by Candolin Cook on
THE CLICK OF MY HEELS ECHOES through the alley behind M’tucci’s Bar Roma, in Albuquerque’s Nob Hill neighborhood. Out on Central Avenue, the sidewalk bustles in front of the popular Italian restaurant on this warm night. Back here, though, I’m alone, approaching a locked black door marked bakery. “Baker is out,” says a paper sign that lists an after-hours number.
A quick call later and I’m inside a closet-size bakeshop stocked with crusty boules. Then the bread case swings open and a false door leads into Teddy Roe’s. The Prohibition-style speakeasy exudes vintage charm with antique lamps, plush leather booths, and a pressed-tin ceiling, but feels stylish instead of kitschy.
Behind the bar, absinthe bongs sit beside vintage glassware where co-owners Arcy Law and Jessica O’Brien stir up classics as well as imaginative house libations. Take All That Jazz, for instance: a dangerously smooth blend of whiskey, dry vermouth, Fontbonne and Bénédictine liqueurs, and Peychaud’s bitters that’s paired with a side of candied almonds.
On deep green walls, framed old newspaper clippings honor the bar’s namesake, a bootlegger who operated in Chicago from the 1920s to the 1950s. “His name came up when I was doing research into Black bootleggers,” explains O’Brien. “I’m from Indiana, I’m mixed [race], and most of the famous bootleggers from the Midwest were White, Italian—like Al Capone. So when I found Teddy’s story, I thought it was interesting.”
From 1920 to 1933, Prohibition banned alcohol sales nationwide, spawning illegal drinking dens called speakeasies. Albuquerque had plenty. Local raids on “soft drink establishments” often hit Barelas, Old Town, and downtown throughout the decade. “I have always lived in a decent, respectable neighborhood,” one Nob Hill–adjacent resident vented to the Albuquerque Journal in 1928. The letter writer vowed that if speakeasies crept closer, “we would not be neighbors for long.”
When the ban ended, the raids faded, but the mystique of hidden bars endured. Nearly a century later, that allure reemerged with modern speakeasies taking hold first in New York City in the 2000s, then spreading west over the next couple of decades as savvy drinkers began craving craftsmanship with a splash of novelty. When New Mexico revised its liquor licensing laws in 2021, making them more affordable and accessible, it paved the way for a new generation of independent bar owners. Now, the new Roaring Twenties scene in Nob Hill swaps bathtub gin for clarified cocktails with burnt cinnamon-stick garnishes and pairs the secrecy with refined hospitality.
Although a couple of local speakeasies predate Teddy’s—most notably Vernon’s Speakeasy, in Los Ranchos, which has asked patrons for the password since 2007—O’Brien and Law sparked a trend in Nob Hill when they opened three years ago. Within a half mile of each other, at least four other hidden bars have since emerged from the shadows, making this quirky collegiate neighborhood a go-to stop for creative cocktails and elegant, discreet service.
The newest, Daydream Rum Bar, debuted in July, tucked discreetly beneath Little Bear Coffee like the hull of a ship. “We always knew we wanted to do something fun with the basement,” says owner Isaac Fox, who co-owns the stylish coffee spot with his brother Jacob. “It gave us a clean-slate opportunity to build it exactly how we wanted.”
What Fox created is a sleek, Wes Anderson–style homage to a midcentury rum bar, with low golden lighting, warm woods, desert tones, and subtle nautical touches. “Whenever I travel, I seek out tiki bars,” Fox says. “I’m attracted to the tropical and the light.”
Drinks riff on tropical classics, like the Southwestern Sour—a regional spin on the mai tai with mezcal, tamarind, and piñon orgeat—or lean into rum’s vast spectrum: grassy, mineral-rich agricoles, velvety concoctions brightened with house syrups, and even a daiquiri splashed with La Cumbre’s Elevated IPA. One fruity showstopper, Kino’s Cannonball, leaves the air tinged with burnt cinnamon, as it’s ignited while dusted over a bowl-size goblet tableside.
“People today are more educated consumers when it comes to design and taste,” says Fox. “They’re looking for experiences that engage all the senses.” That applies to the secret bar experience too. “Escapism has always inspired me,” he says. “I’m proud of Albuquerque, but I think spending two hours in a different world is healthy. That’s what coffee shops and bars provide—you leave your worries at the door and feel transported.”
Three blocks east but seemingly far from paradise, I find myself in another dark alley. “Hello, I have a delivery,” I say, as instructed, into the security camera behind the Urban Hotdog Company. The heavy backdoor opens, and I hand over the goods—a canned food donation for a local charity—before I’m ushered past the hot dog restaurant’s kitchen and through a blue velvet curtain into Fat Frank’s.
“I always thought it’d be a cool juxtaposition—craft cocktails and craft hot dogs,” says Matthew Bernabe, owner of both businesses. “A little Americana.” His hidden lounge flirts with 1970s retro: burnt orange accents, velvet chairs, and sci-fi wallpaper in the bathroom. On one of its black walls, a pink neon sign jokes, Frank-ly my dear, I don’t give a damn.
The drink menu features elevated libations, house-made chartreuse, and Bernabe’s personal obsession: the labor-intensive Ramos Gin Fizz. “Most bartenders won’t make it because it takes seven to 10 minutes, but it’s amazing,” he says of the exceedingly creamy creation. “It changes your perspective on what a cocktail can be. That’s the same thing we’ve tried to do with hot dogs for the last 14 years—change people’s preconceived notions.”
Bernabe first dreamed up the concept nearly two decades ago after visiting Please Don’t Tell, the cult New York speakeasy that is entered through a hot-dog joint’s phone booth. Back then, New Mexico’s steep liquor-license costs made such ambitions impossible.
Since opening in late 2023, Fat Frank’s has stood out not just for its drinks but for its generosity. Guests “schedule a delivery” rather than make a reservation, each bringing donations that support local nonprofits (or can opt to add a small cash donation to their tab). “It’s been gangbusters since day one,” Bernabe says.
When asked about the reasons behind this hidden-bar boom, Bernabe describes a convergence of culture, timing, and taste. “Fifteen years ago, Albuquerque’s cocktail landscape wasn’t strong,” he says. “Then came the craft-beer boom, and now people want the same care in their cocktails.”
Sipping my Purple Rain Killer—a cloudlike twist on the piña colada made with vivid ube—I’m successfully transported. The scene around me is equally charming. In the corner, a couple laughs softly under the neon glow, while another guest parts the curtain for the first time, his face lighting up in surprise. It’s intimate, a little indulgent, and, much like Albuquerque itself, an alluring mix of nostalgia and what’s next.
Senior Editor Candolin Cook recommends the bar snacks at Teddy Roe’s, which are made next door at M’tucci’s Bar Roma.