The Secrets of Dining Underground

In this city, where trend-seekers scour every corner in search of the newest hot spot, it seems unlikely to find any stone unturned. But there are a surprising number of secret haunts scattered around Manhattan, hiding behind sign-less storefronts and shunning advertisement in favor of customers already in the know.

Down a side street peppered with porn shops, a single red light bulb glows in a black doorway. There is no sign, only a bespectacled bouncer more absorbed in his cigarette than in checking IDs. Is this unmarked establishment a brothel? The lair of a Gotham superhero? The headquarters of an underground terrorist operation? No, but close. Years ago, this was a drop-off point for the KGB, but these days, Siberia is just a bar, and stepping inside still feels like falling down a rabbit hole.

A decade after opening as a haven for the early ’90s punk scene, Siberia still keeps a low profile. “We don’t really advertise,” says artist and bartender Richie Miller, whose black and white murals sprawl across Siberia’s exposed-brick walls. Despite its unobtrusiveness, the bar is known for its clientele of journalists and celebrities like Jimmy Fallon. The owner, Tracy Westmoreland, is something of a personality himself. “The Post just ran a piece on my beard,” he says proudly, tugging on the satyr’s tuft that sprouts from his jowls.

Though Siberia enjoys a certain brand of mythic fame, one wonders how the bar makes any money. It is rarely full, and even the few 20-somethings who shimmy to the Beach Boys and cluster around the Pac-Man machine never seem to drop any cash. I went with my roommate, who counts the pug-faced Westmoreland as a friend, and drank Jack on the house all night long.

Even belligerent strangers get kid-glove treatment in Westmoreland’s beefy hands. Noticing a shifty look in the eye of a thuggish pair of customers, the quintessential host turned potential enemies into instant allies with just four little words: “What are you drinkin’?”

Though incongruous in a place like Siberia, this mom-and-pop feel is part of what makes these secret places special. Sanur is a Malaysian-Indonesian restaurant in a Chinatown basement, its only sign written in Cantonese. Inside, the dining room is well-lit and decorated with red-and-white check tablecloths more reminiscent of Donna Reed than an opium den. And while Sanur is popular, there is never a wait. And I found out about it through a Malaysian friend, a good sign.

A far cry from the crowds of Canal Street and the high prices of the Upper West Side’s Penang, Sanur is the place to go for regional specialties like bah kut teh, an herbal broth, and beef rendang, a type of fork-tender curry. Especially by sharing many dishes with a large group, it’s easy to eat heartily for under $10, and the casual atmosphere is friendly even to newcomers.

Not every hidden jewel is receptive to strangers who intrude upon their well-guarded privacy. Yen Yen Ooi and Jimmy Tan, both SEAS ’04, stumbled upon Tsukushi by following some Japanese people who slipped behind the unmarked door on East 41st Street.

Once inside, the staff seemed reluctant to serve them, explaining that the menu was only in Japanese, but Ooi and Tan chose to stay. Mostly out of linguistic confusion, they ended up being served the prix-fixe menu, which consisted of various small plates of unfamiliar vegetable dishes and some broiled fish. They were appalled to find the check total exceeded $100. “It was so expensive, and we still left hungry!” Ooi said.

Unlike Siberia and Sanur, who welcome the customers intrepid or lucky enough to discover them, Tsukushi maintains an air of insular mystique as part of its raison d’être. Some doorways remained unmarked for a reason and should stay that way.