You approach an inconspicuous door, with a look over your shoulder and a lick of parched lips you signal with a rap of your knuckles. The hatch slides open and a gruff voice says, “Password?” You respond, “The milk steak is good.” The hatch slides shut, and you wait with anticipation. The door opens and you make your way through the darkness until you reach a shabby looking door. You step through into the bustling, smoke-filled world of the speakeasy. The gin and moonshine flow freely, the jazz intoxicates the ears, and everyone is carefree and decadent. Any moment the lights might flash three times, signaling everyone to down their libations and hide the evidence – the police have arrived.

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