We're not going to mention any names, because none of these places deserve the publicity, but you know what we're talking about: They're in the back room of an otherwise legitimate restaurant. Or they're unmarked. You either need a password, personal acquaintance of the proprietor, or astonishing hotness to get in. Sometimes celebrities own a piece of these establishments, which make them that much more exciting.
Secret clubs speak to the worst desire of New Yorkers: the desire to know just a little more than the other guy. These places are by now clich ; it generally takes a week after UrbanDaddy tells you about this cool spot that they can't name until the Times starts giving you instructions on whose name to check at the front. The only people who win in this game are the ones who own the joints, and even then the burst of attention is fleeting; someone else is opening a new secret spot in an abandoned factory that formerly manufactured miniature Statue of Liberty figurines a week later.
We've had it with secret clubs, with every sick, sorry thing they represent. You know what's exclusive? The society of ALS-sufferers; why don't you join them if you want to feel different? The next time someone you know suggests that you join them at "this little place that no one's ever heard of owned by two urologists from Secaucus and the guy who plays Turtle on 'Entourage'," we suggest that you shove their Sidekick down their pretentious, status-desiring throats and come join the rest of us for a beer at the Blarney Stone. You'll be doing everyone a favor.