You had a dream once.
A bootlegger was giving you a massage.
You didn’t know what to make of it at the time, and frankly, it was disquieting.
Anyway: weird dream.
Also, there’s a spa called Moonshine—a rustic new den of massages and bootleg liquor in Le Parker Meridien of all places, now open in Midtown.
Picture a mineshaft. But, you know, a sumptuous, cedar-scented one with lots of headroom. One where you’ll be securing surplus amounts of tranquility, lower-back euphoria and a stress-relieving dram or two.
To find it, take the hotel elevator down to Drybar. Then, do not go to Drybar. Instead, head straight for the locker room. Change into your massage equipment (a robe and a smile) and head through the door marked “Moonshine.”
You’ll emerge into a gloriously dim world of caged canaries, flatbed mine carts, the occasional cave drawing and velvet wing chairs that look like they should come with a scepter and a button that releases the hounds. Oh, yeah, and a table with shot glasses and a bottle of Stillhouse Moonshine for your sipping pleasure.
Eventually, you’ll be summoned into a burlap-and-mud-covered room for your massage (or facial, if that’s your thing)—a you-call-it kind of affair with your own playlist and the privilege of uttering the phrase, “Make mine a shiatsu.”
You’ve been waiting a long time for that one.
A bootlegger was giving you a massage.
You didn’t know what to make of it at the time, and frankly, it was disquieting.
Anyway: weird dream.
Also, there’s a spa called Moonshine—a rustic new den of massages and bootleg liquor in Le Parker Meridien of all places, now open in Midtown.
Picture a mineshaft. But, you know, a sumptuous, cedar-scented one with lots of headroom. One where you’ll be securing surplus amounts of tranquility, lower-back euphoria and a stress-relieving dram or two.
To find it, take the hotel elevator down to Drybar. Then, do not go to Drybar. Instead, head straight for the locker room. Change into your massage equipment (a robe and a smile) and head through the door marked “Moonshine.”
You’ll emerge into a gloriously dim world of caged canaries, flatbed mine carts, the occasional cave drawing and velvet wing chairs that look like they should come with a scepter and a button that releases the hounds. Oh, yeah, and a table with shot glasses and a bottle of Stillhouse Moonshine for your sipping pleasure.
Eventually, you’ll be summoned into a burlap-and-mud-covered room for your massage (or facial, if that’s your thing)—a you-call-it kind of affair with your own playlist and the privilege of uttering the phrase, “Make mine a shiatsu.”
You’ve been waiting a long time for that one.
