring bell.
After an extended moment Paul will greet you. The exchange is brief but effective. “Who are you here with?” Rafael. Fine. Reservations weren’t made and Rafael doesn’t know Paul, so presumably the answer could have been any name. But he steps aside and you enter into a dark, curtained threshold. It will take a moment for your eyes to adjust. Paul Meurens answers the door but he’s not a bouncer, not a goon. Far from it. His role is scripted and important. With dark, slicked-back hair and a perfectly tailored black suit he’s the opening act of the speakeasy experience. He’s very serious. The bar may have auditioned many Pauls, looking for just the right hint of welcome-yet-unwelcome in just five words. A freckled redhead wouldn’t have made the cut, too spirited. No woman will likely hold the position, not enough height, not formidable enough. I hope that Paul is well-paid, it must be a boring part. With every guest, every night, every week the performance is repeated. When Paul tires of his position another Paul will take over, perhaps next time named Nick, or Jimmy.
From this moment on you’re a part of a designed experience, a synchronized performance between you and the bar. The interior design is notable; furniture selections, wallpaper, pressed tin ceiling, gauzy curtains, they are all expertly selected and arranged to envelope the patron with elegance. But the unique, special success of Raines Law Room is the melodramatic performance that you become a part of. To fully enjoy the visit embrace it, channel your inner character—the sophisticated version of you. As Paul guides you through the darkness—a necessity since your eyes have still not adjusted—unleash the swagger that appears when your ego is flattered. You’re here, you made it past the faux gatekeeper. Whatever your status on the outside it’s now been elevated.
There are two main rooms in this place, the first is a drawing room made for entertaining. Velvet upholstered armchairs are positioned with ottomans in sets of two’s and four’s. Vintage checkerboards and dark wood side tables hold exotic-looking beverages in assorted glasses. A fireplace dominates one wall, from floor to ceiling double-tiered mantel is adorned with knickknacks. In front of a large mirror black and white photos of unfamiliar faces from another era live in decorated frames. Light flickers inside frosted candleholders and is multiplied by its own reflections. Light is in short supply. The room seems to be occupied but your eyes haven’t adjusted to this dim, colorless place. Your fellow bar-goers are faceless and anonymous.
That’s okay because you’re not stopping. Paul leads you through this first room and into the second. You are deposited at what he calls “the bar” but is actually a kitchen, and you wait for further instruction. It’s beautiful but not comfortable. No bar stools, no bartender to greet you. Paul has quietly slipped back to his position at the door and you’re left in the company of a stranger moving with orchestrated efficiency about the kitchen. Lemons are squeezed, garnishes are snipped and arranged, and alcohol is splashed and dashed into glasses of various styles. It’s brighter and busier in here than where you just came from, you’re at the heart of the place. More candles pepper the marble countertops in between serving plates and kitchen gadgets—assorted silver things that squeeze, shake, and stir. A chandelier hangs above your head and dim lighting illuminates various dark wood cabinets and shelves. If this were a friend’s home you would lean on the island, strike up a conversation, and offer to help. Instead you hover, watching and waiting for something to happen. The cue is somewhere between curiosity and discomfort, when a menu suddenly appears in your hands. Condensed gold capital letters advertise the bar’s name on the outside of the black leather screw-post book. The day’s specials are recited by your host, friendly enough but with efficiency, as her hands are still at work on someone else’s order.
The room is either invasive or exclusive, depending on how fully you’ve embraced your role. The more timid players shrink into corners, examining out-of-the-way artifacts too closely. In this room you learn about the bar. There’s time, while you wait, to read the story of Raines Law Room, framed on the rear counter and reprinted on the front page of the menu. The name comes from a law passed on March 23rd, 1896 by the New York State legislature. An early prohibition law, it imposed taxes and regulations to curb liquor consumption. The idea for the bar is inspired by the law and by the three decades that followed, culminating in nationwide prohibition of alcohol from 1919 to 1933 in the United States. But the sophistication of this modern-day speakeasy isn’t a recreation of the hideaways that existed during that time. Those were seedy places, ripe with corruption, bribery, and prostitution. Since the law made an exception for hotels, establishments advertised rooms for rent simply to acquire the status. The bedrooms were often makeshift, sometimes barely habitable—save for the most disrepute. The woman visiting Raines Law Room today is not simply plucked from history and deposited in the present. The raw history has been romanticized, buffed with the allure of taboo. The past necessitated a bootlegged system of entertainment and a lawlessness that was often the antithesis of glamorous. The present establishment captures our imagination by creating a fabricated environment of clandestine. There’s no real danger in visiting Raines Law Room, no real fear of being caught. Doors won’t be busted down—and since prohibition won’t happen again, we can only imagine the atmosphere and sins of our country during that time.
Before you leave the kitchen there’s one more thing to learn. That’s how to order your beverages. Above the kitchen sink are numbers, one through eight in two neat rows, each with a corresponding light. A simple system; in the drawing room a cord is rung, the light activates, and the waitress dashes out to receive an order. By making you wait in the kitchen the bar is teaching you, so that by the time a table is available no explanation is necessary.
Paul has reappeared and you’re told to follow, back to the drawing room where your seat is waiting. Once you sit, you stay. The choreography of this place doesn’t allow for you to get your own drinks or wander. Details are clearer now, with more time to drink them in from your position. Look closely; the wallpaper pattern to your left is an exciting surprise, tiny figures engaging in dirty deeds. Funny, they looked like flowers at first. Later you’ll visit the restroom and see a similar-but-different pattern of nude men and women caught in the act. The tiny silver pull-chain at your table is irresistible, deftly summoning more drinks than you meant to consume.
Whether you’re there for one hour or many, the view from your table stays the same. The faces beside you have become familiar, no longer anonymous. You haven’t spoken to each other but there’s a kinship, when they finally depart and new guests arrive you feel mildly invaded, faintly superior. This is all part of the third act of the play, first door, then kitchen, then table. It’s the longest act but the least happens. Sit, relax, and finally enjoy your stay.
