September 29, 2026
Michael Tanenbaum/for PhillyVoice
Bathhouse, a social wellness and recovery space founded in Brookyln, opened a new club at the Bellevue Hotel in Center City. I tried out the pools and saunas, despite thinking the place would not be my scene. It turned out to be a great experience.
How much therapy would it take to unpack why getting a free "spa day" on company time fills a reporter like me with moderate anxiety instead of relief and tranquility?
Bathhouse, the swanky social wellness club that just opened at the Bellevue Hotel, invited me to check out their new bunker of relaxation in the historic French Renaissance building infamously known for the world’s first outbreak of Legionnaire's disease 50 years ago. It's now a beautifully renovated Hyatt with a revamped, upscale gym, some apartments, and a 1940s-themed restaurant, Mr. Edison, named after the famed inventor who designed the hotel's original lighting system.
I thought I'd get a quick tour of Bathhouse, talk with a brand rep and cringe afterward seeing how many times the interview transcript showed me saying, “Damn, that's cool," about their mood-lit saunas and pools that draw heat from Bitcoin mining computers.
But when the Bathhouse team asked if I wanted to bring my swim trunks, try the amenities and join one of their preview events last Thursday morning, I immediately thought, "Oh no ..."
Why? What kind of fool even hesitates about this? And then only says yes out of a fear of being rude and squandering what obviously makes for a better story?
I'm a 38-year-old man with no discernible self-pampering regimen and hardly the budget to create one. Going to a techno-spa feels like a misuse of resources and a mismatch with the jaded presumptions I have – maybe unfairly — about their clientele. I will happily splurge on gift cards to trendy restaurants where my partner and I can never get reservations, but when it comes to deep relaxation, we're usually pretty simple creatures: put on "Gilmore Girls" and sing all the "La La La La" interludes together like a pair of carefree idiots in this hectic game of life.
Maybe I can roast myself better than a sauna, but is that mindset getting in the way of experiencing an elevated approach to self-care?
"It's a true chance to kind of unplug and just like, be in your body — be in the experience," Apneet Kaur, Batthouse's director of brand marketing, told me. "And whether you're with strangers or talking to people in the pool, you know, it's just about feeling good."
So I got over myself and decided to do just that.
The banya at the Batthouse in Philly is a traditional Russian sauna that runs at temperatures between 185-195 degrees.
On the morning of my visit, Bathhouse was offering a free day-pass experience to employees of all the businesses at the Bellevue. That's probably not the most representative sample of the Bathhouse crowd, but it put me at ease knowing everyone there was enjoying a perk the same way I was.
I waded into the club's 104-degree pool and introduced myself to a group of friendly servers from Mr. Edison. We all agreed the water felt delightful, and they were happy to offer their thoughts about the place.
One young woman, a former Bellevue security guard, told me she was shocked by the transformation of the building's lower level — formerly part of the shuttered Tavern on Broad – in a matter of months. It looked like "a bunch of rubbish" during the winter, she said, but now it had the vibe of an Egyptian or Greek temple.
One guy said he felt like he was on vacation somewhere other than Philly, a comment I suspect will be the dividing line between liking and avoiding this place.
The first Bathhouse club opened in Brooklyn's Williamsburg neighborhood in 2019, taking over a renovated soda factory from the 1930s. There are now three locations in New York City, plus the new one at the Bellevue and more clubs planned in Chicago and North Jersey.
The company's ethos centers on an "anti-spa" philosophy that encourages socializing as part of the wellness experience. Their spaces veer away from the hushed ambiance of other posh establishments, where escaping people and noise is kind of the point.
"We want to feel nice, but it's not elite," Jason Goodman, one of the co-founders of Bathhouse, told me in one of the club's lounge areas. "Anybody can come here. You can come with your friends and talk. You're also doing it with strangers and you're pushing yourself. We're selling a really deeply experiential product that kind of touches you, and it's very personal."
Bathhouse clubs typically attract people from about 25 to 45 years old, Kaur said, which struck me as a range that could lead to clashing expectations about the environment. At 25, I could imagine myself and a group of friends pre-gaming Bathhouse in hopes of mingling with singles. Now? I'd go there because I have chronic pain or I want to have a heartfelt catchup with friends.
The company's marketing caters to a younger audience, and their use of seductive Instagram ads isn't really a mystery to me. Sex sells, but it also might be selling Bathhouse short. I wonder whether the sultry party scene image will repel some people from using the space for low-key wellness visits, which would be a waste of its potential when that's probably what it serves best at most hours of the day.
A model sits in the massage treatment room at Batthouse Philadelphia, located at the Bellevue Hotel in Center City.
Bathhouse has dynamic pricing that starts at an accessible $29 for a day pass to the saunas, pools and steam room. The lowest prices are available during off-peak, weekday hours. At busier times, walk-ins might pay closer to $70 or more. It starts getting expensive when a massage is added to the bill, but every massage comes with access to the whole facility.
"We knew it was really important to be accessible for everybody," Goodman said.
Putting a place like this in Philly is going to be an amusing experiment.
As gorgeous as the club looks, the rule against bringing phones into the amenity spaces will test people's temptations. Unlike other photogenic attractions — the former Wonderspaces gallery at the Fashion District, for example — Bathhouse feels like a honeypot for influencers who won't be allowed to influence. I wouldn't want to be the employees enforcing this rule.
