Depending on timing and traffic, the vantage at Alexxa’s offers you either an Instagram-worthy view of the Bellagio fountains in full balletic spray or a GIRLS DIRECT TO YOUR ROOM mobile flashboard drilling into your soul.
You don’t go to the clamorous, corrugated bro cave Hi Scores for anything resembling chill ambience, but hey, you can try your hand at the original Mortal Kombat on free-play and see if you still know Scorpion’s fire-breathing fatality move.
Intellectually, I know that strip clubs are vortices of frenetic sad-flavored desperation, but the fact that El Dorado Cantina shares a wall with Sapphire Las Vegas never fails to tickle me with a frisson of ooh maybe something sexy will happen.
Don’t be put off by the oonsta thunderbeats shaking the sidewalk outside Turmeric; inside, the music is muted, turning the restaurant into a fun Fremont East people-watching fishbowl with a soundtrack.
Usually, Scotch makes me think of the following in a sort of randomized blurry associative mental whirlwind: country clubs, ascots, self-satisfied chortling, jodhpurs, stubborn institutional white privilege.
It’s fall, that season of crackly, tumbling leaves, spiced cider, decorative gourds, toe socks, glum intimations of mortality and all that other fun fall stuff we never get to experience as citizens of the Desert Perpetual. Our decidedly Vegas consolation: seasonal cocktails.
The moment of the adult milkshake has passed, sure, but its existence remains of interest to someone like me, who, purely hypothetically, might pull into The Cosmo one heat-spiking afternoon in a car with no A/C and lumber into the casino
Sure, a cup of Earl Grey is great for cozying up on your divan, covered in afghans and cats and crosswords as you ponder the fog-shrouded winter countryside. But add some ice cubes and booze, and [transportive timewarp harp glissando] voilà, you’re chilling poolside with smoldering cabana boys.
Perhaps it was because I’d just tromped into the bosom of Crush after being sheared by what felt like witchy sheets of frigid flying steel weather at 40 mph, but I said it, and I said it with great relief: “NOW THAT’S JUST LIKE CHRISTMAS IN A GLASS!”
If we had trees in Las Vegas, and those trees had leaves, and those leaves turned gold and orange and red, and those golds and oranges and reds carpeted your lawn in a soft/crunchy matrix of invitation to leisurely autumnal frolic, and you waded in among them, enjoying the whisper, crunch and rattle of the leaves, their scent of earthen secrets unlocked ... yeah, that might approximate the flavor of The Daily at StripSteak.