Ultra-lounging
These plush nightspots peddle paradise at a price

Amy Conn-Gutierrez / Special to DMN

A tab by any other name What's called "bottle service" in other metropolises is renamed "table service" here because of pesky government regulations. Servers must still do the pouring, which eliminates about half the point; the other half being: "Look, I'm paying big bucks to sit here." Reserve a table and get a bottle of premium paint, mixers and garnishes. Gaze with contempt on those who mill listlessly beyond your grace. Sounds like ... The term "lounge music" conjures images of Bill Murray crooning to the Star Wars theme on SNL. What you hear at the ultra-lounges is not that, but strains of kitsch and irony are to be found. The mélange can include bossa nova, Bond themes, techno-pop, ambient wallpaper, salsa, funk and hip-hop. Perennial club-pumper Matthew Giese, who's been polishing the clientele at Medici lately, offers this lounge-mix starter kit: • Babylon Rewound by the Thievery Corporation: Jamaican dub remixes of previously released tracks by the Washington, D.C.-based duo. • You've Been Spiked by Chris Joss: French producer layers blaxploitation bass lines under retro soundtrack glam. • Ursadelica by Ursula 1000: A beyond-eclectic repertory to dance and drink to. Mr. Dallas recommends these: • Suzuki by Tosca: Down-tempo background for Zen meditation or fan-dancing. • The Center of the World soundtrack: Desperately hip collection of rock and electronica with a sexy edge. Tastes like ... Liquor companies urge you to drink responsibly. Mr. Dallas further entreats you to lay off the Grey Goose and soda. In an infinite universe of alcoholic variation, this generic spritzer sits at the top of the heap. What a buzz kill. Take a break with these: • Patron Silver: "Let's do shots!" That late-night suggestion is almost always a bad idea. But if you're headed to oblivion, take the high road. Better yet, savor this in a rocks glass, neat. • Maker's Mark Manhattan: Old-school cocktail evokes Astaire and Rogers, Garbo and Grant. Order it perfect (half sweet and half dry vermouth) and on the rocks. • Duval-Leroy Brut: The reason to drink champagne on New Year's Eve is the reason to drink it every night, because champagne is the second best thing in the whole wide world. And that's not all Many nightclubs have at least a touch of ultra-lounge. Lower Greenville mainstay Zúbar can lay claim to doing it first. The neighboring Moosh, Eight and Kismet work the angles as well. So does Drama Room in Knox-Henderson. The renovated Seven is trolling for a new clientele with sleeker appointments and a patio. Lounge 3030 is a bridge too far (an overpass really) from the new places downtown, where Blue got in the game long before Purgatory. Ultimate entourage Showboating at the lounges is about the company you keep. Given a fantasy draft, this is the ideal crew you'd be squeezing limes with: • Scarlett Johansson • Charlotte Rampling • Paul Bettany • Jonathan Demme • Triumph the Insult Comic Dog

It took its time bleeding in from the coasts, but the "ultra-lounge" phenomenon has Dallas firmly in its grip as 2004 tabs out.

Ultra-lounge is a slippery concept to pin down. Reduced to burlesque, it's a place you go to pay too much for drinks and mingle with other people who are willing to pay too much for drinks and mingle with you. Ultra-lounge is more descriptive than definitional. Think low lighting, cushy furniture, gauzy curtains, sleek servers, throbbing music.

Still wondering? Check out this full immersion into the local scene.

Lush
1520 Greenville Ave.
214-826-2888

Basically: The lounge that most closely mimics the appearance and vibe of a Miami hot spot. It's big on table service.

Who's it for: The cream of Lower Greenville, assuming there is such a thing.

Voluptuaries will like: The drapery-swathed kiosk overlooking the main floor.

Posh or mosh? Mosh.

Vain
2026 Commerce St.
214-747-1122

Basically: The latest club of the moment for now. Good flow. Interior updates improve on the former Divan's look. Top-heavy on big nights, as in dancers and bouncers abideth.

Who's it for: The proprietors want to attract a legitimately diverse crowd and seem to be succeeding.

Voluptuaries will like: Looking down at all the losers from the cozy VIP mezzanine.

Posh or mosh? Mosh.

Obar
1602-B Main St.
214-747-6227

Basically: Underground hangout that's overqualified for Dallas. Cool midcentury modern design, great DJ rotation, tiny dance floor.

Who's it for: Bright sparks who live downtown or can find it.

Voluptuaries will like: The seraglio patio, weather permitting.

Posh or mosh? Posh.

Medici
2404 Cedar Springs Road at Maple
214-855-0202

Basically: A cosmopolitan nightclub that you wouldn't mind showing off to pop singers and reality-TV stars.

Who's it for: Trending younger and livelier than its plutocrats-and-paramours base.

Voluptuaries will like: The soft lighting and racy Helmut Newton photos.

Posh or mosh? Posh.

Drae (the Drálion)
3102 Oak Lawn Ave. (Welborn and Cedar Springs)
214-219-6880

Who's it for: Young sharpies, of whom there are more than you might imagine, and appearance-industry professionals.

Voluptuaries will like: Slouching in the high-backed throne chairs.

Posh or mosh? Posh.

Sense
3001 N. Henderson Ave.
214-370-4445

Basically: Dallas' first "hard-door" lounge of the new century holds par despite all the competition. Last call here is a destination.

Who's it for: A more expansive group than in its early days, but the city's carnivores still show up to feel young again.

Voluptuaries will like: The little crannies that could, curtained snuggle nests in the back room.

Posh or mosh? Posh.

Candleroom
5039 Willis Ave.
214-370-4155

Basically: Sense's younger, prettier sister gets lots of attention. Hands down, the phattest beats in town.

Who's it for: Those who are light of years and heavy of wallet.

Voluptuaries will like: The toasty corner couches near the fireplace.

Posh or mosh? Mosh.

Purgatory
2208 Main St.
214-651-8850

Basically: Five levels to frolic on, two dance floors and a mandate to snag every shiny shirt in North Texas.

Who's it for: With 35,000 square feet to fill, everybody and his brother-in-law, along with elements of the 82nd Airborne.

Voluptuaries will like: The white-on-white cubicles, equipped with LCD monitors, next to the DJ perch.

Posh or mosh? Mosh.

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Tattoo U.

Photo by Nan Coulter / Special to DMN

Inquiring minds David Gowen of Dallas gets the mailbag off to a fine, validating start: "You're a blast to read and I appreciate all of your opinions and helpful tips." For that Dave will be picking up the keys to a brand-new 6 series. Tom Paredes of Dallas is looking for tips for a bachelor party this weekend. (Oh, dear.) For 25, in a limo bus. (Uh-oh.) "The guys don't want to go eat," he says, "they want to go bar-hopping." (Somebody call 911.) They need something to do between 6:30 and 10, before motoring to an I-35 Valhalla of dishabille. (Make that Homeland Security.) Get something to eat first. Really. Then look for cool spots that can accommodate a large group early in the evening. That's a short list. Consider Dragonfly at Hotel ZaZa, the Drálion or one of the upscale sports bars along McKinney. Lilly Halada, a transplant from Hungary, has some worthy but exacting parameters for her night out. "What bar attracts people who are around 35 and single and not too business-minded, but rather more intellectual?" The poor thing is still a little murky on our cultural geography. Try the Lounge at the Inwood or Spike at Mockingbird Station. Both draw the art-house movie crowd. Whatever you do, Lilly, steer clear of Tom and company.

Mr. Dallas cut his adolescent teeth on lurid Technicolor biblical epics on TV.