The club also meters how many guests can be there at any given time, which will vary based on the time of week. Sometimes it will be lively. Other times it will feel mostly empty. The club is open daily from 8:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m.
Goodman, who has a background in nightlife, said operating Bathhouse is similar to running a nightclub. He and co-founder Travis Talmadge created the concept as a way to address some of the drawbacks of those environments while still offering a social outing. It's an alternative for a younger generation that's drinking less alcohol and an older one that can't handle it anymore.
"The problem with nightlife is that it burns you out," Goodman said.
A handful of the Bellevue employees convinced me to try out the 50-degree cold plunge, where I lasted all of two seconds, and then we went into the infrared sauna set at 135 degrees. I got a little woozy in there. My back started beading with sweat. I thought I might pass out if I didn't bail, but I was calmed by the presence of other people.
One woman, a regular runner, told me the sauna can be intense for people who are inexperienced, but she finds it crucial for restoring her body to peak performance.
Goodman said a visit to Bathhouse is meant to be challenging. All guests at the club have to sign a waiver acknowledging that the amenities may test the limits of their bodies.
"It's kind of a thing where we're like, 'Hey, let's be really real. You're gonna struggle here, man. You're gonna suffer with us,'" Goodman said. "You accomplish something. You also feel great in your body. So it's like a mind-body-spirit thing, but it is about sort of walking through the fire."
A lounge area at Bathhouse Philadelphia is shown above.
Goodman, 47, got into using saunas about 25 years ago during an outing with a high school friend in North Carolina. The friend is from a family with Indigenous roots, and they built a small sweat lodge out of saplings covered with furs. Next to the hut was a fire pit packed with glowing stones and wood. The rocks were brought into the hut and doused with water, raising the temperature inside higher and higher as the group sang together.
"It was the hottest sauna I've ever been in," Goodman said. "I thought I was gonna die."
When the experience ended, the group ventured to a nearby creek, where the shock of the cold water left a lasting mark on Goodman and hooked him into the bathhouse culture.
"It's not just a relaxing experience in the moment," he said. "It's that you feel amazing and realize it afterwards. You kind of sacrifice something to get something."
The Brooklynization of Philly has become a hot topic in recent years, both because of the number of New York transplants living here and the way neighborhoods like Fishtown have evolved down that path.
When I asked people at Bathhouse how they felt about another New York business setting up shop in Philly, none of them really thought the trend had reached the point of overkill. A few said it was exciting to have a concept like Bathhouse in Center City — perfect to pair with restaurants and bar-hopping — but that most of Philly's neighborhoods retain their own identities.
A number of people who attended Bathhouse's other preview events shared their experiences in a post on the Philadelphia subreddit. There was a predictable mix of anticipation for Bathhouse, scorn for the concept and reservations about how it stacks up against other local spas in the region, like Cheltenham's Chung Dam and the Fusion Spa & Resort in Northeast Philly. Some commenters disparaged Bathhouse as a greenwashing "crypto farm" that consumes more energy from mining Bitcoin than it offsets to heat its various amenities.
"It looks like such a dumb private equity joke," one hater wrote. "Just give us a normal bathhouse, it’s not that hard."
When I asked Goodman if he's apprehensive about Bathhouse becoming part of a gentrification debate, he reflected on moving to Williamsburg when he was younger and the neighborhood was still filled with anarchists and punks. Everything changes eventually, he said, and Philly deserves something special in the Bellevue.
"This is a tremendous, beautiful city with a tremendous, beautiful building right at the heart of it," Goodman said. "I don't really worry about some of the more academic ideas around it. Let's just build something that human beings from anywhere are going to really, really f---ing love."
While I would grant that the most ruthless criticisms of Bathhouse are overstated, that felt like the nicest way to tell my Virgo ass to just chill and hit the sauna instead of ruminating on the conflicts I feel about stuff like this.
Bathhouse is already at work building out a 7,000-square-foot roof deck that will open next year with a pool, a sauna and a bar overlooking Walnut Street from one of the Bellevue's lower levels. The company is clearly banking on Philly being a market that embraces its particular brand of social wellness.
To some, the term "bathhouse" carries lingering associations from an era when many hotel spas catered specifically to gay men. I asked Goodman if his clubs are meant to appeal to that history in any way.
"It goes back even further to the tenement era where people literally went to these places to bathe as a community," he said. "I'm not afraid of it being a little bit of a risqué path."
Still, people shouldn't mistake Bathhouse for a hookup playground, and if they do, Goodman said they'll be told it's not the place for that behavior.
The cold plunge pool at Batthouse Philadelphia is shown above.
"If people come here with that expectation, they'll be disappointed," he said.
Anyone curious about Bathhouse should simply give it a try. Whether the goal is to zone out alone or socialize, it won't break the bank and it might even help you feel less stingy about doing nice things for yourself. I would go when it's quiet, like the middle of a Wednesday, but I think younger people will have fun there on weekends.
There has been a lot of grief over the disappearance of "third spaces" and incessant reminders of humanity's unknown future at the mercy of AI. I found it pretty refreshing to just sit in a beautiful space, feel water and heat on my skin, and talk to people who were hanging out enjoying themselves in a screen-free environment. Is it a quaint illusion? Maybe, but too many of us have forgotten how and why we should do that together — wherever it may be — and it doesn't hurt to give a chance to one more setting where that's the objective.
