Even though Las Vegas has grown on me, I still find myself intrigued by the places here that "don't feel like Vegas." The Artisan is one of them, having shaken off its past lives as a Travelodge and a by-the-half-hour gay motel (and you thought $35 for two hours at the Del Mar was rushing things ...) to become a boutique hotel that feels as though it was decorated by Lord Byron and Cardinal Richelieu during an opium dream. It's as far from noisy neon as you can get and still be a mere mile off the Strip on West Sahara: red velvet and dark wood, with a chess table and a giant fountain supported by bronze nymphs dominating the lobby. If that's not enough, the walls, ceilings and even the floors are covered in hundreds of gilt-framed reproductions by artists from Carvaggio to Cezanne and Da Vinci to Van Gogh.
The upscale bohemian motif continues in the hotel's lounge, where more paintings cover the dark walls and ceilings and heavy, Romanesque furniture is stacked with books and jars of paintbrushes. There's an enormous oak horseshoe bar, but the best seats are the abundant, deco-ish, black-leather sofas and armchairs, deep enough to sink into for the long haul. There are more slickly appointed bars in town, but none seem to have been put together as meticulously—and by actual human hands rather than based upon computer-generated models of what's hot for this and the next five minutes—with an eye more toward pleasing the clientele than drawing the crowds.
Like any good hotel bar, the people who frequent the Artisan lounge vary wildly in size, vibe and reasons for being there, ranging from suit-and-tie types to those in artfully torn T-shirts, from well past middle age to barely drinking age. Friday nights, there's a fair-sized if ever-changing assembly: people lingering over an arts/business reception, others who are having a cocktail after a wedding, and those who are basking in a bit of civilization before heading for their favorite Fremont Street dive. Sunday evenings are almost empty, but still hospitable to check-ins, check-outs and drop-bys.
The drinks aren't as artsy as the surroundings, but are well-made and reasonably priced; It's a setting more appropriate to martinis and Manhattans than a bottle of Bud Light, but hey, if that's what you want, go right ahead, it's all right with them. For such a self-consciously elegant spot, the Artisan feels remarkably relaxed and welcoming, perhaps because it's a place of abundant style, not excessive attitude—another thing that sets it apart from most of the bars in town.
Still, one question lingers in my mind: Where are the goths? In my younger years of leather bustiers, Siouxsie hair and eyeliner applied so thickly that I had to set it with a blow-dryer, I would've swooned over a place with black walls, Tamara de Lempicka paintings and imposing neo-Renaissance statuary. And the chapel, with its brocaded pews and rings of niched saints, practically cries out for a blood (or food-coloring) sacrifice, accompanied by the swingin' sounds of the Sisters of Mercy. The Artisan is a lovely and atmospheric spot, but I won't be truly happy with it until some of those broody kids I always see at the bus stop are here, posing languidly against the credenza, sipping red wine, smoking clove cigarettes and peering through their bangs at the only art-history class that comes with drinks.
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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