Twenty-eight cocktails, one for each night of the cycle. The menu rotates with the sky. We pour what the moon allows.
Mezcal, charred lime, a single drop of squid ink. Served in opaque obsidian.
May 16Pear eau de vie, white tea, a thin sliver of preserved lemon.
May 19Half gin, half sake. Cucumber salt rim drawn down only one side.
May 23Cognac, orange blossom honey, a swelling foam of egg white.
May 27Milk-washed bourbon, vanilla orchid, sea salt. The room dims for service.
TonightAged rum, fig leaf, smoked black pepper. Slowly stirred, never shaken.
Jun 03Calvados, bitter chamomile, an inverse twist of lemon peel.
Jun 07Pisco, white grape, a whisper of incense smoke under the glass.
Jun 11A 14-seat counter, one banquette, one window facing east. We open at moonrise, which is to say, between 18:42 and 23:11 depending on the night.
Two bartenders, one host, an unhurried dishwasher named Theo. The kitchen is closed by design — we serve almonds, olives, and a small cheese.
An hour of Alice Coltrane on the new moon. Erik Satie on the full. Otherwise, whatever the dishwasher brought from home that week.
Phones face down. Conversations sotto voce. Photographs allowed only of the moon, and only when she is rising.
137 Hester Street, look for the unmarked door beside the laundromat. There is no sign. There is, instead, a small brass crescent set in the door frame at eye level.
Wednesday through Sunday. Closed on the new moon. Closed when it rains hard enough to drown the awning lights.