There's nothing quite like a swanky bar to make you feel like a cool customer. Off the Strip they don't come ritzier than the Artisan Lounge. The whole Artisan Hotel seems to spring from its own desert oasis, the ground level shrouded in lush vegetation to hide nearby Industrial Road.
After entrusting my rust-bucket car to the valet (valet parking is mandatory but complimentary), I'm free to shed my mundane persona and enjoy a few hours of slick, intellectual conversation, with perhaps a slight tinge of pretentiousness to flavor. This is the perfect venue for such activity.
Inside, I'm overwhelmed by the décor. Every inch of wall—and ceiling—is covered by reproductions of famous paintings by Monet, Picasso and Da Vinci. You have to kink your neck to see them all, but it adds to the magnificent ambience of the joint. Glasses full of paint brushes sit atop the counters. The dark wood of the horseshoe bar flickers under candlelight.
I join a group of media and PR types gathering to schmooze over cocktails, as they do every month or so. Their articulate dialogue permeates the room. Loosening up after a few reasonably priced drinks, I join in a conversation with a graphic designer and his friends. In the corner, a jazz musician in a canary-colored zoot suit performs saxophone solos, intermittently drowning out our discussions of Jackson Pollock.
The designer's girlfriend rejoins our group with another round, and I introduce myself with a degree of casual panache I didn't know I had.
"You're not hitting on my girlfriend, are you?" the graphic designer jokes.
"No," I reply, "I'm not quite that desperate yet."
Oh, no. That's not how I meant that to sound.
He lets out an uncomfortable, stilted chuckle, as though he was beginning to laugh at the clever witticism I was supposed to make before realizing what I'd actually said.
"What? Are you saying you'd have to be desperate to hit on my girlfriend?" he asks.
"No!" I stammer. Damn you, reasonably priced drinks! See, what I meant was that, despite my persistently single status, I was not yet desperate enough to hit on another man's girlfriend ... I'd meant it as a joke at my own expense, but after three or four drinks, the words weren't rolling off my tongue as skillfully as I'd hoped.
I shoot a glance at my yellow-suited musician buddy, who seems to be taking five. Where are his blaring solos when I need them?
I try to explain myself, but don't do very well. "Good save," the designer's friend says skeptically.
The mood lighting, which just minutes ago was too dark to let me appreciate the artwork, suddenly can't get dark enough. The conversation changes and, thankfully, no one makes eye contact with me after that. Over the next 20 minutes I slip quietly and unnoticeably away, one agonizing inch at a time, finally pretending I'm turning away to examine one of the bar's intricate sculptures.
The Artisan Lounge is an exceptionally smooth place, but if I want to fantasize that I blend in, the next time I'll limit myself to two drinks. Or pretend to be a swanky mute.
Artisan Lounge 1501 W. Sahara Ave. 214-4000