The sound of toasts clinking, candles flicker in reflection atop smooth, shiny black tables — a little bit of my friend’s French 75 sloshes from the tippy top of her martini glass and onto the white marble floor. From the jukebox comes light jazz standards alongside big band favorites. And as the girl from Ipanema goes walking, I find myself wishing I were wearing a black tuxedo with wide lapels and a satin stripe down the pant leg. Then the time travel fantasy would be complete.
