You’ve wandered into this essay, quickly realizing that, “Oh, it has a goofy little start.” You continue for a while. The lines between gimmick, novelty, and adventure begin to blur. You’re not about to abandon; you glance back at the headline, the byline, some guidepost. Your eyes roll down onto where you left off and that’s when you realize you’ve already read a whole paragraph. You’re in deep.
I call this the Narnia effect. An ordinary wardrobe door has opened you up to a magic fantasy. A grotty little rabbit hole has tumbled you into a wonderland. It’s every elevator that opens straight into an apartment. A quest to see if you can ever recreate that feeling of opening your monochrome Kansas cottage door and stepping into this Technicolor Oz of 9 million people.
Narnias don’t care if you stay or if you go—or post. They do not speak your language; you must learn theirs.
We have the misfortune of living in an era dominated by the lazy catch-all of vibes. They lie somewhere between comfort’s cousins (chill, hygge, etc.) and the reliably inscrutable, fascist dictum of cool. We say vibes to conjure multitudes, but it’s all one vibe of shelf-stable pleasantry making even one-off venues feel formulaic.
Whereas vibes crave engagement, Narnias don’t care if you stay or if you go—or post. They do not speak your language; you must learn theirs. Despite the boom of private dining clubs, there’s no such thing as a VIP Narnia (that’s a Mar-a-Lago). Narnias operate on the opposite of status: They’re about forgetting who you are and where you are. Often when we emerge from a Narnia, as with a matinee, we’re shocked that there’s still daylight.
While they share some subjectivity with vibes, all Narnias adhere to one constant: The place needs to be transportive. This rules out the Michelin-starred culinary temples (Le Bernadin, Masa, Eleven Madison Park), as well as less shiny shrines (Katz’s), which never let you forget where you are. But it also allows for deeply personal range.
Maybe there’s a Narnia that reminds you of your hometown, or a Narnia is a local scrap of some faraway bucket list-y place. For kicks, sometimes it’s cryptic and solipsistic: Your unchanged college watering hole can be a Narnia just for you. Narnias aren’t the tawdry churn of “best of” lists. Everyone makes their own collection.
Thankfully, a Narnia is not a matter of luxury spending. One of my first Narnias was the Burger Joint in the lobby of the Parker Meridien hotel, where a weird corridor led you forward with only the guidance of a neon sign of a burger with an arrow. It was a dive joint inside a luxury hotel, long departed. But that’s alright.
It’s the first lesson of Narnias: They are equal parts Xanadu and Brigadoon. Gino’s, Café Loup, Elaine’s, Florent, Barbetta, and Pearl Oyster Bar thrill and depart. Adda, Mountain House, Miss Lily’s, the River, Tashkent 6th Ave., Nonnas of the World, Thai Diner, and Tacoway Beach arrive. Bemelmans—rediscovered by each new generation—is the constant city exception that proves the rule. Brooklyn has Sunny’s.
You find Narnias through leaps of faith. There is no audacity quite like building a joint up as a “hidden gem” only to reveal that it’s Lucali, or Caffé Panna. Narnias are about swapping out your inner Carrie Bradshaw for your inner Damon Runyon. Spots where you replace tons of photos and no conversation with tons of conversation and forgetting to take photos.
Narnias are not trying to trend. They’re up for anything and they don’t care about clout.
Vibes are fishbowls; Narnias are escapes. There is frankly nothing more boring than a place built on vibes: the houseplants held hostage, lighting perfected to moments captured, that one dull-yet-ubiquitous 1934 Tolix chair knock-off. To say nothing of menus that an algorithm could believably mock a decade ago (the Brooklyn Bar Menu Generator debuted in 2015).
Narnias are not trying to trend. They’re up for anything and they don’t care about clout. Your eyes don’t know where to land in the campy clutter of Congee Village’s yard-sale maximalism, or can happily plane in Commerce Inn’s Shaker simplicity. Similarly, once you notice that the chandeliers at The Russian Tea Room are made of red Christmas ornaments, you slide deeper into its decadent set design. Even in a crowded Brooklyn food hall, Bark BBQ reduces your world to its plate.
Narnias can be tiny (Tomi Jazz or Yakitori Totto) or spacious (Ajo y Oregano or Ilis). They can be crudely common, like Punjabi Deli, or serene sanctuaries, like Hangawi. They can be far away (Da Xi or Vinum) or next door. Food can even be an afterthought, as with Rolf’s or Minnows Bar. They can have not a care in the world (G’s Coffee Shop) or they can be so thirsty you feel licked afterwards (Please Don’t Tell).
I may have some advantage here because I’m gay. Gay bars are the ultimate Narnias. The best gay bars make you unsure that they’re even open. If it looks like an abandoned Verizon store, your night is about to get wild. Gay bars aren’t about shared respect for striving culture; they’re about the shared risk of entrance, of being somewhere that maybe not everyone agrees you belong. Narnias are places where mere existence is a kind of defiance. For this reason, the best Narnias can bbe empty.
Alas, or maybe fittingly, Narnias are evasive. They are the polar opposites of ubiquitous bodegas, which offer familiarity on every corner. Narnias subject you to a persistent foreignness—not of culture and language, but of time and place—think Hop Kee, McSorley’s, or Fraunces Tavern. El Parador Café opened as one of the city’s early Mexican restaurants in 1958 and entering it today still feels like legit time travel. Ditto the upstairs bar at Sardi’s. Or the rear booths at Carbone.
The good news is you can easily experience a new Narnia every day. There’s just one catch: You have to be willing to leave if you don’t feel transported. You have to let it be left behind. Try another door. The city is full of them
