Propellers whirl, 1940s jazz soothes, and half of the customers are dressed like they’re in a Raymond Chandler novel. Welcome to Cafe Boheme, a French bistro-late-night joint in the heart of Soho.

Upon entering, the outside world is obliterated. A wall of noise: conversation, laughter, shouts, roars, screams, expletives ringing out like machine-gun fire.