Luxuriant masses of upswept, garlanded hair. Blossoming flesh pressed taut against the thin, white fabric of a stola. Giggling nymphs waving clusters of grapes tantalizingly aloft.

These images sparked the youthful imagination in a pre-cable sea of rectitude. All that implied begatting was, of course, followed closely by supernatural retaliation. One thing was certain in those old movies: Anybody sporting "skin art" would get doused by holy fire before the credits rolled. Sunny and 7,000 Celsius in downtown Gomorrah.

So the current ubiquity of tattoos is a bit of a generational hiccup. It seems as if every coed gets issued a spidery tailbone scrawl along with her B.A. in sales/marketing. They're no longer the trademark of the soon-to-be-immolated ancient heathen or even of the modern-day table dancer. Park Cities moms buy them for their daughters, heedless that, as Maureen Dowd observed, those barbed-wire wreaths etched in the epidermis will droop and fade as the years advance into smudgy picket fences.

Just as the navel became the center of the erotic universe in the '90s, so the small of the back and its southern exposure are in this new century.

Ultra-lounge über alles

There's just no getting away from the concept: comfy seats, dreamy beats, and don't forget the gauzy drapes. Ultra-lounges seem to be popping up like Starbucks, practically on every corner. The latest arrivals are the re-engineered Seven and the new Vain Lounge.

Seven, once the king of late-night, took a five-month hiatus for its redo. The management aims to pull an earlier, and perhaps even a less addled, crowd to Pacific and Good-Latimer. Tweaks include the requisite Turkish caliphate seating areas, better flow throughout the room, a patio and broadened music program.

Vain has moved into the former Divan space on Commerce near Pearl with an ambitious finish-out that includes a mezzanine VIP lounge and a live-music ballroom on the second floor that's supposed to open by New Year's Eve. One twist on the formula: Manager Tony Dao promises "real former Vegas showgirls" preening around the VIP room.

Hope springs eternal – or a leak.

Read more about both venues when Mr. Dallas goes ultra-lounge in the Dec. 31 column.

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Destination Dante

Upper Heaven has a balcony and private seating.

Purgatory by the numbers 5 levels 35,000 square feet 1,430-person capacity 90 employees 10 bars 14 plasma screens 800-bottle Opus wine collection 70,000-watt sound system 37,000-watt lighting system Upcoming events Wednesday: VIP party Nov. 30: Grand-opening DIFFA benefit Information 214-651-8850 or www.purgatorydallas.com

"Cocaine," comedian Robin Williams once riffed, "is God's way of telling you you're making too much money." Club-owning is another.

It's a magnificent temptation for people who've made a bundle elsewise to treat themselves to a nightclub: to be Mr. The Man, to have a permanent perch at Table One, to glad-hand ballplayers and cover girls till the wee hours. But this particularly treacherous and fickle business can swat down even the highest-flying Icarus. A crumpled heap of regret, recrimination and reduced assets marks the spot.

That never stops people from trying, and so there is Purgatory. The mammoth new nightspot on Main near Central represents the kind of soaring ambition that hasn't often been seen in Dallas since the early '80s.

Its 35,000 square feet on five levels could swallow the other downtown mega-club, Blue, which opened only 16 months ago. More so than Blue, Purgatory positions itself as one-stop night-life shopping, with two dance floors, an "ultra lounge," banquet hall, wine room and more. An adjacent restaurant is in the works.

Purgatory will hustle for private parties on early-week nights – bachelor parties and birthdays, company fetes and charity events. It's big enough to ingest an ocean of Mary Kay pink when that time comes. On weekends it will try to hook every night-crawler in a 30-mile radius.

All those who enter here get a cursory lesson in medieval cosmology while wending their way toward a cocktail.

The Pit bar and Hell dance floor, not yet in operation, are bathed in devilish shades of red. From those lower depths, stairways lead to the Purgatory level, which features a main bar, separate ladies-only lounge and the banquet room. From there ascend to Heaven, where there's another large dance floor and the secluded wine room. Above that is the mezzanine Upper Heaven, with balcony and private seating geared to "A list" clientele.

Music varies by altitude: hip-hop and hard core in Hell, mellow grooves in Purgatory, progressive house for the Heavens. The design team at Jones Baker, which revamped the Riviera into the George restaurant, has labored manfully to carve distinct environments out of all this space, from the industrial starkness of Hell to the gentler tones of Purgatory to the white-on-white vertical spectacle of Heaven.

Purgatory is rolling out slowly, to get the bugs out and the staff up to speed before high-profile parties in the next two weeks. Starting Thursday, a heavy cover ($20) for men only will control the door. The club is open Thursdays through Saturdays from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m.

The scene: Purgatory
In 10 words or less: A StairMaster labyrinth of excess.
How happening: Ramped up late.
Who was there: Old Guard club-hoppers and wannabe Euro-trash.
Prime real estate: Facing the DJ aerie in Upper Heaven.
On the seven deadly sins scale: Four of seven (pride, envy, lust, greed). Missing: sloth, gluttony, wrath.

Photo by Nan Coulter / Special to DMN

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Rogue eloquent

Christopher Hitchens faces the consequences at Steel.

Quibbles and bits Building fun(d): Jaden's, an ambitious restaurant-nightclub project coming to Knox-Henderson, is tempting well-heeled bon vivants with VIP packages. It had a hard-hat party last month. Call 214-738-3334 or go to www.jadens.com to get sold. ... Two-party system: Republic offers a complimentary red state or blue state drink to anybody who shows up with a stamped voter card Tuesday evening. The red is a frozen raspberry cosmo, the blue a frozen blueberry blast. ... Shuffle the deck: A proliferating valet promotion: Cards left on windshields by the parkers hawk the place you're leaving. Street level The churn on Lower Greenville continues. Lava Room debuts at 1802 Greenville on Thursday at 8 p.m. The opener benefits the Matrix Society; $10 at the door. Wear red. About all Mr. Dallas knows about these are the names: The Wreck Room: 2101 Greenville at Sears, opened three weeks ago. And Tiger Room is next to the old Tantra at 1915 Greenville. Inquiring minds Alex White was moving back to Dallas after two years and considering a downtown loft. He worried that downtown seems changed and "a little bit played out and over." Downtown is always hanging on by its fingernails and, certainly, Deep Ellum is problematic. But the Main Street strip remains active with the addition of Iron Cactus and Obar. Get the loft, buy some high-priced uncomfortable furniture and skate around on the polished concrete floor in your sock feet. Subsequent to this sterling advice, Alex leased a place at Mockingbird Station, which is not downtown.

It's a measure of how stretched the net of celebrity is that Donald Trump's pinched-faced yes woman on The Apprentice gets her own book, propped next to the Donald's on the shelf at Borders.

A culture that buys outrage from O'Reilly and handbags from Monica can even make room at the captain's table for a rumpled, acerbic lapsed socialist from England if he's on MSNBC enough. Christopher Hitchens, the journalist (Vanity Fair), author (Why Orwell Matters) and free-range provocateur (Hardball), got the royal treatment last Friday at Steel.

Mr. Hitchens is causing a royal row among lefties for supporting the war in Iraq, making mincemeat of Michael Moore and saying nice things about George Bush. That shouldn't be a surprise, but it is. Mr. Hitchens has made his reputation swimming upstream with a dagger between his teeth. He's gutted powerful men (Henry Kissinger, Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton, whom he describes flatly as "wicked") and punctured popular myths (Princess Diana, Mother Teresa). The chain smoker and confirmed tippler was in Dallas for a symposium on "Tobacco at the Crossroads" at Southern Methodist University; coincidentally, that same weekend his deadpan dissection of Lone Star State culture, Texas: America Supersized, ran on Trio.

