“Walter Gropius,” I say to the doorman who looks a bit like Mike Ehrmantraut from Breaking Bad. We’re standing in a dark, closet-sized antechamber just off a quiet street in Palermo Hollywood, Buenos Aires. Outside, there is a big black door with a discreet sign that reads, simply, “Franks.” Satisfied with the password, Mike Ehrmantraut nods his head for me to proceed into the next room. “Adelante,” he whispers. In the next room stands a beautiful woman in a black dress with a pearl necklace and Ferrari-red lips. This is Victoria. Behind her, at the back of the dark room, is an old NYC telephone booth. Victoria gives me a cliff-notes history on speakeasies and then tells me that when the phone rings I…