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Any mystery supplied by the unmarked doors quickly vanishes when you see, between them, a small brass sign with the bar’s name in script. The pretension of mannered obscurity works better inside: Deep crimson curtains hide the shabby sights of Clinton, and a loosely articulated Middle Eastern theme adds a musky whiff of exoticism. Or maybe that’s just the fruit-infused hookah smoke wafting in from the back room. The Door Lounge has so far had a difficult time enticing weekday crowds into its pale-yellow-and-charcoal interior despite the perks and unusual decorations (a bathtub-sized, perforated-copper light installation mounted next to the stainless-steel bar’s broad arch). But on Fridays and Saturdays, with DJs spinning bouncy Euro-dance tunes, the long beige-leather banquette is crowded with 30-somethings who have long hoped that Hell’s Kitchen would get as hot as its name. — Michael Silverberg