Mr. Hitchens swept into Steel with a decent-size entourage, another gauge of celebrity, not a Jessica Simpson human caravan, but not bad for cable news: a U.N. ambassador, several boozy scribes and a woman who actually knew somebody called "Bunky."

Between stabs at the emperor's feast littering the table, he bolted to the sidewalk to suck cigarettes and hold forth volubly on politics and terrorism.

"Ambivalent" doesn't begin to describe his attitude toward the current president, with whom he agrees about nothing but what he considers the thing that really matters. The intellectual gyrations involved caused his forehead to bead sweat.

Conscience must be a heavy burden. Mr. Dallas wouldn't know.

On the seven deadly sins scale, dinner with "Hitch" rates a loquacious four of seven (pride, envy, wrath, gluttony). Absent: sloth, greed, lust.

Horror shows

Lots of Halloween parties, among them:
• Take an early look at the new Club Seven, Pacific at Good-Latimer, on Saturday from 9 p.m. to 4 a.m. $15. www.dragonshalloweenball.com.
• "South of Heaven" at South Bar and Lounge, 703 McKinney, on Saturday from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m. DJ Wikka is slated to spin. $10 cover after 10. www.dallasproductions.com.
• "Monstrous Masquerade Bash" at Obar, 1602-B Main, on Saturday from 9 till close. $10, $15 for couples. There will be drink specials and door prizes (Cowboys, Margarita Ball tickets). 214-747-6227.

Photo by Nan Coulter / Special to DMN

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Shocking true story revealed

Republic celebrates its one-year anniversary.

Quibbles and bits Adventures in real estate: Passport, a not-bad idea in a hinky location (on Ross east of Good-Latimer), has been rechristened Passport, Lounge 3030. The grand opening was Sept. 30. Spike, squeezed into a corner of the maze that is Mockingbird Station, will celebrate its first year Thursday at 8 p.m. There's another permutation of the Starck Club open for special events in the West End now. ... Horrors: Nightspots are gearing up for Halloween. Medici promises an Eyes Wide Shut-inspired celebration Oct. 29. You must wear black; masks will be handed out at the door. Kismet is hosting the charmingly titled "Pimp and Ho Ball" Oct. 30. It's $10 if you're not in costume, so trot out those boas, acrylic heels and Mac Daddy chapeaus. Inquiring minds • Rhonda Heasley of Allen writes that "I live my social life vicariously through your columns. I know that sounds incredibly pathetic." (Yes, Rhonda, it does, but continue.) "Where would you recommend that a group of suburbanite, mid-30s, happily married couples spend a night out on the town? We resemble more of a Gap ad than a Prada ad. Will we still fit in with the Dragonfly/Crescent Court/downtown crowd?" You will be welcomed with open arms as soon as you fish out the gold cards. Anyway, many people go out dressed as though they just let the kids off at soccer practice. Gap away and fear not.

Mr. Dallas has been living a lie. It's time he came out.

No, he's not gay. He could never wear a tie as a belt, no matter what Carson Kressley says.

Until a month ago, he was a suburbanite – or near enough to one. He occupied a three-bedroom house in a narrow fiord of North Dallas above LBJ, thrust between Richardson and Garland. He was, in point of fact, Mr. Near-Garland.

Every time he recommended a hip downtown lounge or glossy Uptown eatery, a huge, invisible asterisk rose above the pronouncement, a footnote represented by that 13-mile commute back to a land of donut shops and Home Depots, not Starbucks and Urban Home. There, benign neglect of yardwork and foundation cracks meant guilt for him and sliding property values for his neighbors.

Worse still were the logistics of amour: those uncomfortable moments when he turned from a prince back into a frog on the long drive home, when the generosity of drink faded and some glorious passenger asked, "Is this Oklahoma?"

No more. Mr. Dallas has relocated and been right-sized to a condo in what he grandly refers to as a Turtle Creek midrise. Here, he can grow into the repellent, materialistic orc of his ambitions.

But there are sacrifices. Pain can enter even this garden of delights, as when he cut his finger on a mojito at Republic's first anniversary party. The sharp stab of discomfort, followed by the welling of a droplet of blood. A moment of confusion. Then the culprit revealed: a sinister slice of sugar cane jutting from the tall glass.

Republic will be hearing from his lawyers.

Narcissus loves company

Shouldn't the Beautiful People be ... beautiful? When Stanley Korshak opened its new Armani Collezioni boutique on Sept. 23, the crowd appeared to dispel the popular notion that you can never be too rich or too thin. Except for comely servers hoisting trays of canapés and lemon martinis, this could've been an open audition for the witches in Macbeth .

That weekend, the folks who do the hair of the folks who were at Korshak invaded Lush 's latest Sabbath invitational. The theme was '60s mod, but the youngsters who streamed in looked more '70s punk, with fancifully sheared locks shot through with color. Appearance-industry professionals tend toward hedonism, throw around a lot of disposable income and don't mind staying out all hours. And Mr. Dallas salutes them.

The scene: Anniversary party, Sept. 29 at Republic
In 10 words or less: Patio people celebrate the coming of fall.
How happening: Steady-state lively.
Who was there: Uptown scenesters and the hugging men of Oak Lawn.
On the seven deadly sins scale: Four of seven (pride, gluttony, envy, lust). Missing: wrath, greed, sloth.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 10.08.04

Photo by Mark M. Hancock / DMN

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Sporting opportunities

Upscale steak and sushi restaurant Chaucer's at Mockingbird Station converts into a late-night lounge.

Quibbles and bits Condition cuticle: Obar has hopped aboard the "manicure and martini" bandwagon; $20 for one of each on Mondays. ... Cast change: The winds of weirdness are already buffeting Drama Room. Start-up manager Tim Tremoni has left. Gucci Gutierrez is in. ... Lady luck: Poker popularizer James McManus (Positively Fifth Street) held a book signing Sept. 16 at the Lodge. ... Crooner rather than later: Hunter Sullivan is back at the Nana Bar on Fridays through Dec. 17. ... Mod moment: Lush is having another invitation-only bash Sunday. This one's a "retro '60s cocktail party."

It's not easy being a complete sports agnostic in this city. When somebody asks, "Did you see the game last night?" Mr. Dallas has to make a panicked calculation of what month it is, divine which sport is currently in season and mumble something noncommittal in response.

Sports bars have had small appeal. All the beefy good fellowship, the high-fiving, the significantly numbered jerseys ("I identify with this pituitary case above all others"), the breaded jalapeño cheese bites, the 20 flat screens and 40 kinds of beer on the wall. Ack.

And yet who's to say a mind can't be changed by a well-turned ankle steeled by years of softball practice?

The occasion was a Sunday afternoon spent robo-gazing at Frankie's, on the ground floor of the Residences high-rise, and a revelation: Sports bars don't have to have anything to do with sports.

It was possible to watch the Cowboys embarrass themselves that day, but as the game wore on, fewer and fewer people made the attempt. Though the crowd, and certainly the vibe, was heavily male, a number of women, in clumps or as solo actors, leavened the scene.

They, charmingly, paid peremptory attention to the silver-and-blue blurs between long séances with cellphones or their own brand of gamesmanship (turn, hair-toss, laugh, turn back).

Style counsel

So in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. The super-casual ethos of Dallas admits pasty, potbellied plutocrats wearing shorts and sandals into even the most upscale nightspots without fear of censure. The new downtown jazz club Tephejez seems positively Victorian in its constraints – and bless its heart for trying. The dress code for "Thursday Night Live" events is "no tennis shoes, no T-shirts, no athletic gear, no caps."

