"Ali Baba’s was part clip joint, part dance hall. In the twenties it had been a heavily populated speakeasy, but when it was no longer necessary to hide its activities from prying eyes, those who’d made money off bad booze, pumped the dough back into the club until it became one of the places to see and be seen. Tables ringed a gigantic, dimly lit room decked out to look like Hollywood’s concept of a Sheik’s palace. Spaced a stumble apart were bars attended by men in white sheets and women in belly dancer gear. If that was too far for you to wobble, in the space between booze venders were crystal fountains flowing with cheap champagne, which you could collect in a shoe or a hat or, for the more conservative, one of a hundred spit-cleaned glasses stacked in a pyramid. At the edge of the tables was a brass banister designed to keep the eaters from the hoofers. In the center of the room was an immense marble dance floor and in its center was a stage outfitted by a big band playing a somber rendition of 'I Left My Heart at the Stage Door Canteen.'”