At the end of a long run, sometimes it feels good to take a spin around the block, just to feel the muscles in my thighs move around a little more, to kick out my legs in the last vestiges of a runner’s high. I’ll do the same thing at

On the edges of Chinatown and North Beach there’s a basement gin joint that takes a secret pass code to enter. Once past the fake door of the sham clock repair shop, you find yourself inside a gambling den and cabaret that’s been filled to the brim with bathtub hooch. Outside, Prohibition has cleaned the streets but you’re a member of the 1930s social elite — low on morals and high on strong cocktails.