The wages of sin, Part 1

Don't inveigh against human foibles, profit from them, says financial journalist Caroline Waxler in Stocking Up on Sin: How to Crush the Market With Vice-Based Investing (Wiley, $27.95). Ms. Waxler notes that a portfolio ripe with no-nos (gambling, alcohol, sex) outperforms the S&P 500. Wishful thinkers aside, that shouldn't surprise anyone.

The wages of sin, Part 2

The new Chaucer's at Mockingbird Station is getting a reputation as the latest 20-something meet market. The decor seems a little incongruous for such shenanigans: steakhouse-upholstered, with dark woods, low lights and, in a nice touch, a roomwide water wall. But Chaucer's changes gears late nights on weekends. Staff clears out some tables to make room for dancing, and a DJ sets up in one corner. Eager SMUers apply at the door.

Another newbie

Cretia's provides one-stop lifestyling to that hotbed of lifestyle acquisition, Knox-Henderson. It's a combination restaurant-bar-bakery-clothing store located south of Knox on McKinney. A 100-year-old bar from New Orleans dominates the front. An opening party Saturday drew a well-heeled but un-photogenic multitude.

Frankie's
In 10 words or less: Good sports and actual fans.
How happening: Game days – and every day's game day for something.
Who's there: The unadorned and accessible.
Prime real estate: Barstools near the game room.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 08.20.04

Photo by Mark M. Hancock / DMN

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Theatrical opening

There are stars in the eyes of patrons at Knox-Henderson's Drama Room.

Quibbles and bits Red alert : Medici is holding a "Le Rouge" party Aug. 20 at 9. Wear red for admittance; snack on hors d'oeuvres from its sister restaurants, Il Mulino and Nick and Sam's. ... Season's greetings : Obar hosts an "Endless Summer Party" on Saturday, featuring DJs G3 and Shawn Traylor. ... Spit and polish : The Whisky Bar on Lower Greenville is touting nail care. Every Thursday from 6 to 8, individuals of the feminine gland can get a martini and manicure for $10.

Just when you think Dallas can't sustain another overamped, oversexed 20-something maelstrom, it does. Following Lush by a couple of months is Drama Room at Knox and Central.

The 4,500-square-foot lounge and dance club is run by Tim Tremoni, an entrepreneur of Mephistophelean aspect who has a following from his days at Al Biernat's. It features an "old Hollywood" theme, with kitschy touches such as a hand-painted Marilyn Monroe sculpture on a raised platform, a patio overlooking scenic 75 and a VIP room with separate bar and restroom.

The decor is practically beside the point; by 11 o'clock you can't see it for the crush of bodies. Drama Room's first few weekends went gangbusters, with a crowd that looks a little more Lower Greenville than Knox-Henderson. Angular John Evans, clipboard holder extraordinaire, mans the door.

Handicappers give poor odds for second-floor ventures such as this. Clubgoers tend to like their night life like their relationships: easy in and easy out.

But Mr. Tremoni figures he's got a niche: A place to dance five nights a week. He notes that dance clubs have given way to lounges in recent years, leaving a demand unmet. He's right, for now at least.

Where is the love? Part 1

One of the most frequent queries Mr. Dallas receives, in various and usually more delicate formulations, is this: "Where can people in their 40s go to hook up?" The answer has been under his nose all along. The bar at Nick and Sam's is a festival of Vintage Restoration amour most evenings. Subtle, but effective, decor changes by a lounge lizard of Mr. Dallas' acquaintance have enhanced the frisky mood. The walls have been painted chianti red to match colors in the art deco pictures hanging from them, the floors have been refinished and the lighting tweaked.

Seeing the light: A simple change at Candle Room has also had a restorative effect. The low, space-hogging banquettes in the middle of the room have been replaced by a string of captain's tables. That's improved the flow to the bar and to the back area. It also helps that some young lemmings have skittered on to Lush and Drama Room.

Sushi nights: Steel is showing new life as a nightspot. DJs spinning in the bar on weekends are pulling in a later crowd. A sushi happy hour on Wednesdays keeps the place humming on hump day. Not to be outdone in the raw fish department, Tom Tom Noodle House has just started dollar sushi, dollar sake on Thursdays.

Where is the love? Part 2

Mr. Dallas usually spends his Sunday evenings wrapped in existential dread or watching HBO, which is much the same thing. This Sunday, however, he donned the tux and headed to Lush for a benefit party. And glad he did. An enterprising promoter overstocked the guest list with comely lasses, sipping splits of Moët and wondering who else there was to talk to.

The scene: Drama Room

In 10 words or less: Mill and swill around Marilyn.

How happening: Packed by 11 on weekends.

Who's there: Dancing fools and Lower Greenville émigrés.

Prime real estate: The private room or the patio.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 08.20.04

Photo by Mark M. Hancock / DMN

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Reeling in the years

Zubar celebrated eight years with an "80s prom" theme party.

Bottling company: The club of the moment, Lush, has adapted the bicoastal gambit of "bottle service" to locally legal "table service." Reserve a table, fork over $250, and you and yours get a bottle of high-end spirits accompanied by mixers, garnishes and bragging rights. If you've got a posse, and you want a guaranteed seat at the latest hot spot, it's not as extravagant as it sounds. The downside is that regulations here require that a server do all the pouring. Divan but not forgotten: Divan, the handsome lounge at Commerce and Pearl, has closed to regular business. However, it's available for parties. E-mail party@divanlounge.com. Let's misbehave: The new downtown lounge Obar is doing $3-off cocktails weeknights from 5 to 8. ... 214 Promotions and friends are hosting a "New Year's Eve in July" party at Martini Ranch in the Quadrangle on July 31. $10. Details at www.lynxxdfw.com. ... Medici got another dose of culture Wednesday when essayist Hank Stuever signed copies of Off Ramp.

In the quicksilver club scene, eight years is a near-eternity. That's the mark Zubar celebrated last week with a 1980s prom party. Given the short-cycling of nostalgia (VH1 is already airing I Love the '90s ), there was no need to dig so far into the collective memory. Cue the Tragic Kingdom CD, loop Jerry Maguire on the plasma screen and have a time.

But the Lowest Greenville lounge went for the '80s, a great decade for looking silly. About 300 partygoers indulged with gusto: Unconstructed jackets with sleeves squeeze-boxed to the elbow. Crinoline pre-mom Madonna dresses. Lacy fingerless gloves. Architecturally significant hair, gelled into Flock of Seagulls carapaces or sprayed into mall-bang foremasts. (The ingénue servers teased their locks into formations they could only have learned from watching the History Channel.)

The narrow shotgun space was decked out in blue-and-white bunting, balloons spread across the floor, a set of bleachers at the front of the room and a football scoreboard plastered on the wall.

And, ah, the music: Corey Hart, Howard Jones, ABC, Berlin, Kajagoogoo and those Scottish guys tearing around on the three-wheelers with the bagpipe guitars. Those guys.

Zubar got a late word-of-mouth bump when a Playboy casting call ensconced at the Westin Galleria made this its unofficial after-party. Jeff Cohen, the magazine's solicitor general, showed up along with a few aspirants.

Lowest Greenville is a tad ragged, random and twentysomething-intensive for those in the autumn of their night lives, who remember the '80s and could drink then. For them it may have no more appeal than Bartertown minus the poisonous dwarf, the he-man saxophonist and Tina Turner.

But there are bright spots along the strip that have found their audiences: the new Lush, Tantra, Eight Lounge. Zubar is one of them.

The scene: Zubar anniversary

July 14 at Zubar,

2012 Greenville Ave. In 10 words or less: Retro revelers get their Molly Ringwald on.

How happening: Building to a buzzy close.

