You turn down a dark alley, slipping between two brick warehouses. You see a door, nothing special, just a black door. You open it and walk inside. You hear the faint squeaks and squawks of a '20s-era brass band. Take the staircase down a flight, and the jazzy horns get louder. At the bottom is a giant iron furnace, nearly the size of a small home. (The club is inside the Higgins Building, site of the first privately owned power plant in the country, and many of the fixtures survive.) A poolroom is just beyond the main bar, where you stand. You order a lavender bourbon, a special of the house. You have arrived at the Edison. Despite the deep, dark recess of the Edison's location below street level, it's cozy with oversize club chairs and swanky leather sofas dotting the room. Retro cocktails include a Charlie Chaplin, a boilermaker, even a fresh gimlet and two menu pages' worth of single-malt scotch. Thursdays feature live music; on Fridays and Saturdays, the tempo picks up with regular DJs on the decks. There's a dress code - no torn jeans or ratty tennis shoes; if you're going to play the part, you should look it too. It's a small price to pay to enter a time machine.