On the outside, the Tandoor Club looked plain and uninteresting. Inside it was a bona fide Arabian Nights. A silk-draped opening held back with gold tassels gave the illusion of entering a tent. A huge mock brazier gave the impression of a fire while music filtered out of a snake charmer’s flute at the center of the room. Persian rugs were spread beneath low tables surrounded by heaped pillows and lounging bodies that struck a wrong note with their Western clothing. Dancing girls weren’t dropping grapes into mouths, but turbaned waiters glided around the room holding large trays of exotic looking food.
I was used to strange scents. I’d lived in New Orleans. But this was like nothing I’d ever smelled. The tangle of incense, tobacco smoke, and rich spices carried hints of magic and mystery,
