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If you were around the West Village last weekend around 2am on Saturday, you may have just spotted me standing outside in a queuing line, waiting to be let inside a bar. But despite the hour, I wasn’t in a drunken state, charting a bar crawl of my own making. In fact, my purpose was a simple one: to score a soup that was only served at closing time.
You see, more often than not, when bars flick on the lights and the sign flips from open to closed, those who were once patrons become parasites. In an instant, hospitality is all but lost as staff hurriedly shoo clientele out the door in attempts to close as soon as possible. Most parting words are barked by towering bouncers or said lackadaisically from the bar staff, smile included—if you are lucky. Food is usually on the onus of the drunken, as they stumble the streets in search of pizza slices and bodega burgers, or wander into one of New York’s many 24-hour eateries. But one New York speakeasy ensures that the final goodbye is a memorable one. For if you stay until the closing hour at Employees Only, the reward is a cup of soup on the house.
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Back in 2004, founders Bill Gilroy, Igor Hadzismajlovic, Jason Kosmas, Henry Lafargue and Dushan Zaric decided to open a bar, intended to attract fellow barflies over well-made cocktails in a semi-secretive space that didn’t take itself too seriously. Twenty years later, and folks still line up to seek the pseudo-psychic stand that hides this West Village speakeasy, vying for a future read with good tidings and, hopefully, good booze. But with such strong roots in hospitality, even the final send-off at Employees Only is taken with care. Instilling a tradition taken from Greek nightclubs, the bar passes out warm cups of soup to each guest as a way to say thank you. Curious about it all, I decided to stay up well past my bedtime, dragging a friend along with promises of revelry and, hopefully, good soup.
After willing myself to stay awake, making a pit stop at a friend's small get-together in Brooklyn, I made my way over to the West Village. Arriving at 2am, I found that a line was already forming outside. It wasn’t particularly long, and was mainly filled with twenty-somethings who looked nearly dressed for the club as short skirts and dresses were sported with sneakers and cowboy boots. But I wasn’t too worried as I had a reservation, or so I thought. To be fully transparent, I had reached out to the press team about booking a late-night table, confirming one at 2am. So I beelined it to the bouncer to check in for my table. But he brushed me off rather quickly, saying that the last reservation ended at 11pm and pointing to the line behind me. Panic set in as I tried to explain that I had made a reservation with the team just for him to reiterate the same. As I thumbed through my phone for the confirmation, I timidly responded, “I know I have one.” He snapped back, “You think you know better than me, and it’s my bar?” Not exactly the hospitality I envisioned.
I was flustered but stayed calm as I showed him my credentials and revealed the purpose of my visit. He didn't waver but said he would at least check with the general manager inside. Returning a beat later and a touch sweeter, the story was still the same. Ironically, once rejected and standing at the back of the line, I looked up the bar’s Instagram and found they had just shared our article on the best bars in New York, which featured them.
I waited, as if to be let into a Miami club rather than a bar that prides itself on "hospitable ambiance." However, within 15 minutes of waiting, the same bouncer who rejected us flagged my friend and me to the front. I can't really tell what changed, but he checked our IDs and sent us inside with a hollow, "Have a good time."
Sadly, that bad taste in my mouth was quickly replaced by another. Because just beyond the red velvet curtain lay a literal wall of people singing, yelling and cocktailing. Of course, it was 2am, but to say that the bar was packed was an understatement. Immediately, I had to play my least favorite game, “where f*** do I stand?” as bodies fully pressed up against mine, everyone shifting to the whims of those coming and going. From the front, the only oasis for breathing room looked to be in the back of the bar. Yet as I pressed my way through, I found it was closed off for reservations, of which I was told there were none. I attempted one last time to ask about a table, flagging a server at the expo station. She said I should ask their general manager, turning on her heels down the hallway behind the bar. I thought she walked away to go find one, but it turns out she left because our conversation was apparently over.
The next few hours were spent shoulder to shoulder with strangers, gripping my drink for fear of spillage. Yet the younger and drunker-than-me horde didn't really seem to mind. While the crowd leaned heavily with GenZers, the playlist leaned more into my generation as patrons sang along to “American Girl” by Kanye West and basically fell out when “Mr. Brightside” blared over the speakers. The playing of “Viva La Vida” by Coldplay was damn near a production, as bartenders flicked the bar lights on and off and slammed shakers to the beat. One barman armed with a bubble gun, stood on the counter and sprayed the crowd to much glee. By then, I was able to rangle a seat at the bar, finally able to enjoy it all a bit more from my perch.
As soon as the clock struck 3:30am, the lights turned on and the music that had once moved the crowd was immediately cut. Almost instantly, I could smell what I had been waiting for this entire time: soup. Carried around on metal trays were small white mugs of the stuff, as hands politely grabbed cups one by one. Inside it was a light chicken soup, but really just a ladle of it, with small chunks of carrot, celery, and onion floating around plus a single strand of the chicken itself. Was it a lot? No, of course not, but even I appreciated the gesture. Plus, it was relatively funny that the same mouths who were just belting out “Purple Rain” hushed as the sounds of clinking spoons and slurping took over the room. I swirled the rest of my cup and made my way outside while bouncers counted down to closing time.
Now, do I think waiting until 3:30 in the morning for some soup is worth it? No, not at all. To be honest, I didn’t think it would be. Exploring this bar's longstanding late-night tradition seemed like fun. All in all, the experience was a rough sell, even if the night hadn't started with a power-tripped bouncer. Yes, the bar can still make a mean cocktail at any time of night, as the Ash On My Tomatoes, a clarified mezcal drink with rhubarb and tomato, was light, vegetal, and had a nice pat of blackened salt on the glass to balance it all. But with a party so packed, it basically guarantees that a portion of your $20 cocktail will end up sloshed on your feet or your neighbors.
Thinking back to the Zillennials and Gen Zers around me—happily huddled in a tight squeeze, belting out the stuff that populated my iPod—I realize the soup was never going to be worth it, at least for me. But if you happen to be there and it happens to be 3am, you might as well stay for the soup. It may be the only modicum of hospitality you'll get at that hour of the night anyway.