New York. Fall. 1980. The place: Party Vine. From Hoboken,

NJ take the Path to 33rd Street in Manhattan, walk three long blocks to the 34th Street Herald Square station, ride the N to Lexington Ave and 59th, exit at East 77th, walk the swank tree-lined street to number 204, enter the five-story brownstone, in winter walk up three well-lit carpeted flights, in summer take

the pleasantly cooled elevator, and there you are. Party Vine.

This is not your Lower Manhattan chic punk Mudd Club.

This is not your sardinepacked, drug fest Palladium disco – where a plywood city descends from the ceiling to inhabit the floor as the dancers writhe and the beat goes on. This is not your hip Village speakeasy where literati adeptly mingle and sip. This is not your typical Upper West Side singles meat

rack – Shelter a favorite spot, where imbibing patrons trawl the long wood bar, meet and greet until someone sticks and the

one-night stand discreetly follows.

No. This is Party Vine. A faux upscale dance hall catering to the middle class, the occasional blue collar worker, all of whom are sincerely well mannered, tastefully dressed. A framed sign near the entrance door reads: ‘Ladies, appropriate attire. Men, jackets, please.’

Douglas, the owner of Party Vine, a bald, large-limbed, avuncular man, a permanent smile affixed to his welcoming face, greets each participant at the entrance door.

‘Welcome,’ he warmly tells anxious first ...