Ryan M. Davis

Milk & Honey, Lower East Side of Manhattan, NY

On an unremarkable block skirting New York’s Chinatown, a discreet grey door leads to an urbane parlor, full of good vibrations and first-class drinks, called Milk & Honey. The old-fashioned watering hole serves up a rare concoction—something akin to the underground tippling of the Prohibition era (only without any fear of a bunch of mulligans busting in on the gaiety). This ain’t slumming for bath-tub hooch, but this also ain’t high-hat sipping. Milk and Honey revives a bygone social phenomenon of the speakeasy, centered on a mix of decent folks who appreciate the expertly fashioned cocktail.

 Because accommodations in the charming, entirely candle-lit space are limited to a four-seat bar and a couple of reservation-only booths, wetting your whistle here requires calling ahead to the unlisted number for admittance on a given night. Though service is always at the discretion of the barkeep and membership or referral obligatory, all stripes are welcome to join. A shot of exclusivity with a chaser of egalitarianism.  (On the level: I angled my way in on a date with a regular.) The only criterion is that you conduct yourself nicely. Emblazoned on the wall in the men’s room is a list of rules that dictates the expected decorum: “Gentlemen will remove their hats.” If a guy is sweet on some dolled-up tomato, he better ask the bartender to stage the introduction. And noisy or hoary-eyed guests can expect the bum’s rush. No snobbishness here, just manners. As the owner likes to say, “Good people follow good people.”

At Milk and Honey, the old-time craft of mixology is resurrected. After quietly opening its door in 2000 and slinging quality sauce, this gin mill spawned the fad for cocktail boutiques that coincided with the expansion of economic bubbles that are lately burst. While other joints close up shop in the wreckage of the Great Recession, Milk and Honey’s solvency is virtually guaranteed by a membership devoted to its standards in the fine art of drinking. Catering to the individual patron’s taste in spirits, the dexterous bartender, Sasha Petraske, chooses every drink to serve, and he’s got the goods—stingers, fizzes, slings, flips, and swizzles galore. Sitting pretty in the front booth, my date and I sampled several rounds of boozy bliss. The absolute bee’s knees, I must say, was the Gershwin—aptly named amid the tinklings of Tin Pan Alley in the background. A mix of gin, fresh ginger, and rose water, served with one large, long-lasting hunk of ice, a metal straw, and a garnish of candied ginger, it was a potent beverage—at once piquant and bracing. A real sock to the kisser.

Maybe it was the dashing gent all cozied up next to me, maybe it was the warm tingle, stoked by a spot-on second round of Sazeracs, or maybe it was simply the exclusive charm—whatever it was—my evening at Milk and Honey made me feel like a real swell even though I’m nobody in particular.