Who was there: Crocketts and Tubbses and Madonnas.

Oin the seven deadly sins scale: Three of seven (lust, pride, sloth). Absent: wrath, greed, gluttony, envy.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 07.23.04

Photo by Mark M. Hancock / DMN

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Fellow travelers

Guests arrive at the invitation-only Obar opening.

Know your Fickle 500 The city's preening perennial scene-makers have much in common, much of it appalling. Mr. Dallas salutes them: Extravagant pecs. Whether buffed or bought, chests must be billboard advertisements. Chunky wristwatches, stainless steel bands required. Even a Patek with a leather strap that costs more than a Hyundai is strictly for girly men. Shirttails out, collars open. Custom requires a perpetual state of insouciance. Sideburns. An aggressive slash of hair down each ear demonstrates that Elvis is everywhere.

"Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with amusement parks. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission."
– From The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Nobody could write up a party like Scotty. Even across the gulf of generations and geography, he would recognize Dallas' Fickle 500. That ever-changing, ever-the-same tribe of itinerant sensation-seekers parties with truly simple hearts. Now it has two new destinations to flutter to, the 2-month-old Lush on Lowest Greenville and the week-old Obar downtown.

Both fall under the usefully vague category of "ultra lounge," which translates as "lots of rubles, no rubes." The look at Lush is South Beach international (gauze-draped crannies and nooks, polished steel, glass block, curves). Obar is mid-century modern (bracing earth shades, graphic wall splashes, right angles).

Both have history. Lush was a long time coming, trailing a series of redos and delays. It reclines on the site of a Flying Saucer beerhaus and before that Flip's, the storied wine bar. Nobody who went to either would recognize the place now. Obar is from some of the same folks who developed Umlaut there, but the subterranean space on Main has history as a nightspot back to the postwar years.

Obar held its invitation-only opening on day 20 of the June deluge. The rain pared attendance enough to keep the party from becoming as manic and uncomfortably slammed as these usually do. Partygoers included some of our mothy indigenous Gatsbys (Trammell S. Crow, Mike Modano, Larry North). They could sip a good sparkler (Laurent-Perrier) or embarrass themselves ordering a "strawbellini."

One new wrinkle since Umlaut: a VIP entrance accessible through the Neiman Marcus parking lot.

The scene: Obar opening

In 10 words or less: Waterlogged revelers go underground.

How happening: Buzz-worthy but bearable.

Who was there: Entrepreneurial downtowners and their entourages.

On the seven deadly sins scale: Four of seven (envy, pride, gluttony, lust – very compelling waitstaff). Missing: wrath, sloth, greed.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 07.09.04

Photo by Mark M. Hancock / DMN

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Lodge nights

With cushioned chairs and relaxing music, the Library Bar at the Melrose is a clubby retreat.

A great hotel bar is a thing of beauty and mystery.

Burnished hardwoods, regally plush captain's chairs, the hum of conversation and clink of ice in a Spiegelau rocks glass. Rendezvous of commerce or passion. The fetid, second-hand kick of watching demimondaines work a room on both accounts.

Some destination hotel bars in Dallas:

• The Library Bar at the Melrose is a Dallas institution, the model of a clubby, cozy retreat. Tall shelves of books (pluck one and pretend to read) loom over upholstered chairs and divans to sink into, never to be seen again. An unprepossessing pianist or jazz combo is there to listen to or ignore as conscience directs. The place exudes an aura of good breeding gone somewhat to seed that knows not Philippe Starck.

• The Oasis at Hotel ZaZa is the opposite of clubby and cozy; it's a touch of South Beach gloss on our unblessed prairie. The poolside lounge in summer is transformed into a tented seraglio when the weather turns. Discerning Lotharios skip the weekend maelstrom and troll for debs and divorcées midweek.

• The Bar at Nana boasts a striking view from the 27th floor of the Wyndham Anatole and the arresting vision of the bepearled nude reclining on the wall above the silvery racks of bottles. Stiff pours in sturdy glassware and a dance floor to work off dinner at the five-star Nana next door draw swells of a certain age.

• Beau Nash in the Crescent Court is a lighter, less intimate setting, ringed as it is by a bustling restaurant. Still, it has a bar you can circumnavigate (if only more nightspots valued flow) and a couple of old-school bartenders who've been there for donkey's years.

The hotel bar scene will take on a hipper sheen whenever the W (Ghostbar is on the wish list there) and Ritz-Carlton open.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 06.25.04

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Photo by Mark M. Hancock / DMN

"Love Monkey" business

Kyle Smith absorbs the ambiance at Medici.

Wisdom and wisecracks from Love Monkey by Kyle Smith: • “Dogs cheer me. Dogs have no trouble meeting, chatting, mating. Dogs do not ask what other dogs do: ‘Professionally speaking, I am a dog.’” • “Today’s assignment: Write a book review. That new John Adams book by David McCullough. As a critic I must remain scrupulously neutral, fair, unbiased. To keep my mind absolutely free of prejudice, I haven’t read a word of it.” • “Julia is a big believer in words unspoken. Every conversation with her is like an Easter-egg hunt. Well, a Satanic Easter-egg hunt, in which you search wanly for an egg and find a rainbow-striped grenade.” • “She’s five minutes late. Which in girl time is ten minutes early.” • “Why can’t women and men understand each other? Look to the gym, where, by using the exact same equipment, women hope to become smaller and men hope to become larger.”

The author of Love Monkey was hailed as a leading light of the "lad lit" movement in its pages in February. The word "corrosive" (always an approbation among literati) preened from the headline of a review of his debut novel, about a self-absorbed romantic loose in Manhattan.

Three months later The Times pronounced lad lit stillborn, because, it turns out, women don't want to read about repellent men (they know too many already), and female readers buy books. Love Monkey, it was noted, had sold only 1,716 copies. Ouch. The worm turns faster than you can say "Ahmad Chalabi."

In Dallas for a book signing the same weekend he was declared a non-trend, Mr. Smith felt the love (sort of ) when he joined Mr. Dallas and some ne'er-do-wells for a tour of the swankier nightspots.

His impressions, liberally edited, where not actually twisted to serve a hidden agenda, follow:

• Dragonfly at Hotel ZaZa: "It was a pleasant place, neither loud nor crowded, full of pleasant and pretty people. All of this would have been hopelessly uncool in New York. New York bars pretty much do everything short of poisoning your drink to make sure you have a miserable time.

"Another non-New York bonus was the pool. This created possibilities for comedy or danger, as top-heavy women tottered by on their skyscraper heels. At some point, I hoped, there would be an It's a Wonderful Life moment where everyone wound up jitterbugging into the pool."

• Medici: "Another instance of Dallas stepping up to the volcano of cool but shying away at the last moment. The place has an undeniable cachet: Everywhere, there are risqué Helmut Newton pictures involving kinky things such as black patent leather and Germans. But the club was playing songs you would actually hear on the radio ("Dancing Queen," "Kung Fu Fighting"). In any New York club worth its velvet rope, the music sounds more like a drum machine being tortured or a speeded-up game of Space Invaders, and it's all played at approximately the volume of the D-Day invasion."

• Sense: "It had the clipboard-wielding babe, the nondescript yet attention-getting exterior and the trance music. So far, it reminded me of home. But inside there were lots of men wearing pleated khakis. How do Dallas men get away with this? Pleated khakis have been banned in New York City. Your chances of scoring any points with a young lovely in strappy sandals would be about the same as those of the guy I saw in the airport wearing a T-shirt that read 'Amateur Gynecologist.' "

Published in The Dallas Morning News 06.04.04

Photo by RANDY ELI GROTHE / Special to DMN

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Rabbit stew at Blue

Will a national day of thanksgiving be declared when the last baby boomer dies?

