Opening Up: The Story of Queer Aperitivo

Building the Recipe

Dear Friends,

Lately, I've found myself reflecting on what I (and I hope many of you) have felt as the magic of Queer Aperitivo: an oasis of yes in a sea of no. While so many of us wrestle with the weight of this moment — struggling with economic well being, mental health, or housing security while witnessing extreme violence and climate destruction — we’ve managed to create something that's both a refuge and a celebration. What's been most affirming is hearing from so many of you that this space fulfills a need that has gone unnamed; a place where you can feel simultaneously safe and sexy, where pleasure and values aren't at odds with each other.

The spark for Queer Aperitivo came from years of noticing a peculiar disconnect in our community spaces. Here we were, a group of folks who have historically been at the forefront of hospitality and culinary innovation—as servers, bartenders, food writers, food stylists, and chefs—yet in our own spaces, we were settling for less than we deserved. I found myself wondering: Was this because we'd been in survival mode for so long, focused solely on creating safe spaces to gather, that the quality of food and drink seemed secondary? When you look at the history of gay bars in New York, like the iconic Stonewall Inn, many were controlled by the mafia, which, let’s just say, probably weren’t known for their intentional sourcing or craft cocktail programs. Whatever the historical reasons, I knew we could do better.

The magic, I think, lies in the very nature of aperitivo itself—that beautiful Italian tradition of collective pause. Whether you're in Rome or Naples, from about 5 to 9 PM, everyone participates in this ritual of slowing down. You might find people sharing a $3 bottle of Prosecco in plastic cups by a fountain, or gathering at a bar over cheese and olives. It's a cultural practice that literally means "to open up," creating space between the productivity of day and the possibilities of night.

What particularly drew me to the aperitivo format was its inherent fluidity. In many other parts of the world – from Mexico City to Florence, people flow naturally between indoor and outdoor spaces, between private and public spheres. There's less rigid delineation between "in" and "out," making the whole experience feel less transactional and more communal. It's a reminder, especially potent for those of us in the United States, that public space can be less policed, less regulated, more free.

Jena Derman, my co-founder, and I chose the format for Queer Aperitivo deliberately, seeking out something more fluid than a seated dinner but more conversational than a nightclub. It's a space where you can connect, flirt, and float freely. And yes, we insisted on making the food and drink exceptional. For too long, queer spaces have been beautiful and sexy but serving what I can only call subpar snacks. Whether in P-town, Fire Island, or your local queer bar, we're so good at making fantasy reality—why shouldn't our refreshments match that level of excellence?

Currently, we've found a home at Bar Meridian in Crown Heights, where we're building something that reflects our values from top to bottom. Our drinks feature local, natural spirit brands. Our food is Italian-inspired but seasonally and locally sourced. And crucially, we've baked community benefit into our recipe from the start—every gathering features at least one fundraiser cocktail where 100% of sales support local and global food sovereignty and mutual aid projects. Because if we're going to create spaces of rest and inspiration in a world grappling with climate destruction and systemic inequality, we need to ensure we're contributing to broader access to these kinds of nourishing experiences for everyone.

I'm particularly excited about our upcoming gathering on November 20th, which feels especially meaningful as we approach Thanksgiving—or as some call it, Thanks-taking. We know holiday times can be particularly fraught for queers, when many of us can't safely return to families of origin. But rather than simply create an escape, we're building something more intentional: a collaboration with Relative Arts, the inspiring East Village space dedicated to Native art, culture, and fashion.

The evening will feature a pop-up by Relative Arts, music from our resident DJ Sunny (an incredible Boricua farmer-DJ from the Bronx), and a special cocktail created by Indigenous bartender and spirits brand builder Acadia Cerise Cutschall, with all sales benefiting Iron Path Farm. And I can't help but mention—we're debuting our house-made "super gay giardiniera," created during a recent pickle party where we were elbow-deep in local seasonal vegetables. There is something so deeply satisfying about infusing our gathering with this kind of hand-crafted care.

Years ago, I apparently wrote in a cookbook: "We need higher standards for what we put in our orifices, top to bottom" and "Nourishing ourselves in community is important." Finding these notes recently, I had to laugh—they could be the unofficial mottos of Queer Aperitivo. Because ultimately, that's what we're creating: a space where nourishment, pleasure, and community aren't separate ingredients, but part of the same carefully crafted cocktail.

With love and anticipation,

Ora