Saturday, September 8, 1:00 a.m.
Got juice? Or think you do? Then step right up and try your luck at the toughest velvet rope in Sin City. The bar has once again been raised in the club-eat-club world of nightlife, and though that phrase gets plenty of use, it was never truer.
It’s an idea so old it’s new again: If you can get into Noir, you deserve to be at Noir. Since the disco got turned off at the original Studio 54, we’ve been trained to think that next in line means next into the club. Only at small hot-one-minute-“where?”-the-next venues in LA and NY have we heard about such iron rope tactics as Pure Management Group’s new speakeasy, Noir, employs.
Reservations only, if you please, and if you walk up to the black and cream canopy in the Mandalay Place valet (the only way in; there’s no entrance from LAX or inside Luxor) without one, you’d better have serious street cred. Or a Grammy. If you’re not, say, Diddy, arrive early to claim your reservation as chances of getting in diminish by the hour. At the rope, hosts Jackson James and Andrea Duran verify reservations, look and attitude. Assuming all is in order, one of the two—each experts in the who’s who of LA and Vegas—will take you through the unmarked, frosted-glass door into a tiny red receiving room, home to Noir’s only restroom.
When I approached late Friday night, I was only surprised not to have to give a secret password. “Thirsty,” I suppose I would have said. Duran walked me down a long red hallway that curves around a taupe mother-of-pearl wall to reveal a breathtaking domed room where an antique bar, rescued and restored in Hollywood, dominates the space beneath a $250,000 Swarovski crystal chandelier. The bartender smiles, but we continue through her oxblood leather-upholstered room to the main bar, with its cascading crimson velvet curtains and whitewashed brick wall.
There, longtime friend Ken Hall, of High Spirits Enterprises, formerly of Pure, is working the bar. “Holy shit, this is gonna be good,” I tell colleague Jack Colton. “Do you like strawberries?,” Hall asks, and given my blessing, whips up his aptly named Strawberry Bliss, while simultaneously muddling blackberries for Colton’s Blackberry Bourbon Tea. He’ll probe the posh clientele thusly all night, creating custom cocktail experiences along with fellow mixologist Andrew Pollard of Tangerine and Social House fame. Hall’s P&J, a peanut butter and jelly martini, is a delicious and unexpected discovery. Just be sure to keep a napkin handy—it’s rimmed with peanut butter.
Behind the decks, DJ Mark Ronson opens for sister Samantha Ronson. Colton and I break in the huge leather chairs while a local champagne rep breaks in one of the VIP tables, opening a bottle of Dom Perignon Black Label 1993 and slipping me a glass. Though the night began with no more than 30 bodies, by 5 a.m. we’ve swelled to close to 100. Noir may have a capacity of 200, but it will be rare to see it bursting at the seams. Who would want a packed house when Company American Bistro opens and Cherries Jubilee and Bananas Foster are being flambéed tableside? And anyway, more restrooms would be necessary to handle such a crowd.
After a slow “Sledge Hammer” remix by DJ Mike White, Noir closes at 6 a.m. We flurry out the door like snowflakes into the blazing sunshine and instantly melt. “You’re still here?!” James guffaws. I think he then calls me a cowboy, but I really can’t be sure. I nod anyway.
By the by, I can’t tell you what celebs were in the crowd that night, or any night for that matter. While Noir is definitely a place to see, by policy it is not a place to be seen. No photos are allowed (at least not for the first six months) and no paparazzi, which is good news for celebrities. So have that second P&J, lick your lips suggestively and strike up a conversation with whoever’s giving you eyes from the other end of the bar—Noir’s lips are sealed. And to help get you started, here’s the magic number: 262-5257.