It’s Sunday afternoon and Nove Italiano is bumping. The Palms’ upscale Italian restaurant’s usually sophisticated vibe has been given a whimsical makeover and painted in pinks and purples. A go-go dancer in a tutu is gyrating in the middle of the dining room, and cupcakes have become edible decorations in the same color scheme as the servers’ revealing corsets. This is not your mother’s Sunday brunch.

Photo: Shane O'Neal

Palms is calling the weekly High Society party a “dayclub,” which, I suppose, it probably is. Only, I’m not exactly sure what that means. To the couple at the next table over, it’s a chance to chow on made-to-order eggs Benedict and items from the buffet. To the crew sitting barside, it’s an excuse to sip cocktails in their Sunday best. To the group of scantily clad girls spread out around a long table, it’s a reason to get on top of said table and dance. Personally, I can’t decide whether to start fist pumping and chugging champagne or grab a coffee and some shrimp cocktail. Perfectly adept at nightclubbing, I simply don’t know how to club in these odd daylight hours.

And that, of course, is half the fun. There’s no pretension at High Society, just good, happy, drunk-on-Sunday vibes. We are all learning how to dayclub together and everyone has a different take on how to do it right. You should be raging, I tell myself. This is a dayclub. You should be holding a bottle of bubbly and acting like it’s, well, a nightclub. Instead, I quietly sip a cantaloupe bellini with a friend leaning up against the bar. The scene unfolds before us, a raucous picnic high above the Strip. Just when I’m about to take down the last swig and head back to reality, a drunken Canadian in a white suit and aviators dances over to offer us the tambourine he’s borrowed from the percussionist. Right, I think. That is how you dayclub.