Review: Rose. Rabbit. Lie. at Cosmopolitan
I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
Welcome to Rose. Rabbit. Lie, sir. Do you have a reservation with us tonight?
Enter through an unmarked purple door next to Wicked Spoon and you are transported to a post-modern fun house of inconvertible variety and depth. You see before you six identical doors and are escorted through the set farthest to the right? Where do the other five lead? You may find out this very night and then again you may not.
It's a bar. It's a theatre. Grab a drink, grab your seat. Welcome to Vegas Nocturne by Spiegelworld. Is that Ginger Rothstein in the corner? Is that man in the purple paisley shirt and bedazzled fedora seated two rows in front of you a gifted gambler, a pimp, or a plant for the show? You may never know and that's the point. Sit back, sip your drink, and enjoy the show.
It starts with a feather and some heavy breathing; that's the most I can tell you. After that, we toasted to an oath of secrecy and I intend to live by it. The show, most certainly, is great, but wait, am I sitting next to Hans Zimmer? I can't tell, because I don't know what Hans Zimmer looks like and I'm guessing you don't either.
Two hours and Piff the Magic Dragon later - a veritable marathon for Las Vegas production shows - the cast has taken a bow and we're whisked backstage and into restaurant, bar, and performance area. Dinner, should you choose, and the show. We'll have another round of drinks, bar keep; hopefully, before that young actresses completes her bar-top strip tease to Robin Thicke's Blurred Lines. I hate that song, but I love this whiskey smash and this place. Was that Brad Garrett that just walked by?
We're being whisked away again. This time, I haven't the faintest idea where. Two lefts and a right. We're walking down a hallway now. One more left and a doorway hidden behind a false wall later, and we're in a speakeasy. This isn't a nightclub. There are conversations occurring here. Plans for world domination. Secret intrigues. Oh, look a gramophone and some Smiths LPs. Bartender, I'll have your finest Scotch-based cocktail. The "Mark Twain" is great.
Is it really time to go? I want to stay in this place. I heard Robin Leach is here tonight? May I punch him in the face? I could stay here for hours. Alas, more excitement exists within this city. Head down the hallway and we're back where we started. Onward, friends.
Rose. Rabbit. Lie. defies explanation. It is simultaneously a restaurant, bar, performance space, burlesque show, vaudevillian cabaret, and speakeasy. It is the antithesis of bottle service and Tiesto. This is experiential entertainment that cannot be recreated two hours from now, let alone next summer. And the drinks are incredible.
In our younger and more vulnerable years, we were told that a table and a DJ would be the height of indulgence and entertainment in Las Vegas, but with this new venue, we all have the opportunity to attend one of Jay Gatsby's bacchanalian revelries in West Egg. This is an opportunity to experience a party that is substantive, transportive, and appreciable. Rose. Rabbit. Lie. isn't PR pablum; it's the new standard for a revelational night out in Las Vegas.
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