NEW YORK – You did not come to New York to wander fluorescent aisles hunting for someone to unlock the fitting room.

You came for the locked-door city – where nothing is labelled, the lift grumbles and whoever buzzes you in has already decided how the afternoon should go.

You might leave with a sterling silver carabiner, a fossilised dinosaur foot or a record that makes everything else on your shelf sound flat. Or maybe it was just a book you did not know you were missing until it looked back at you.

But do not bother dropping by. These places do not do foot traffic. You e-mail. You call a landline. You wait. Maybe you DM. There is no signage, no small talk, no piped-in jazz.

What there is: hand-forged armour, prehistoric bones with six-figure price tags, music that has never been digitised, a jewellery showroom with the logic of a toolbox and – if you are buzzed in – a private library (with all the books for sale) that reads like someone’s inner filing system.

This is not retail. It is an invitation-only obsession. And if you knock with purpose, that helps.