BAR EXAM: Office Life

Las Vegas seems to offer an outpost of every bar in the world, from Hofbrauhaus to Hooters, Friday's to Forty Deuce. But we also have a few domestic franchises—the brass-rail tavernalia of P.T.'s Pub, the margaritas-by-the-yard plasticity of Fat Tuesday's, the kitchen-linoleum anonymity of Dotty's. But the lowest-profile is the string of Office Bars that dot the east side, primarily because they break the cardinal rule of any chain: sameness. Office Bar 1, Office Bar 2, Office Bar 5, Office Bar 6 and Office Bar 7 (3 and 4 have vanished in the winds of time and commercial real estate) and are as different as any handful of neighborhood hangouts. Furnishings, staff, atmosphere and clientele vary, sharing only a definite orientation toward locals, whomever the locals of that several-block radius might be.

Office Bar 1 is the busiest of the lot, largely thanks to its bar hop-convenient address on Paradise Road, which draws the youngest and most diverse crowd. The décor is Office Bar nondécor (video poker, beer mirrors), but does offer the most comfortable barstools of the bunch. Patrons of the nearby Double Down and the Free Zone sometimes stop in for a drink when the crowd in those spots becomes too heavy or the punk band/drag is not talented enough to be that loud. But all kinds drift through here, all with their own agendas—on any given Saturday night, a good 85 percent of the clientele seem to be up to no good. This would include both the boy with the New York City haircut and Nashville accent who tried to flatter me across the street and the middle-aged man claiming mob connections who tried to buy me back to his hotel.

A short ride northward, Office Bar 2 offers a different experience—not only is it the sole freestanding location, but it's also the only one where you have to be buzzed in. It's also got more classical barroom accoutrements—wood paneling, more beer mirrors interspersed with handwritten signs reminding us not to ash on the floor. There's a corner table with a stack of Yellow Pages and a small beige telephone that's usually the site of some kind of cryptic executive conversation, like the white-bearded biker who held a five-minute, top-volume conversation consisting primarily of "F--K YOU!" The crowd isn't much for mingling—trios of teamsters and construction workers talking shop among themselves, other patrons slipping in alone to sink into a corner with some nickel poker and a Budweiser. Even the bartender is a bit antisocial until he gets a little Irish in his coffee. Still, how can you beat a place that offers its happy hour during 10 p.m.-2 a.m. prime time?

Office Bar 6 is the most festive of the bunch, with a steady crowd of regulars shooting the shit and buying shots—even on a Monday afternoon, the bar has a distinctly party-like air, down to the woman in the sweatsuit walking out the door for the second time, proclaiming "If I don't leave now, I'll never get out of here." Of course, a good bit of the cheer is thanks to Dana the barkeep, late of the lamented Bond-Aire but now transplanted a few miles up Tropicana to work at the Office, where she continues bopping to the doo-wop on the jukebox, tossing off bawdy jokes and setting up a drink before you ask for it. The playful atmosphere continues later in the evening, once the cover comes off the pool table and the array of televisions blink with whatever game the boys at the bar have got points on.

But what of Office Bars 5 and 7, you ask? Well, there's only a finite amount of space every week (both in my column and in my liver) and, honestly, I'm kind of afraid of Office Bar 7 (aggressive tropical theme) and I'm too dumb to even find Office Bar 5 (it's in one of those gigantic multibuilding, three-square-mile strip malls). Besides, it's better to leave a few locations vague: Even if they do figure out what you actually meant when you said you were "going to the office," it'll still take them all day to discover which branch.

Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
[email protected].