Playboy's 50th Anniversary Club Tour

Quibbles and bits Summer rush: The former Umlaut space on Main Street is getting a new identity. Obar is supposed to open there in mid-June. It's a co-production of Tim McEneny, formerly of Hotel ZaZa, and the Entertainment Collaborative, which developed Umlaut as well as Jeroboam and the Green Room. Opening dates are very fluid in club land, so more on this later. The water's fine: The tent is gone, the pool cover is off, and Hotel ZaZa's Oasis is back to being a poolside experience. An Ibiza-themed party on May 5 marked the seasonal transition in style: glitz, gloss and models, models, models. What think you? Between Bible study and the kids' soccer games, Mr. Dallas has been too busy to investigate a couple of newbies. If you've taken a run at Uropa or Tini Bar, share your impressions in the forum. Libations with the literati: Kyle Smith, an editor at People and author of Love Monkey, will be sampling the lush life with Mr. Dallas tonight. Catch up with them at Iron Cactus or Dragonfly.

That would be a tonic outcome. At least it seems so after enduring a blizzard of Viagra, Levitra and Enzyte commercials (ardor malfunctions be gone) or the further adventures of the Red Hat Society (over 50 and still self-obsessed).

Boomer nostalgia burbled through the cavernous interior of Blue for Playboy's 50th Anniversary Club Tour. The downtown spot got a one-night makeover May 11 for a celebration of the men's magazine's golden year. That meant a spritz of Hef paraphernalia ("Look, silk pajamas!"), bunnies with cinched-in waists, extended gams and fluffy white tails posing for digital snaps and a sound system booming the Velveeta cheesiest hits of several decades.

Two former bunnies, who worked the Dallas Playboy Club in the early '80s, grumped at what they considered a halfhearted attempt at re-creating the old-school ambience. "They're chewing gum," one huffed (masticating was strictly forbidden to bunnies at the real Playboy Clubs). "They're wearing jewelry" (another no-no).

The light of the evening was a short but compelling burlesque act by Dita Von Teese, Marilyn Manson's fiancée, whose hourglass figure provided final proof of intelligent design in the universe. Otherwise, anybody who shelled out, handsomely, for the party might have echoed Peggy Lee's wan inquiry, "Is that all there is?" VIP admission was $146. That's seven table dances, plus a beer.

The same night, nostalgia of a very different bent reigned at Nikita in West Village. The underground club was transformed into Berlin 1945. Concertina wire was strung over the bar, and the floor was littered with industrial debris. Video monitors looped History Channel documentaries on the fall of the Third Reich, while servers clad in saucy commissar leather offered $3 pours of Russian vodka.

Twentysomethings who couldn't tell Hitler from Hannibal had a bang-up time, fueled by the progressive house stylings of Kean Hiri and Willie Trimmer. Not a refrain of "Lili Marlene" was heard.

The scene: Berlin underground party, May 11 at Nikita, 3699 McKinney Ave.

In 10 words or less: Blow the top off the Reichstag all over again.

How happening: The Red Army massed after midnight.

Who was there: History buffs, vodka buffs and history of vodka buffs.

On the seven deadly sins scale: Three of seven (pride, envy, lust). Absent: greed, wrath, gluttony, sloth.

The scene: 'Playboy' anniversary tour, May 11 at Blue, 1933 Elm St.

In 10 words or less: Hugh Hefner's curio cabinet comes to town.

How happening: Glossy but listless.

Who was there: Article readers and exhibitionists.

On the seven deadly sins scale: Five of seven (lust, pride, greed, sloth, envy). Missing: wrath, gluttony.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 05.21.04

Photo by RANDY ELI GROTHE / Special to DMN

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Two to watch

Spring has definitely sprung, with a dandelion spray of openings: the long-awaited Iron Cactus on Main Street, relocated Sambuca in Uptown, Tini Bar downtown, Uropa dance club in Deep Ellum and Lush on Lower Greenville. This may be the first you've heard of them, and it could be the last, given the gnat's lifespan of clubland.

The ones to watch are Iron Cactus and Sambuca, which showed a little leg at preview parties for Dallas' Most Self-Regarding – at Iron Cactus, the dowdy, downtown-promoting worthies of the Dallas Institute; at Sambuca, the lesser lights of the local media.

Iron Cactus, an Austin buzz scene since 1995, has scraped out the west side of the 1915 Thompson Building to create a three-story, 14,000-square-foot restaurant. The effect is pretty compelling, a glassy, cylindrical tower that juts out onto Pegasus Plaza. This is the latest piece of the Main Street renaissance that includes mainstays Jeroboam and the Metropolitan and the Kirby Building lofts.

It'll be interesting to see who's drawn there. Its verticality – an imposing spiral staircase and elevators are how you get around – will be a challenge to anyone in a blue agave haze. After all, the place offers 80 varieties of tequila.

Meanwhile on McKinney Avenue, the abandoned Salve! space has been transformed from minimalist modern chic to a warmer, Orientalist opulence. This new flagship Sambuca is sprawling but carves out some intimate spaces – in the upholstered nooks near the TV-festooned bar, the central patio preserved from Salve! and a new back patio that faces Pearl.

The night before the VIP opening, the enterprising Forsythes (Holly and Kim) had to smile through clenched teeth at a gaggle of press types, while anxious managers prodded the sleek waitstaff.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 05.07.04

Photo by Courtney Perry / Special to DMN

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You know the type

Our foremost rappers caution against player hating (phonetically, "playa hay-in"), but sometimes resentment wells up despite that received wisdom.

It's disheartening to watch, night after night, who winds up with whom at the upscale lounges, who's got game and who doesn't by dint of looks, money, personality and money. There are a variety of player types out there. A few that you'll recognize as they troll the scene are:
• The brooding stranger: Laconic and unsmiling, he sails under a dark star. "What's his secret?" is the heaving-bodice Harlequin Romance subtext he uses to advantage. It may be that he's just a room-temperature IQ swigging an Ultra, but it helps that he looks like Bono.
• Captain Chaos: He's all exterior instead of interior, pinballing from one attention-deficit moment to the next. The random energy, the aliveness, is compelling, even if it derives from chemical imbalance or chemical ingestion. Think Robert Downey Jr.
• The sincere Lothario: A great seducer fools himself first. This is the fellow who's always searching for "the One" and finding "the Many." Most annoying is that while he's posting Dow Jones-high numbers, he's lecturing you on the importance of feelings. Step back, Johnny Depp.

John Fate has had enough of all of the above. He's the author of The Nice Guys' Guide to Getting Girls. To jaded clubgoers, that title might seem like so much wishful thinking, but Mr. Fate insists not. He has trademarked the bejeebers out of everything associated with the slim, 140-page tract — "The Nice Guy," "Nice Guy's Guide," he's even founded a "Nice Guys Institute."

There's nothing earth-shattering among the recommendations: Make eye contact, read the body language, listen actively, find points of affinity, don't wear out a welcome talking about yourself. This how-to is earnest and exhaustive. Mr. Fate even provides an appendix of conversation-fueling questions ("Are you a sports fan?" "Where else have you lived?"). If you can't commit these to memory, maybe you can pocket them and pull them out while she's in the powder room.

The Nice Guys' Guide to Getting Girls (Ajackal Publishing, $14.95) is in stores or online at www.theniceguysguide.com.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 04.16.04

Photo by Courtney Perry / Special to DMN

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Margaritaville moves Uptown

Ah, to be a mixologist like George Delgado, a representative of El Tesoro tequilas. So much kinder than to be an oncologist, hydrologist, microbiologist or paleontologist.

