Sports bar basements.
Empty kegs. Dust-covered Doc Gooden jerseys. The lingering smell of week-old buffalo wing sauce.
It’s either the worst place to spend an evening.
Or the best place to conceal a shiny new nightclub...
Unveiling Stash, a lawless, glitzy, late-night hideout that’s secretly tucked into the bowels of a sports pub, opening Thursday.
If you’re thinking this sounds like it needs an unmarked door—bingo. You’re looking for the one that’s in between the Darby and Snap. If you find yourself sandwiched at a bar stool, you’ve made a wrong turn. Go back and start again.
Before you can reach this subterranean gold-leafed shoebox, you’ll have to maneuver past a highly discerning bouncer (hard) and climb down a nearly invisible flight of black stairs (harder). At the bottom, several leagues below the feet of a few hundred unsuspecting Jets fans, sits your destination—a sexy fallout shelter with a ceiling of domed mosaic tiles and a floor based on designs by Thomas Jefferson (yes, seriously, and yes, that Thomas Jefferson).
On your left, an omakase cocktail bar. On your right, a ring of button-tucked burgundy banquettes that were built to be danced on but designed to protect secrets. That’s because every seat and table in the place is riddled with hidden compartments.
It’s where you’ll hide your foam finger.
Empty kegs. Dust-covered Doc Gooden jerseys. The lingering smell of week-old buffalo wing sauce.
It’s either the worst place to spend an evening.
Or the best place to conceal a shiny new nightclub...
Unveiling Stash, a lawless, glitzy, late-night hideout that’s secretly tucked into the bowels of a sports pub, opening Thursday.
If you’re thinking this sounds like it needs an unmarked door—bingo. You’re looking for the one that’s in between the Darby and Snap. If you find yourself sandwiched at a bar stool, you’ve made a wrong turn. Go back and start again.
Before you can reach this subterranean gold-leafed shoebox, you’ll have to maneuver past a highly discerning bouncer (hard) and climb down a nearly invisible flight of black stairs (harder). At the bottom, several leagues below the feet of a few hundred unsuspecting Jets fans, sits your destination—a sexy fallout shelter with a ceiling of domed mosaic tiles and a floor based on designs by Thomas Jefferson (yes, seriously, and yes, that Thomas Jefferson).
On your left, an omakase cocktail bar. On your right, a ring of button-tucked burgundy banquettes that were built to be danced on but designed to protect secrets. That’s because every seat and table in the place is riddled with hidden compartments.
It’s where you’ll hide your foam finger.
