Friends, couples and people on dates fill about 20 tables sitting on miss-matched chairs. Exposed pipes & electrical lines run overhead. Another wall has a leather-clad bench running the length. One wall is lined with bookcases filled from end to end with old, weather-worn books. Swing music and blues from the 20s & 30s are playing. It slowly groans to the side, and as we step through the threshold, we’re transported into another era. She grips the enormous latch to the door. Laugher can be heard, low bass rumbling from beyond. There’s something thrilling, if not eerie, about it all. We turn down a narrow hallway with a large metal door at the end of it. We continue to follow the hostess down the stairs and past the kitchen where all the desserts are being prepped. We walk through the tables of patrons enjoying swoon-worthy desserts and head towards the staircase. She returns a few minutes later and tells us to follow her. But the hostess simply nods her head and says, “just a moment.” He chuckles nervously and says, “life is like photography, you develop from the negatives.” There’s a momentary pause. I look at Tristan with ‘help me’ splashed across my face. “Photography is like…” I start, but can’t seem to remember the rest. I’m trying to remember the phrase I’m supposed to use but I’m drawing a blank. “Hey there, table for 2?” I pause, look at Tristan, eyes go wide and I burst out into a nervous laugh. We walk through the front door and the hostess comes to greet us. I give in with a shrug, “fine I’ll do it.” “Ok, who’s going to do the talking?” Tristan asks.
#HIDDEN BAR PHOENIX PASSWORD#
There’s a speakeasy with insanely good cocktails in the basement, but we have to say a password to get in. It’s one of the go-to spots in Halifax, Nova Scotia for delicious desserts. Tristan and I walk up to the front entrance of The Middle Spoon. Speakeasy: noun, (during Prohibition) an illicit liquor store or nightclub.
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