FOR A FEW SECONDS THE CLUB GOES DARK and the techno swells. Foam flakes spill from the ceiling and the strobes explode, lightning in a blizzard, illuminating 500 gyrating bodies on the dance floor, balconies and tops of banquettes. Amid the bedlam a busboy ferries a dozen Champagne flutes and a 10-pound crystal ice bowl through the scrum, threading the gap like Barry Sanders in his heyday. Seconds later he plants the stemware on a table in straight rows and slides a candle a smidgen to the left, in line with the flower vase and juice carafes, as it must be at all 47 tables. Satisfied, he whips back to the bar—but not before swabbing a few stray drops of Gre^ Goose from another table-top while lighting a brunette's cigarette with a flick of the wrist.
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