Friday, August 5, 11:03 p.m. "I look like one of the Gabor sisters—Eva, Zsa Zsa, take your pick." I straighten out my fluffy white fur hat and gather up the matching floor-length fur coat over my thin, mid-summer evening attire. Wingman Aaron has donned a lengthy, black wool pea-coat and flappy black lumberjack hat. The fact that we're dressed like this in the middle of a bar in August neither impresses nor surprises anyone as it's clear we're about to visit Red Square's sub-zero homage to grain and potatoes, the much famed Vodka Locker.
With the seal cracked and the fog dissipating, we dash into the tiny, frozen capsule, home to the lockers guarding untold rubles worth of prized, personal vodka collections. Some of the finds are incredibly rare and the lockers alone cost their patrons $3,000 per year. In all, Red Square offers Ruskiphiles 195 vodkas from which to choose. Can't choose? Then do what I did and try a flight: a selection of tasting portions, grouped together for geographic purposes, brand or flavor. A Taste of the Motherland is waiting for me back at the table, with four shots of the good stuff chilling in a red block of ice.
I, too, am chilling, as it is colder than an Arctic blizzard in this room that, thanks to its glass walls, looks like a nuclear winter greenhouse. No plants, just my breath falling heavy and white to the floor where my toes threaten to snap off at any second. I wasn't planning on a sojourn in Siberia before dinner, but who could pass up an opportunity to freeze their tuchus off in a giant vodka fridge? The price of this treat is usually a bottle of vodka, $250 or greater for up to 12 people. And it will be drunk from inside a glass block containing Lenin's head.
Outside, the headless statue silently presides over all approaching in hopes of scoring a table in the dining room, or at least a square inch of real estate at the ice bar. Inside the locker, Lenin's solemn eyes stare directly at my crotch. We toast—"Nastrovya!"—and I shiver as a shot of Pravda vodka runs cold down my throat, then warms me from the inside out. No wonder movies always show Eastern European soldiers as toting flasks. Then the heat subsides and I flee in a white-fur blur. Back at the table, my tour guide's glasses have fogged up. Scott Gingrich, promoted to general manager of the Mandalay Bay restaurant and bar today, has every reason to celebrate: The food tastes even more delicious than it looks. When the rest of our party arrives, we relocate, just a hop, skip and vodka-inspired tumble down the way to Rumjungle where the scene, like the air, is hot.
Rumjungle's dinner crowd is either long gone or has been absorbed into the swarm of barflies who have descended upon the dining room. With the lights low and the music high, you'd never know that, just hours before, they were serving skewered meat at tables that now boast Grey Goose and Cristal. The tables themselves might be a bit of a restaurant giveaway but these, too, will receive much attention when Rumjungle shuts down for a few weeks of renovation and rejuvenation before the end of '05.
In the meantime, I walk the length of the mammoth horseshoe bar, taking in the scene of men picking up women, women picking up men, and just about every other combination you could think of. A shot girl walks atop the bar, armed with a bottle of something sticky-sweet and a towel for dribblers. Above her, 5,000 bottles of liquor bounce to the stern beats. Two-hundred-fifty rums are available and flights are encouraged to promote rum appreciation.
In every direction, caged birds sing and dance in costumes of neon fishnet. These ladies are the most audacious decoration in the room and watching them ascend and descend from their posts is the evening's highlight. Their heavenly bodies go taut, legs intertwined like a ballerina's. They then wrap leather straps around their wrists and lift off. When they're done shaking it up on their small platforms, they drop back down the same way they rose. From their aeries, they get great views of the live percussionists who roost at the tops of the highly lacquered, towering bongo drums. The drummers bang and clash away to the music of DJ Michael Toast and Chicago's DJ R.T.H., who are spinning house, Latin and hip-hop. Rumjungle's assistant general manager, Karl Schwolow, calls it a "unique and provocative Latin experience."
No one seems to notice the crew member who is really working the women's magic, hoisting the other end of the rope. I imagine him swinging helplessly out of control while trying to maneuver a very amateur me to the encased platform for my first (and likely last) performance as a Rumjungle go-go dancer. I decide not to turn in my application as it might have an unintended effect on the space's upcoming expensive redesign. And who needs another comedy club?
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
[email protected].
Xania's Hot Spots for August 11 - August 17
Thursday, August 11
Light: Bounce celebrating Neon Sun Tanning Salon's 10-year anniversary
Friday, August 12
Rain: Stuff magazine weekend kickoff party with DJ R.O.B.
Saturday, August 13
Skin Pool Lounge: Stuff with DJ Vice
Rain: Stuff closing party with DJ Hollywood
Ice: Godskitchen with DJ Michael Fuller
Sunday, August 14
Rehab: Benchwarmer Weekend
Body English: Love Jones lingerie party
Tuesday, August 16
MGM: 3—Tabú, Studio 54 and Teatro for one cover
Wednesday, August 17
Ice: 2-year anniversary bash
For more Hot Spots and weekly parties visit
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