Speakeasy...can you?

Transplanted in the grand Etats-Unis less than twenty years, I have only read and seen movies about the age of Prohibition, about jazz and speakeasy and the mellifluous voice of Louis Armstrong or Billie Holiday. Always wondered as I listened to those records what it must have been like, to sing and celebrate, to drink and have secret liaisions. Like Auntie Etta's drawing room with all its knick knacks and fine china ornaments, but the closet in the corner leading to a secret basement. Veil of propriety shrouding a cloak and dagger world of booze and basic instincts.

Well, imagine my surprise when I found out that there's a speakeasy in my backyard. Well, almost. In Capitol Hill there's apparently a pub which is also a speakeasy. So we called the babysitter and my husband and I set out to experience for ourselves a slice of the 30s.

First impression---a young man by the door checking IDs--a little shout of joy that I hear every time I get carded:-) We go inside what looks like an ordinary bar. Wait, I see PA moving toward a telephone by one of the tables. He picks up the receiver and gives his phone number and voila! the door (which I assumed led to the restrooms) swing open and there's a staircase. We go up the dark and narrow staircase, decorated with black and white 30s photographs.

Upstairs, we reach a mezzanine floor, with tables set cosily, a bar, and some leather armchairs. There's a picture of a sexy lingerie girl by our table. The speakers are playing old jazz, voices slightly roughened by alcohol and cigarette. There's no menue. Our waiter comes to tell us we can order any drink we like and the barman will make it. There is a food menu, mostly finger foods. All seems standard with just that touch of secretiveness which of course makes my spine tingle.

We enjoy a marvelous evening of margaritas, kamikazes, vodka and I forget what else. Finally, we realize we must go back home or we'll fall asleep where we sat. As I elegantly stumble down the stairs, I take another look at those photographs. All of them are of naked women, looking back at me with an aloof indifference, not the least bit worried that the arm thrown across the chest does more to attract attention than provide cover. In the age of playboy and internet, I am thrilled to find naked B&W photographs! Admiring the confidence and the blatant invitation in the arch of an eyebrow ora slightly upturned smile.

I'm pretty sure we'll go back to the speakeasy again, its the least I can do for those lovely ladies;-)