Unrelenting bass trembles behind a red velvet curtain. It is this curtain that separates smog from sugarplums and tangles grimy boots to glittered platforms. Peer past the curtain and feast your eyes on Sam’s Hofbrau: dinner, drinks, and dissipation.
A dancer enters the stage; her silhouette is back-lit against an NBA game, she moves towards the center, seducing slowly as she surveys the crowd. She sees faces — some captivated, some bashful and some flushed with fervent bloodstreams. The music gets heavier; she whips her cherry scented hair and gyrates her body like heated molecules on the verge of combustion. Dollars are thrown and she gives her undivided attention to the patron dispensing the most singles.
Sam’s was once a German beer haus that added a few poles and private booths then claimed its fame by treating customers to nights of simulated rap music videos. The floor constantly flows with women steering customers towards the walls lined with singular vinyl booths. It’s mirrored, padded, and equipped for 2-3 minutes of teasing. For $10 a song, buy a dance for yourself or gift one to a friend, it’s the Sam’s version of a gift basket. The bar is stocked with imported beers and champagnes, as well as virgin $1 dollar bills to tuck between a patch of nylon and buttercream skin.
From the suit and tie crew of Bunker Hill to the blue-collar workers of commodity warehouses and the swanky women of the Fashion District, Sam’s unites Downtowners who are looking for an even happier hour.
Janica de Guzman
Janica de Guzman & Scott Meisse