The Hideout

“Kako.* It’s your brother. Call me back immediately.”

It’s Bad Child on the line. I’m thinking something terrible had gone down – I feel it in the pit of my stomach when I call him back.

“What’s happening?” I say.

“There’s a rum punch party at a speakeasy in Fort Greene. Are you in?”

“I thought someone had died. You made it sound like an emergency.”

“I needed to know if you were in.”

“OK, I’m in.”

I love Bad Child. He’s smart and funny and like most people in the booze industry, always up for a good time. We don’t see each other enough, though we both live in Brooklyn, so on late nights like this, I jump at the chance to be his bar crawling companion.

The bar looks closed. There is no sign. Bad Child leads the way, greeting a tall man from Martinique whose plantation produces the rum in the punch. Qaseem, the owner of the Hideout, greets us at the door as though we’re family. He is so handsome and suave in his fedora and white linen shirt that Bad Child and I feel tipsy in his presence.



Inside, the tiny room is cozy and dimly lit, packed with industry types talking about sugar cane and the pros and cons of molasses-based rum. I head for the punch bowls and sample the various concoctions, my head feeling lighter and lighter with each delicious sip. A photographer snaps pictures of the beautiful, sleek girls in vests and fedoras. We pose too, though less beautifully.



The plantation owner from Martinique corners Bad Child. He looks slightly unhinged as he holds forth about fermentation. Bad Child looks engaged and I smile benignly, nodding at appropriate intervals while I watch little pink and green blobs swim across my line of vision. Suddenly, I am being asked if I like my chardonnay “to pack an oaky whallop.”

“Oh yes,” I say. “I like an oaky assault.” I am not sure if this is the right answer, but somehow, Bad Child manages to extricate us.

“We’ve got to head out,” he says. “I’m the designated diver.”

“Driver.”

We laugh and head for the door.

The Hideout
266 Adelphi Street
Brooklyn, NY 11205


*Kako means “bad” or “evil” in Greek. This is supposedly what our Yia-Yia used to call us when she came to visit.


All images from New York Magazine.