It’s a balmy Thursday evening in Miami’s North Beach. My friend, Jose, picks me up for a midweek rendezvous. We’re heading to La Poubelle , a speakeasy cabaret in Normandy Isles, though neither of us is sure where to go. This place is a well-kept secret. They never advertise, they barely promote, and you won’t find it on Google Maps, either. The exact location is revealed when you purchase tickets, and even then, you may struggle—but there are clues: poubelle is French for ‘trash can’. I find the directions and read them out loud like I’m following MapQuest in the year 2004. After a few missed turns, we seemingly arrive at our destination: a nondescript parking lot.

“Are you sure this is it?” Jose asks.

“I think so,” I respond. “I see a bunch of dumpsters over there. We must be close.”

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