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Sorry, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus at Harlem’s half-century-old jazz haunt, where Miles Davis tippled and tooted and Billie Holiday first belted tunes. Descend into this low-ceilinged, underground lair (illuminated by Christmas lights and bare bulbs), grab a stiff drink at the rickety bar and plant your roots. Chatty jazz aficionados sip brews and watch lively musicians wail onstage; a pic of sax saint Charlie Parker hangs in reverence.