... but they're not bars, you say. Like hell, they ain't. One of the few things that will still lure me Strip-ward—aside from playing tour guide and Sephora's $20 lipsticks—is slumping over a cocktail with my eyes lifted heavenward to a TV screen the size of a hotel room, watching the NBA playoffs and wondering if the Knicks will ever see the post-season again in my lifetime. Yeah, you better make that a double.
When God or Frank Rosenthal visualized the sportsbook, what he had in mind was probably much like Mandalay Bay. It's like command central at NASA, only with cushy seats and beer. The space is cavernous, one football field-sized wall an ever-flickering array of digitized odds on everything played with a ball, as well as the ubiquitous horse races. However, the bar is tucked off to the side, in just the right spot to have a comprehensive view without feeling overwhelmed. The crowd tends to be just getting over the night before and liable to chat with their neighbors, especially to sing the praises of the cocktail waitress who's been Bloody Mary-ing them for the past four hours.
However, most luxury casinos are disappointing, as in Wynn and the Venetian, where the excess stops at the bettors booth: Both have nice woodwork but are small spaces, with screens only partially visible from cramped bars. At Wynn, I watched a guy with $2,800 on the Mavericks crane his neck to watch them on a 19-inch TV. As for the Venetian, well, a place with the Sistine Chapel reproduced above its taxi stand could at least have gilt-framed, 20-foot monitors and portraits of Dr. J and Michael Jordan in the style of Michelangelo.
Further down the Strip is the Stardust's historic sportsbook, which may not have high rollers but has its own charm and enough room to land a 747. You have to step over to the Final Score bar, where the inexplicable hippie theme of the poker pit has spread its poison, but you can take your $3 cocktail back to the vaguely school-room-like seats. On my visit, only one out of 23 patrons was female and she and her Rascal were just there to keep hubby company. After all, this is for the hardcore gamblers, as evidenced by a small niche dubbed the Sports Handicappers' Library, papered with blindness-inducing printouts of every imaginable relevant statistic, from the Kings' 3-point percentage to two years' worth of Bulls-Wizards matchups.
The best-designed of the throwbacks is Binion's Horseshoe, which proves it's not all in the size of the screen. The sportsbook is laid out in a semi-circle stadium shape, with staggered seating leading down to the stat boards—no LED displays here, all odds are written in marker on giant whiteboards that are lowered and raised on a system of pulleys. This is largely a horseplayer's house (Lay your money down on Cold Chicken, Neon Magic or Coney Island Baby, and yeah, I never thought Lou Reed fans were the racehorse-owning type either), but the mirrors, burgundy velour, cheap cocktails and mirage-like poker room beyond make it a fine place for even the non-sporting to grab a drink. Although you may wind up next to a man in last night's shirt and last morning's shave who persists in distracting the bartender from your refill with stories of "how annoying" various women of his acquaintance are.
Across Fremont Street, the Golden Nugget's sportsbook is small and feels sorta temporary (Pistons vs. Sixers on a big screen pulled down over a lounge band stage), but is perhaps the most chill, despite its brass-and-fern overkill. The crowd sprawls out at a dozen tables and is prone to mingling: A white guy in a baseball cap nods off under the watchful eye of a pit boss; denim-clad black couples clap for Philly and exchange pleased nods over screwdrivers; a middle-aged Asian woman tries to explain the function of a point spread to a bewildered conventioneer. Me, I've been trying to understand those things for years with no luck. But hell, it'll be the better part of a decade before I can get one on the Knicks in May anyway.
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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