Since the dawn of time, men have quested to find many precious treasures—gold, enlightenment, power and hot bikini models. What follows are excerpts from the journal of a brave bar explorer, detailing his obsessive search for the latter.
Day 1: Guided by a nightlife writer on her own quest for a “Cocktail of the Week,” I have made my way through the labyrinthine corridors of Planet Hollywood Casino to find Hawaiian Tropic Zone. We pass between the two glass-enclosed waterfall features that mark the entrance and make our way inside.
The majority of the cavernous space is filled with dining areas, where bikini-clad women serve an assortment of dishes. But I’m here to find a staff bikini contest, so I resist the smell of onion rings and traverse the room to fulfill my quest.
Eureka! Hanging above the bar is an immense catwalk, and behind that are 36 large, flat-screen TVs, which combine to form three gigantic screens, displaying images of swimsuit models on distant beaches. I must be close.
Alas, the schedule on the bar menu reveals that the beauty contests only take place at 7 and 9 p.m. I’m nearly an hour late. The setback weighs heavily on me. Were it not for a hefty sampling of Hawaiian cold sakes—one of which will likely turn up as a “Cocktail of the Week”—I might not have survived.
Day 9: Having lost my guide to other nightlife events, I’m forced to rely on a map of the Miracle Mile to find my way back to HTZ. The journey is long and exhausting (seriously, have you walked that thing?), but eventually I reach the bar. The bartender nurses me back to health with a Double Trouble Espresso Martini before she flirts with some Dean Cain look-alike on the adjacent barstool.
Something’s wrong. It’s 9 p.m., but there’s no sign of a pageant.
“Oh, we just finished,” the bartender tells me. “She won,” she says, pointing to a passing waitress adorned with a tiara and sash.
A disappointment like this calls for a cigarette, which I’m forced to smoke outside. Surely, I would have frozen to death out on the terrace in the cold January weather, were it not for a veritable forest of heat lamps. There are so many, people are actually eating outside. The dining area, which sits right on the Strip, even has a hot tub, but what use is it without a bikini contest? I must not fail in my quest!
Day 16: “They’re closing the kitchen early tonight for renovation,” the bartender tells me, “so we had the contest about an hour ago.”
I’m not sure how, but clearly, I have somehow angered the gods of HTZ. Then, suddenly, six hot women ascend the staircases on either side of the catwalk. Could the bartender have been mistaken?
“Give it up for the Hawaiian Tropic Zone dancers!” a canned-sounding female voice says over the loudspeaker. The six women, dressed in black hats, white tank tops, short shorts and patent-leather thigh-highs spread to equidistant points along the catwalk and begin a choreographed dance routine. It’s not a bikini contest, but it’s still a respectable discovery.
In unison, the dancers literally rip off their tank tops, revealing sparkling bikinis. One of the dancers throws her torn garment down toward the bar, directly onto the head of a passing older gentleman. He ducks as crazed patrons recklessly jump to seize the shirt. The event incites a frenzy of hootin’-and-hollerin’ lust, and I narrowly escape with my life.
Day 18: More than two weeks into my quest, weariness has almost gotten the better of me. I arrive 30 minutes before the pageant should begin, but I’m afraid to ask the bartender if it will actually take place as planned.
“Do you want to go up tonight?” a manager asks the bartender.
“No,” she says. “I feel pudgy today.”
Pudgy? Too pudgy for what? Has my quest finally come to an end? A dozen girls in bikinis gather at the left side of the catwalk, each with a laminated number pinned to her hip. One by one, they traverse the catwalk, stop to pose, continue to the microphone and announce their name and place of origin. Most women appear to have their own cheering sections scattered about the bar. In 90 seconds, it’s all over.
A few minutes later, girl No. 7 is announced as the winner. She’s given the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Zone sash and a tiara and says, “Thanks everyone who voted for me. Have a drink to celebrate, since I can’t.”
Wait. That’s it? It’s a little underwhelming after two and a half weeks of searching. Then again, maybe I’d be more impressed if my extended search hadn’t already yielded bikini-clad waitresses, flirty bartenders and dancers who rip their shirts off. You can find all of that at Hawaiian Tropic Zone, and if you look hard enough, you can find a bikini contest as well.