A bewildered expression crosses his face and it’s adorable. “Know what?”
“Dime la clave.” A man opens a small window in the door. Tell me the code.
“Tabú,” I murmur. Taboo.
Behind me, Luca freezes. I glance at him over my shoulder.
“You’re not taking me to a…sex club, are you?” He hisses the word sex and, under the streetlights, I note the tips of his ears redden.
“I adore you, Luca DiBlanco,” I say, grinning, as the door to the speakeasy swings open.
We enter and slip behind a massive, velvet curtain. And then, we’re back in time.
“This place is based on the speakeasies of Prohibition New York. But it has a Spanish flavor,” I explain, pointing to the bar. “Behind the bar, there’s a secret tunnel to the place next door. It opens into a nightclub. It’s really fun!”
Luca looks around, taking it all in. The place is busy but not packed—mostly because you have to know about it to access it. It’s hardly advertised, having gained popularity by word of mouth only.
The little tables, the stage with the jazz band, the theatrical cocktails, all set against a backdrop of gold accents and Art Deco patterns, makes it feel like we’ve transported to the past. Chandeliers drip with crystal, throwing the light, dim and sultry from the Edison bulbs. But the elaborate mirrors and gold brocade add sparkle, creating the illusion, the fantasy of 1920s New York City.
“This is…I had no idea this was here,” Luca comments. “And B lived in Ruzafa for a bit.”
“Trust me, Bianca knows about this place.”
Luca gives me a look. “How do you know? Did she tell you?”
I laugh and shake my head. “I told her!”
“She never told me…” he grumbles as we step to the bar.
The bartender looks up and grins when he sees me. “¡Cuánto tiempo, guapa!” Long time no see, beautiful.
“It’s good to see you, Henrik!” I smile at my old Danish friend. “How’s Maribel?”
“Wonderful.” He leans in closer. “Expecting our second baby any day now.”
“What!” I exclaim, leaning over the bar to kiss his cheeks. “That’s incredible. I’m thrilled for you.”
“Thank you. She’ll be sad to have missed you.” He turns toward Luca and holds out a hand, which Luca easily shakes. “Henrik.”
“Luca.”
Henrik winks at me. “Oh, I know who you are.”
I blush, hating that I once, drunkenly, waxed poetic about Luca to Henrik. It was a weekend in New York, when I was hosting a baby shower for Kate, and Henrik and Maribel were visiting to source materials for the speakeasy.
“What can I get you?” Henrik asks, turning his attention to me.
“Two of your specialties.” I hold up two fingers.
Henrik places a hand on his heart and dips his head. Then, he sets to work crafting our cocktails.
“This place is really cool,” Luca comments, looking around again.
“It’s awesome. Henrik made a deal with the club owner next door so they have this hybrid thing going. That way, they share clientele and the tunnel between their businesses also adds to the secretive, forbidden element of the speakeasy.”
“Yeah,” Luca agrees. “How do you know Henrik? The States?”
“Yes. He’s from Denmark but I met him a million years ago in North Carolina.”
