In a world where automobiles have tail fins and lunch may include three martinis, may we present, for your consideration, the Continental Room at the Hotel Carlton.
A night out calls for the proper attire — for men a Brioni suit with a fedora and for women a little black cocktail dress with long gloves and a string of pearls is always in style.
Drop a dime in the Seeburg, and Frank croons about strangers in the night, Dean assures you that everybody loves somebody sometime, and Julie invites you to sway.
You catch the bartender’s eye — maybe bourbon, a scotch or something from the land of sky blue waters.
As you look across the room, the scene begins to fade. You look down at the bar; there’s something written in the bottom of the heavy glass ashtray and as the demolition dust swirls, you realize that this was the Continental.