Las Vegas taught me how to drink. In my 11 years of trawling the city's bars, I moved from Coronas and Schlitz Darks to Bombay Sapphire Martinis and neat bourbons [0]. In the course of my job (which I no longer remember, to be honest with you; I think I was originally a nightlife columnist), I visited hundreds of Vegas bars, each more exciting than the one before. I had Vegas hangovers — day-long affairs aggravated by the transition from stifling heat to ice-cold air conditioning. I've drunk with Vegas celebrities. Yes, friends, these hands have touched "First Lady of Magic" Melinda, Penn Jilette and Robin Leach, and for a buck I'll let you touch my garment.
The thing is, I think I've still got more than enough Vegas in my blood to recommend the Starlite Lounge [0] as a decent substitute for the real thing, even without having sampled anything from the kitchen (the entrees seemed to average $20 or more), and having enjoyed only one Sapphire Martini (nice and vermouth-y, just the way I like it). The burnt-red walls and drapes, starburst chandeliers, mid-century modern [1] furnishings, continuous soundtrack of Frank Sinatra and Bobby Darin classics and the wall-sized painting of the Rat Pack [2] wouldn't be out of place in the Sands' Copa Room [3]. In fact, the Starlite is a hell of a lot more Vegas than real Vegas, which has become a Hollywood surrogate for Paris Hilton, Ben Affleck and their well-heeled, yet degenerate, ilk.
Starlite's Rat Pack verisimilitude may be a drawback, now that I think of it. Who could want a lounge like the Starlite today? In 1996, after "Swingers" [4] came out and even Las Vegans were starved for a taste of Vegas swank, the Starlite could've made a killing. Today, it arrives in the wake of the "boutique bar" craze, and just as the next bar trend — casual "gastropubs" [5] like Black Bottle [5] — gain traction.
The Starlite is anachronistic on a pair of levels: Not only does it recall the glory days of 1960s Las Vegas, but the glory days of the dot-com era, when people were better equipped and much more willing to dress in expensive vintage suits, smoke imported cigars and suck down $8 martinis. Today, gasoline is three bucks a gallon and graphic design jobs aren't exactly falling from the trees. And the Starlite, with its no-apologies atmosphere of conspicuous consumption, may find its audience somewhat limited.
But that doesn't mean I don't like the place or respect and appreciate what it's trying to do. I remember when "Swingers" drove the demand for vintage bowling shirts and expensive cigars to a fever pitch, and I asked my friend Moss, a longtime consumer of both, if he was bothered by the sudden ubiquity of his favorite accessories. Puffing on his cigar, he said, "Naw, not really. It just makes 'em easier for me to find."
In a like manner, it's reassuring to know that Las Vegas, and the days of wine and roses, are just a cab ride away. As Tony Bennett once famously sang, "Oh, baby, what I couldn't do / With plenty of money and you." Whenever you feel the need to flaunt your style and means, the Starlite Lounge stands ready to fulfill your champagne wishes.
Happy hour specials! Obnoxious drunks! Secondhand smoke! Join Geoff Carter on his quixotic quest to judge every barstool in Seattle for comfort and aesthetics. E-mail him your drink recipes, proposals and smackdowns.
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