Our obsession with Chinatown continues! More than a hundred years ago, if a poor soul wandered down Doyers Street, it was probably the last you ever heard of them. Home of the infamous “Bloody Angle,” Doyers Street was once a murderous, blood-soaked alley full of pirates, demons, and the infamous Bill the Butcher. Now it’s only fitting (or ironic, or just plain weird, or whatever) that Doyers Street is home to the most expensive cocktail in all of Manhattan. Tell us, dear readers, is it sheer madness to pay THIRTY DOLLARS for a single cocktail? Surely you’d have to be insane to do this, right? What kind of depraved madman needs to spend six hours of a McDonald’s employee’s salary in a slurpy, salacious seven or eight minutes. Are we nearing a new epoch of a modern day Nero, whose fiddle will dictate the mad melody of our final cocktail drinking days? Let’s just say: Apotheke calls for a special occasion. Or a friend who’s rented out the bar for a birthday! Just make sure someone else is paying (like Bill the Butcher).
Here’s Doyers Street at daylight. Harmless. Passersby pass by pleasantly indifferent to the high-dollar decadence waiting behind Door Number Nine. At the bruised, gnarled elbow of the Bloody Angle lies the unheralded entrance to Apotheke.
Then, having spoken the Ali-Baba like incantation, you emerge into the following enclave of orgiastic indiscretion:
You feel, well, like you should have brought your opium pipe! But don’t worry, literarians, this is the 21st Century. We’ve upgraded from opium to a good old fashioned Violet Hour (Muddled Blueberries, House-made Elderflower Syrup, Islay Single Malt Scotch, Blueberry Lager). Indeed. Step closer, relax. Loosen your tie. If you can, find a seat. If the crowd’s already rowdy, step to the bar for a closer look.
Be warned, literarians! For those looking for a dangerously good time, the word on the street is that you can even drink “poison” if you know the right way to ask.
But don’t drink too much, or you might end up looking like this: