During Prohibition, it was rumored, cars weren’t the only things getting lubricated at Italian immigrant Buster Manci’s filling station. By 1936, the pretense was gone, or maybe just morphed: Soon manci’s antique club was the shingle that welcomed customers to his dark-wood dive. Pack rat Manci filled every inch with junk—oh, I mean antiques—including one of the world’s largest collections of Jim Beam decorative decanters. There’s plenty to explore, but beware, female first-timers who enter the ladies’. That cutout of Adam may have lift here on the fig leaf shielding his genitals, but peeking triggers a bar-wide alarm. The offender’s walk of shame back to her barstool runs through the gantlet of applauding locals. Or so I, uh, heard from a friend.