Choc-o-riffic!
In word-association games, rarely is “a strip mall in Johnson County” the first thing that comes to mind after “meat market.” Unless we’re talking about Raoul’s Velvet Room, where a swank interior and alleged sassiness shine a beacon for trendoids everywhere. Located at 119th and Metcalf — in the same strip as Mardel, a Christian-merchandising emporium — its high hookup quotient could angry up the blood of Ned Flanderses everywhere, or at least in Olathe. WWJD? Shots!
We had memories of meeting drunkenly earnest Young Republicans there in the past, so we proceeded to Raoul’s one night with trepidation, expecting a room full of gloating after the recent elections. We found worse: a “wine rave.” And those, in our opinion, are two more words that should never appear next to each other. No one broke out any mood-altering drugs or danced maniacally with glow sticks, but watching man tribes in Dockers trying to pick up while pretending to be sophisticated oenophiles was entertaining.
The Velvet Room’s drinks helped. Raoul’s specialty is martinis, and we were enamored of the chocolate ones, made with Stoli Vanil, Irish Crème and Crème de Cacao. The bonus touch: Before pouring the frothy concoction, our chiseled, GQ bartender dipped the rim of the glass in chocolate syrup (it appeared to be Magic Shell) and dropped in a Hershey’s Kiss, point side down. This creamy, rich, almost milk-shakey drink more than made up for the temporary confusion Model Boy caused when he lost our second glass by misplacing it behind some large object on the counter. (“He was too busy looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar,” whispered fellow lush Catty.)
The techno beat was muted, but the atmosphere was frighteningly reminiscent of XO in the number of hormones floating about. (Though the place was less wastoidal, with better lighting.) Our all-star sausage team included the usual types who lurk in these parts: the guy in a tight, powder-blue, ribbed sweater and his gold-chain-wearing crew; the golf pros (sure, you can play through … all the way to the door); and our personal favorite, the Gideon Yago doppelganger who was so cute that he could only have been gay.
Black-clad, tanorexic waitresses weaved in and out of the surprisingly diverse (well, for Johnson County) crowd. A stripper type with ’80s feathered Heather Locklear hair inexplicably tried to arm wrestle a table of geek-to-chic guys (Catty’s term for men who were nerdy in high school but eventually morphed into cuteness while retaining some residual dorkitude). And there were the ubiquitous bar chicks squeezed into frilly-armed peasant tops and tight pants — an outfit that looks good on no one but preadolescent girls.
We slunk out when the lights dimmed and the place transformed itself into Dance Party U.S.A., taking consolation in the fact that we weren’t spotted by anyone we knew. That and the fact that we could go to the nearby Super Target to stock up on hangover-relief items.
