You walk in. Through the rustic haze, you see her. Platinum hair that catches the firelight. A dress that appears poured on by a silversmith. She’s leaning against a rough-sawn pillar, looking like she just stepped off a Lockheed Constellation from Burbank, wondering where the nearest dry martini might be found.

She begins to sing. That breathy, velvet voice that made GI’s weep. "I Wanna Be Loved by You." In this place? Among the hikers and the trout fishermen? It’s absurd. It’s intoxicating. It’s the kind of evening that makes you realize that glamour doesn't need a red carpet; it just needs a spotlight and a mountain.

By the time the trout is served, you’re in 1953. And she’s looking right at you.

Dress code: Casual lodge or Hollywood glam. (We suggest the latter - just for fun!).