You fly from city to city, set up your wares at a nice restaurant, start shaking, pouring and declaiming for an appreciative or, at least, mildly sedated crowd, and move on.

And you carry a message (loosely translated from The Simpsons) that finds willing ears with wallets: There is no problem caused by youth and alcohol that age and more expensive alcohol can't solve.

Quibbles and bits Happy days: Devotees of pretentious drinking can look to heady times ahead. The potential debut of a Nobu this year or next at the Hotel Crescent Court and word that the W hotel coming to Victory in 2006 will be crowned by a Ghostbar have upscale boozers drooling. See what the fuss is about by taking a quick trip to Las Vegas, where each is represented. To your health: Regimens, the metrosexual one-stop at West Village, is offering shaves, Nordix Vodka tastings and free prostate screenings Saturday from noon to 9 p.m. That's right, vodka and prostate screenings. And many more: The Drálion sparkled as it hasn't for a long time at a belated first anniversary party March 24. Searchlights punched the sky above the Centrum building, while a white carpet welcomed a bounty of lovelies into the feng-shuied lounge. Maybe all the red and gold, the mirror ball and Buddhas will pay off.

So smooth, compact, dark-haired Mr. Delgado reminded his audience at Mattito's on March 24 of their early – most likely head-throbbing, burning-tire-tongue-swelling – experiences with tequila. The trouble, besides excessive consumption, was impurities. Those tequilas of undergraduate days were "mixtos," mixtures of distilled agave (good) and other spirits (bad). Even the "gold" versions' amber hue derived from food coloring (horror show).

Mr. Delgado had the cure: samplings of three of Tesoro's 100 percent blue agave tequilas, the Platinum, Reposado and Añejo, each distinguished from the other by time served in barrels and other qualities. Tesoro and brands such as Patrón and Don Julio, priced at $40 and up a bottle, are muscling in on premium vodkas to be the new clear spirit of discerning souses.

He then invited audience members up to do some mixing of their own.

The event was a benefit for Dallas Fashion Incubator, which sounds painful and perhaps ill-advised.

The scene: tequila tasting, March 24 at Mattito's

In 10 words or less: Thirsty novitiates bask in the glories of agave.

How happening: A full house of the fitfully attentive.

Who was there: Fashionistas and foodies.

On the seven deadly sins scale: Four of seven (gluttony, pride, lust, sloth). Missing: envy, wrath, greed.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 04.02.04

Photo by Courtney Perry / Special to DMN

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Behind the (good) times

Paul said faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

Must be. It rarely fails that right after Mr. Dallas leaves some dormant nightspot for home a great party breaks out behind him. Then comes the next-day testimonial:

"Man, you missed it. Ten minutes after you leave, the Swedish bikini team shows up. Completely loaded. Doing body shots. On the tables dancing. Then Eddie Griffin, and he's got a tethered goat. Door guy freaks. Goat not on the list. All the girls need a ride. I can only fit two. We head to Seven for after. Starts to rain. Had to go back for her purse. He gives me a hundred just for ... "

And this happens every weekend. The details change, but the story arc is the same: You fiddled while we burned. Mr. Dallas might take it personally if it weren't such a universal – and suspect – phenomenon.

There's something in the marrow of a lounge lizard that he has to lord it over anybody who quits before he does. The hero who sees daybreak trumps the poser who lingers for last call, who trumps the shirker who flees at midnight.

None of this competitive zeal makes a lick of sense, and it certainly doesn't do anyone's liver any good.

Mixing it up

It seemed that the good times would never arrive at Kismet's martini contest on Monday night. Then the first Turkish coffee martini settled on the knee-high table and all was brightness and mirth. For those who think one kind of alcohol, unadorned, in a glass is exactly enough, the current rage for dessert in stemware is tedious. Sweet, multi-liquor concoctions are a certain invitation to ruin.

But this poison could not be denied. The soft, off-white brew clung briefly to the brim, then surrendered itself. The bite of the espresso balanced the delicate sweetness. Kismet's own Tim Smith was the genius creator. He won the contest – a bit of a ringer, his competitors could grump, but never mind. Mr. Dallas intends to marry the Turkish coffee martini. They're registered at Neiman's and Restoration Hardware.

The scene: martini contest

In 10 words or less: Early-week debauchees swallow sweet nothings.

How happening: Desultory.

Who's there: Press agents and scamps.

On the seven deadly sins scale: Three of seven (sloth, pride, lust). Absent: wrath, gluttony, greed, envy.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 03.19.04

Photo by HUY NGUYEN / Special to DMN

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Paint the town red

Mr. Dallas has never paid much attention to the Girls Gone Wild phenomenon – no, really, he hasn't. It just confirms his understanding that centuries of moral upbraiding and two generations of feminist scowling evaporate like snowflakes in July when exposed to alcohol, Mardi Gras beads and a camera.

Fun will be had even in these straitened times of Super Bowl backlash and flagellate film epics. That was apparent in the milder climes of Nikita's second "Body Language" party held Feb. 24. There were no Janet Jackson moments to ignite congressional hearings, but plenty of willing neck napes, shoulders and bellies bared to the artistic ministrations of a body-paint gun. The event fell on Fat Tuesday, contributing to the Carnival atmosphere.

Nikita, like the other West Village nightspots, has settled into what for club land is middle age, where two years is a long time. The VIP lounges (Sense, Medici) and Dragonfly have siphoned off the older, bling-blingier clientele, while the more casual patio-cool of Republic pulls in the kids.

With that competition, Nikita must move beyond its high-concept trappings as a Russian spy-themed restaurant and bar. It keeps things fresh with occasional private parties pitched to regular customers and the Fickle 500. A Willy Wonka chocolate party in January was a big success.

"Body Language" presented a general celebration of sauciness, with Bettie Page posters and nudie pin-ups plastered around. TV monitors played, for no obvious reason, Sunset Boulevard. The waitstaff definitely got in touch with their inner ecdysiasts: mesh stockings, leather bustiers, towering acrylic heels.

This heel loved it.

The scene: 'Body Language,' Feb. 24 at Nikita in West Village

In 10 words or less: Nikita regulars and sensation-seekers.

How happening: Building to a claustrophobic close.

Prime real estate: Anywhere near the body-painting stand.

On the seven deadly sins scale: A solid Slavic four of seven (lust, envy, pride, sloth). Missing: wrath, gluttony, greed.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 03.05.04

Photo by AMY CONN-GUTIERREZ / Special to DMN

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Hollywood bobbles bar scenes

Bar Bar in West Village

Quibbles and bits Stutter-step: Bar Bar has opened at Tom Tom Noodle House in West Village. The 1,050-square-foot expansion will handle the spillover of soba noodle inhalers. Owner Russ Hayward touts it as the cheapest place to drink in West Village. No dishonor that. An opening party Feb. 18 drew the usual suspects. From Russia with lust: Nikita succeeds when it's saucy. The second "Body Language" party Tuesday at the West Village lounge was a satyr's delight: body painting, Betty Page posters, scarcely clad servers and thumping house music. The club does a scaled-down version every Sunday night. Rhyming scheme: Baby Bash is set to perform Saturday at the new Club Hush in Deep Ellum. Another opening: Deep Ellum Blues. ... Spike in Mockingbird Station is featuring a lounge singer on Tuesdays in March.

Many people spend more time in bars than they care to say. Even the broad-minded and free-spirited will squirm at admitting they're racking up many hours in what a previous century called "publick houses."

