Viva Las Vegas, Part One

Was Frankie's Our First Mistake or Our Worst Mistake?

Say, why not buy me a coffee? -> https://venmo.com/u/Kevidently

Over the course of multiple Christmas celebrations – Dad and Donna’s, Liz and Tracey’s, The Jingle Cove (which was our home Christmas room because we’re festive as fuck), my friend Jeff handed me a series of ten envelopes. Inside were the keys to the trip he was taking me on in January: a series of esoteric clues I had to parse out if I was ever going to unravel the mystery. Guys, look. I like to think I’m a smart fellow who can think around corners, but man, did all of this stump me. A sample of the clues was the first envelope, square and robin’s-egg blue and unassuming. On one side: PART ONE. On the other side: ADD 776.

What did that mean? Add the numerals 776? Is this like a Colonial Williamsburg thing? Or Disney World’s Liberty Square? Like 1776 but not? Fully baffled. What the hell, Jeff?!

The only direct instruction was to show up on a Friday afternoon at the airport, and all would be revealed. I met Jeff and he told me to hand him the first envelope. “See, you add the ONE on the front side to the 776 on the back side, and it’s 777. On a blue envelope?”

“What.”

“Jetblue! Flight 777! We’re going to Las Vegas!!”

So: for a long time, I was very opposed to the idea of Las Vegas. Part of that was the same as my initial reactions to Paris. I didn’t know if I could handle all the smoking. Some of you may know that for me, smoking is not only a dislike and/or allergy – it is those; it triggers my asthma real bad – but my hatred for it borders on the pathological. I had a therapist ask me once if I wanted to work on that and I was like, “Why would I?” So the charms of both places eluded me.

But the world shifts, sometimes in terrible ways, sometimes in great ways. Smoking indoors and in most public places became, mostly, a thing of the past. Casinos still allowed it but like, I am not necessarily a fan of gambling, either. Besides, in the years since Tiki burbled up into my life, Vegas has been looking more and more attractive. They’ve been adding new bars and places at a record pace: Frankie’s (the one that you can still smoke in), Golden Tiki, Stray Pirate, Glitter Gulch, Golden Monkey? All within city limits? Sign me up!

Now, I am well aware that not all Tiki is created equal, but as our plane neared Nevada – my first time there! – I couldn’t help but jittering with excitement. What zesty adventures awaited us? What thrills in a place built on neon and dreams?

Jeff managed to find one of the few hotels that was entirely non-smoking, off the strip and in the newer area (please be aware right now that geography is not my strong suit [VEGAS JOKE?!] and I made no attempt to learn where we were at any time. There was an Arts district? Fremont Street? A place where you eat inside a container? I don’t know.) and by the time we got there, collapsing was our only option. It was a good thing, because we were getting up hella early in the morning. Avoiding the smoking at Frankie’s meant getting there after the late-night crowd had departed but before the mid-morning folks ambled in. This was a great plan.

I guess you’re wondering if any part of our great plan had involved eating before we went to a Tiki bar at 8:30 in the morning. Chat: we didn’t even consider it. Our whole plan hinged on Frankie’s being inhospitable. We knew we were going to run inside, be assaulted by the smoky smell in everything, take some pictures, and dash out. We could say we saw it and check it off the list.

We took some photos in front of Frankie’s, reveling in the midcentury white building with the semicircular entrance, the neon cursive sign reading FRANKIE’S above the non-cursive TIKI ROOM, which would have been so cool if it was dark and it up, the tikis in the doorway, the highway sign reading RUMALICIOUS COCKTAILS. Everything outside was Tikitastic. It was a real shame we weren’t going to be able to stay long.

But: were we prepared for the fact that it seemed to have been aired out overnight? That the smoky smell was definitely present but not overwhelming? That no one was actually smoking at present? No, we were not. As the door closed behind us, cutting off all sunlight and leaving us in the lava-tinted interior of a Tiki fever dream, we acclimated to the place pretty quickly. Plus, I realized, I was willing to be led. I wanted to love this place, despite my loathing. Was eager to love it.

Bellying up to the bar, we were greeted warmly by a large bartender with a beard who asked what we were having. We glanced at the menu, which was awash in your classic cocktails – Three Dots and a Dash, Nui Nui – and some new stuff like Lava Letch and Bearded Clam, two drinks that signaled to us what sort of establishment we were in. I looked over at Jeff, who normally opts for lesser-proof stuff. I believe he chose the five-skull Nakalele Knockout. Jeff never drinks this early at home! Well, methinks. If my level-minded friend is going hard, why not me? Indeed. Why not me? I went for the festively rhyming Bender Ender and took a look around.

Guys, this place was astounding. Intricately carved tikis everywhere. Blowfish lamps depending from the ceiling, giving off that soft and spiky glow. Bamboo-panel walls and leather seats, elevated seating under thatch ceilings. It was dark and intimate and precisely the sort of tiki I often think of and rarely visit.

Our drinks – Jesus, these were large – arrived and we settled in. Our heterosexual bartender slowly found out we were gay dudes and lifted his shirt for us. This seems to happen to me at Tiki bars – like more than twice – and I am eternally grateful. Halfway through our drinks, he offered us a free shot. A shot? Of what? I don’t remember. It was creamy and delightful and not a shot but like half a mai tai glass. By the time we paid up and stumbled out of Frankie’s into the critical daylight, Jeff and I were both very drunk and regretting our every decision.

“Kevin.”

“What.”

“Kevin.”

“What.”

“We need food.”

“We need food.”

That we didn’t consider this ahead of time now seems extremely suspect. That we were headed to a famous place that couldn’t care less about my wheat disease (and that would attempt to serve us weak treacle) was also, in retrospect, a poor decision we should have reconsidered. Undaunted by reason or logic, we clambered into our Uber and toward our fate.

We were definitely, indubitably, in Las Vegas.