A buzzing neon sign becons you to enter. You step in, and step back a few decades—to a time when you could drive right into the movies, when Cuba was a tropical paradise, and when war was cold and filled with secret agents.

The interior is hazy; dimly lit and upholstered in shades of aqua and orange, leopard and sharkskin. The jukebox plays softly, not quite filling the air with sexy saxophones, smoky vibes, and the soft brush of the cymbal. Organs vibrate, exotic mambos invite you to dance, and far-out spacecapades are a harbinger of the atomic age.

You sidle up to the bar. Pink Lady or Cosmopolitan? Gimlet or highball? Straight-up, or on-the-rocks? Shaken or stirred? The bar is littered with ring-marked napkins and cherry stems; in the ash-trays, lipstick-kissed cigarettes mingle with smoldering cigars.

The crowd is subdued—whispery, but welcoming. So take your cocktail, slip off your Hush Puppies, shuffle across the shag to a deep and comfortable chair and experience the world of . . . Swanky’s.

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