The glitzy flitting girls in their perilous heels, their mini-skirts, snapping their gum, rolling their bloodshot eyes at the slack-jawed hairless n'er-do-wells fumbling close behind, in awe, and less than nimble now due to all the vodka and Bud Light they've been dutifully guzzling in submission to the demands of their archetypes (your reviewer opting for the less refined pleasure of good ol' rotgut whiskey)--how do the bartenders, all in black, serve us with such winning grins, as we gambol here and there through the winding labyrinth? They're kind and gregarious. The rooftop bar they command, a fragile keep of a sort for libertine monks with savagery under their habits, can only be reached by ascending what feels like a staggering amount of Escher-worthy staircases. It's the chief redeeming quality in this rambling complex of perfume and plastic cups and a dash of harlequin menace, of all these Neanderthalic would-be Lotharios inadvertently aping Stanley Kowalski and their smug coquettes exchanging their coded gazes. Downstairs is a pit of color and sound, of cavorting, and guffawing and absurdity. Desires blossom and die. Rewards are granted in shadowed nooks here and there. This is, indeed, a photo negative of a Dionysian myth. Velvet indeed, dear reader. Scratch this dog's belly if you dare.