Soft lighting. To-the-manor-born decor. And space. Cavernous space. The low hum of businessmen talking business. The whiff of caramel from snifters of Cognac. An insular, men's club feeling.

This is The Campbell Apartment, Grand Central Terminal's best kept secret. When John Campbell leased the huge room in the 1920s, he spared no expense recreating a 13^th century Florentine palace. After decades of neglect, the former executive retreat was reborn as an upscale lounge.

My first attempt to enter was thwarted by my pal's sneakers (the dress code is strictly enforced). Tonight, Lauren and I are back, donning high heels and a soignee attitude. And this time we're going all the way in.

Up the discrete stairway, a pair of attractive hostesses smiles brightly as they ask if we'd like to sit at the bar or in the lounge (we opt for the bar). In addition to pearls and impeccable dresses, the hostesses sport an understated professionalism--as does all the staff, from the bartenders who constantly wipe and refill to the bow-tied employees who keep an eye on tipsy patrons.

We slide onto corner bar stools, and I recite the old-fashioned sounding drinks: "Prohibition Punch, Flapper's Delight...I'll try a Roaring '20s." It's a heady mix of rum, ginger liquor, grenadine, and fresh lemon juice served with a twist of orange peel. The ice makes a rustling sound as I raise the glass to my lips. Mmm, tangy and refreshing. The ginger props up the flavor unexpectedly, rescuing it from being too sweet. There will be many more Roaring '20s this night.

The evening progresses at a leisurely pace. We drink. We talk. We admire, again and again, the beautiful room we're in. Gleaming carved wood graces an upper balcony. Craning our necks, we see the 25 foot high ceiling is adorned with dark beams painted with Italianate designs. Behind the bar, a warm glow emanates from the hammered surface of leaded glass windows.

We look around at our fellow imbibers and see...suits--dark, conservative, and nondescript. The bar is swimming with Suit Men. Many are from out of town, thanks to our proximity to the Hyatt and other midtown hotels. Since it's impossible to remember names, Lauren refers to them by where they're from.

Texas is incredibly smashed and carries an anesthesiology book. His friends will abandon him by the end of the night. London is a round-faced boy-man whose idea of being charming is making crude remarks about Harry Potter's wand. Israel-by-way-of-Iran is more civilized: he speaks with me in French. Ohio is an older gentleman in town for a convention.

Two names are memorable. Dan and Danny are lawyers who met when they represented opposing sides in a huge real estate case. Danny has a girlfriend who writes for People. This makes him paranoid about the press, and he tries to steal my notes when he learns I'm writing this article. Lauren assures him I'll refer to him by pseudonym, and they spend some amusing minutes coming up with one.

My notes safe for the moment, I write, "The room is filled with soft tapestry colors, like the russet and faded teal of the one-by-one tiles on the bar." I run my fingers over their cool surface. The lawyers buy another round.

Lauren and I are having fun. The Suit Men are having fun. Everyone seems relaxed, perhaps because the atmosphere is so comfortable. It feels like home--if you happen to live in a castle.

To call it a commuter bar is a disservice. Then again, there's Connecticut totaling up in time for the 10:20 p.m. But still. As we while away the evening in this exquisite space, we feel worlds away from the untucked masses running for trains, their flapping messenger bags stuffed with old newspapers and pungent gym clothes. From the moment we stepped through The Campbell Apartment's Tartan curtains, we had entered a far more genteel world, an oasis of luxurious imbibing. As Danny (not a pseudonym) says, "It's the most beautiful place in New York to have a drink."