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A giant, elaborate birthday cake was then ushered out as a family of 20 crowded the dance floor to pose for pictures and offer well wishes.

Adam Levine MC’d the ordeal, inviting group after group to the stage.

Long tables were set in the main dining room, piled high with plates upon plates of food and bottles of Russian vodka and crowded with large groups of gussied-up patrons.

It felt vaguely like entering a wedding reception we weren’t invited to.

One of the women sang Etta James’ “At Last” so powerfully, I briefly wondered if the performers were lip-synching.

After several improvised riffs with pipes that rivaled those of Beyoncé, I quickly abandoned the idea.

We had the option to order off the a la carte menu, but after looking around at all the dishes we couldn’t even identify, we opted for adventure. There were several large metal serving tiers set up on our small table, and before we could even uncork our wine we had waiters descending upon us with at least six plates of food.

We pulled our bottles of wine from our bags and set them on the table before us. Almost every dish was served with absolutely no explanation and left entirely up to interpretation.

I spent last Saturday in the throes of a fever dream.

Flashing colored lights hit me straight between the eyes as foreign faces danced furiously around me. In the 1930s and ‘40s, supper club-style restaurants were popular evening destinations across America, designed to host and entertain patrons from cocktail hour through post-dinner dancing in a clubby yet sophisticated atmosphere.

The four of them immediately launched into a rendition of “How Deep is Your Love” by the Bee Gees.

I anticipated overwhelming displays of apathy typical of us New Yorkers, but to my surprise, everyone around us was engaged and attentive, even as waiters continued to parade out of the kitchen.

We were piling cold meats onto mayonnaise-smothered salads, strips of cheese onto pureed eggplant.

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