Outside its doors, I can see the slot machines, the platform-heeled chaos of the Palms on a Friday night. But in here, it’s quiet. Cozy, even. And the booze is hot. I mean that literally. Inside the bordello-toned haven that is the Palms’ six-seat infusion bar Scarlet, they don’t play it safe. The chile-mango tequila I’m sipping burns sweetly on the way down. The four-pepper vodka? Oy. Other mysterious concoctions are marinating behind the bartender’s head. I feel like I’m drinking at Dracula’s house. Scarlet is far too intimate for the weekend crowd stomping around outside. Too quiet. Too cozy. For now, this tiny, beautiful casino corner still feels like a secret. Shhh.
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