Hush-Hush Hooch

Back Room

102 Norfolk Street (betw. Rivington and Delancey Sts.)

212-228-5098

Secret bars are the new black, though they could easily be a fatal disease. Every time I hear the words "La Esquina" or "Freeman's," I yawn like I'm stricken by sleeping sickness. Nine out of 10 bars and restaurants fail to make it past five years. With survival odds so lottery-like, what's the point? Mystery? Intrigue? Too cheap to buy a sign?

So what about a secret bar inside a secret bar that was formerly a speakeasy? That's like removing a fortune cookie's fortune and inserting it inside another cookie. This m.o. drives the Back Room, the Lower East Side's homage to American's teetotaling past.

The Back Room is situated inside the Lanksy Lounge space, across the street from Blue, an in-the-works high-rise monstrosity, and avant-garde club Tonic. Locate the Back Room by finding the gate reading LOWER EAST SIDE TOY COMPANY. Amble down a short, subterranean path, up some stairs and-huzzah! Welcome to five minutes of cool.

Perhaps I should temper my tongue. Aesthetically speaking, the Back Room is as beautiful as an open seat on a rush-hour train. The expansive space is a Prohibition-era time machine: shiny tin ceilings, plush, upholstered paisley fabric walls, grandma-quality velvet furniture, chandeliers and even a (kaput) Nickelodeon machine. The room is large enough to fit 30 friends. Or grab a sweetie and canoodle on a plush love seat.

On this level, woo boy, the Back Room's all aces. It's little surprise; the owner carbon-copied the sumptuous décor from his other bar, the Upper East Side's Auction House. Monetarily, he was assisted by reported celeb coinvestors Mark Messier and Tim Robbins (who was Page Sixed after recently tending Back Room's bar). Their pocketbooks would partly explain the hidden VIP room. In the rear, look for a too-skinny faux bookcase capped by a red EXIT sign.

The very important people who aren't very important (read: bridge-and-tunnelers and above-14th-street dwellers) flood the lounge on weekends, which is either sweet heaven or burning purgatory. I'm indifferent to Jerseyites and Upper East Siders (someone's gotta buy skunky cologne, overpriced hair gel and ass-flossing thongs), but I abhor weekend warriors. No work! Time to par-taaaaaaaaaaay! Cramming seven days of hedonism into two days is a pressure-cooker recipe for assholes and cat-in-heat sexing.

As a counterpoint, weeknights find the lounge as quiet as a mime. On several visits, I was one of barely 10 customers. At 10 pm. In this situation, the room feels sparse and cavernous, with alt-rock and lounge music-not décor-appropriate jazz or a big band soundtrack-ricocheting around like towel-wrapped tennis balls. In Manhattan, a somewhat silent bar to sip a drink is a find; but how much would you pay to enjoy peace?

Pedestrian beers like Bud, Corona and Beck's cost six bucks and-hello, double-secret Prohibition theme!-are served in brown paper bags, which remind me that I could buy the same beer at a bodega for a buck-fifty. (Note: If you're thinking of taking half-empty bottles outside, a sign reminds you, DRINKING OF BEER IN STREETS-EVEN IN BROWN PAPER BAGS-IS ILLEGAL. No sign, however, prohibits you from bringing in your own brown-bagged beer. Just saying.) Draft remains unavailable (a lonely bag covered a Guinness tap last week), so I recommend sticking to mixed drinks. It's hardly an enthusiastic vote. Well liquors run a Manhattan-average six bucks. They're served in gimmicky, double-handled teacups, another Prohibition nod. Chintzy drinkware is fine; its size draws my ire. The teacups barely hold an ounce of liquor, anemic ice cubes and a dash of mixer. The teacups pull double-duty for wine ($7 for house red). Why? Even the British refrain from sipping wine from a teacup.

Such is the Back Room, where style trumps practicality and value, and the super-hideaway vibe feels more than a little ostentatious. During Prohibition, bars like Lansky Lounge and the West Village's Chumley's were driven underground out of law-evading necessity. In the Bloomberg era, deceit and knock-three-times behavior is relegated to after-hours clubs and the odd drug den, of which Back Room is neither. It's a tasteful, attention-grabbing gambit built on store-bought mystery. I'm glad I know where Back Room's located, but I'm also glad it's hidden.