That sting of illegitimacy extends to the movies, where – if they appear at all – bars are places to leave quickly. Any dedicated souse wants to heave his shoe at the big screen when he sees this: The hero sits down, orders drinks with a flourish, then bolts before they arrive, throwing a wad of bills down on the table. These things just don't happen.

One of the most remarkable things about Spike Lee's brilliant film treatment of 25th Hour is how authentically it captures the neon, brushed-steel gleam, manic energy and brittle politics of cosmopolitan nightspots. Several crucial scenes play out at a labyrinthine New York dance club and at an intimate "ultra lounge." These aren't just sketchy backdrops, tricked up to provide blocking shots; they're almost full-fledged characters in the unfolding drama of regret and redemption.

The sweat, frenzy and tribal furor of a crowded dance floor has never seemed more real. Most movies that attempt it at all present a dance floor that's as underpopulated and pallid as a poorly attended high school prom.

Then there's the precious moment where nubile Anna Paquin exults over a 17-year-old wunderkind DJ, and balding Philip Seymour Hoffman, clearly treading water, stammers in response, "I prefer his earlier work."

Some other movies that do justice to the night life are:

• GoodFellas: This has the tracking shot to end all tracking shots, through the bowels of a 1960s supper club.

• Swingers: Aspiring Angelenos tour Cocktail Nation.

• Kicking and Screaming: Ivy League wastrels wash up at a "townie bar."

• The Last Days of Disco: Manhattan preppies serve whiskey and wry.

• Hi-Life: Amiable screw-ups share Christmas cheer.

And 25th Hour is showing in heavy rotation on pay cable now. See it.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 02.27.04

Photo by MEI-CHUN JAU / The Dallas Morning News

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Flying standby at Passport

Passport has three strikes against it to start with – location, location, location – but that hasn't blunted the rush of the beautiful and the vague to this new jet-set lounge.

It's lodged on a weary stretch of Ross east of Central, between an expanse of vacant lots and the Bryan Place residences. The low brick building, which years ago housed a limo service, is easy to drive past. Street parking is meager, and the gated valet lot, though sizable, fills up fast.

But once inside, you're bathed in mid-century modern cool. Loquacious Matthew Giese, an old hand at start-up hot spots, loves that bold, buzzy aesthetic. He and collaborators Parker Lawson and Kenny Jakova, the principal owner, drew their inspiration from the Braniff and Southwest airport lounges of the 1960s and '70s.

The 2,100-square-foot Passport is decked out in brushed stainless steel and mirror-finished white ceramic tile. Op art graphics splash the walls. Rows of low divans are upholstered in orange. Customers at the long bar perch on stools from a manufacturer in Wisconsin that's been producing the same design for 50 years.

The music is mod as well. Mr. Lawson, the DJ, programs an international mélange. English trip-hop, French acid jazz, updated bossa nova and porn soundtracks all go into the mix.

It's open nightly from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m. "Hard door" (guest list only) on Thursdays through Saturdays under the watchful eye of the largish Hampton Isom.

In 10 words or less: Be a '60s jet-setter with people who weren't born then.

How happening: Late-blooming (after 11) mob scene.

Who's there: Appearance-industry professionals, those whose next stop is Seven.

Prime real estate: In the op-arty alcove.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 02.06.04

Photo by JOHN F. RHODES / The Dallas Morning News

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Jewel in the rough

"Grandma's house on acid" is how its proprietors describe the Sapphire Room, and that's as good a description as there is for this distressed-kitsch lounge at Maple and Shelby.

It's a rambling affair of nooks and crannies, with a tiny alcove washed in opium-den red, a rustic afterthought of a pool room and a back patio still festooned in Christmas lights. The low ceiling is painted in Starry Night swirls. That and the deep blue of the walls could be unsettling to inebriates. Decor is Canton flea market confusion. Photographs of movie stars gaze down from one wall, a grouping of Elvises from another.

The jukebox is a noble jumble as well – "everything from Frank Sinatra to the White Stripes," says owner Joel Laxson. DJ Cheeky Puppy spins a "potluck mix" on weekends.

The Sapphire Room opened last May next to the popular Grapevine, with which it shares a cultural affinity and clientele, though one proponent says it smells better than the Grapevine. That's what marketing types call a "point of difference."
It's open weekdays from 5 p.m., Saturdays and Sundays from 6 p.m. Very casual. No cover. Word of warning: Wednesday is karaoke night.

In 10 words or less: Soak up the bric-a-brac while you booze.

How happening: Gaining on the Grapevine.

Who's there: Spillover from next door and those seeking respite from Oak Lawn fabulousness.

Prime real estate: In the Ming dynasty alcove, under the mirror ball.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 01.30.04

Photo by JUAN GARCIA / The Dallas Morning News

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Trash talk at Double Wide

You'd figure that people are exposed to enough rubes in their daily lives not to need to manufacture the experience. (Mr. Dallas, for one, has been menaced out of the passing lane by his share of F-150s and does not cherish the memory.) Not so, apparently, so there is Double Wide, the redneck theme bar.

This venture from Jim Sibert and Phillip Jester, the enterprising hipsters at XPO Lounge, opened last summer at Commerce and Exposition. They scoured flea markets and resale shops for the gosh-awfullest gewgaws: velvet paintings, taxidermists' cast-offs, hooked rugs, black-light posters. Most notorious is a stuffed javelina on top of the cigarette machine, which Mr. Sibert christened the "Vicious Pig."

Kitschy umbrellas shelter the patio tables. Tinsel bunting drapes the bar. The beer is in cans. You can order that Pabst you never would anywhere else. No actual Snopeses are likely to show up to disturb your black-dirt, trailer-park idyll. After all, Candace Bushnell (Sex and the City) had a book party there.

Double Wide is open daily except Sunday. There's live music Thursdays through Saturdays, sometimes with a $5 cover charge.

In 10 words or less: Pretend your truck is up on blocks while you chill.

How happening: Building, with a weekend after-9 bump.

Who's there: XPO proponents and Deep Ellum exiles.

Prime real estate: Within rubbernecking distance of the tornado video showing on the TV.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 01.15.04

Photo by DAMON WINTER / The Dallas Morning News

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Dive in at Lee Harvey's

Several bars that cater to blue Americans (cineastes, Unitarians, Central Market shoppers) in this red state are suckers for authenticity. They strive to create the impression of a dive without the literal presence of customers named Clovis who mutter and gum their beer nuts – and who do so without irony.

Lee Harvey's has those places beat. Under other names, the weathered one-story south of downtown, at Gould and Beaumont, has been an unprepossessing dispenser of spirits for half a century. It's located in an area in which the zoning would be charitably described as "mixed." The contractor's depot next door lends a particular concertina-wire charm.

Step carefully across the gravel parking lot, up to the screened entrance, and enter a ramshackle, low-ceilinged home away from home for the disaffected: frayed barstools, battered banquettes, a pool table set practically flush with the lavatory door, several generations of illuminated beer signs cluttering the walls.

This is the kind of roadhouse cred that attracts iPod buckaroos from the nearby South Side on Lamar lofts. Lee Harvey's accommodates them. There's Pabst in the can, of course, but also Patron. The jukebox bellows a head-bobbing, if puzzling, mix of classic rock, hair metal and '80s synth-pop. Conceptually speaking, that's a far cry from Ernest Tubb.

The bar is open daily starting at 4 p.m. No cover. No door control; in fact, the screen door is liable to drop off its hinges.

In 10 words or less: Urban pioneers imbibe amid glowing beer signs.

How happening: Blank to bustling late on Fridays.

Who's there: South Siders and foreign film fans.

Prime real estate: The beat-up banquette nearest the pool table.

Published in The Dallas Morning News 01.02.04