Thursday, January 17, 2002
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Gut Reactions: Our night at the Bootlegger

By Dayvid Figler

We had the scampi and escargot. Same heaping butter and garlic. Different critters. Same hard-to-miss yum. The favorite of the night was veal parmigiana. Ever since chefs started infusing this with that and all the sauces went creamy on us, it seems most critics have forgotten how damn happy we used to be with charming places like the recently relocated Bootlegger (7700 Las Vegas Blvd. South). This is baked cheese, bread and marinara. Lots of marinara. But forget about the food, this review is about the greatest entertainment value in Las Vegas.

And now give me a "C," a bouncy "C." (Caution: This review is intended to be heard in the voice of Las Vegas Weekly reviewer Mieke).

J. and I ventured south on Las Vegas Boulevard past the Belz outlet mall. Flashes to the left. Izod. Van Heusen. Osh Kosh B'Gosh. And then, just as Belz ended, it jutted out like the star it is...Bootlegger. Years ago, owners Lorraine and Blackie Hunt...show people from the golden Vegas era...started it up. Still in effect after the move are the lush red booths and old Vegas feel, but the whole experience is about "the chosen two." The torch-bearers. The tuxedoed entertainers from back-in-the-day who get out there at 10 p.m. to give you the 110 percent (tax and gratuity included) you've only read about in fairy tales and erotic magazines. Blackie Hunt and his crooning cohort, Sonny King, own the Deep South end of the Strip.

J. and I show up early. Belt back Old-Fashioneds (made as nature intended with the most magnificently muddled maraschinos) and get ready for the floor show. We nosh on finely breaded eggplant with marinara. In walk friends G. and K. (dressed to the hilt) sauntering across the floor with impeccable White Russians to their reserved center booth (oh that G. knows how to impress the ladies). Soon more friends came pouring in, including the talented songstress Rebecca Zisch, her piano-playing lounge god Monty Banks, her boyfriend Daniel (of Royal Crown Revue fame) and their pals D. and S. (librarians both--and how!).

I couldn't let this monumental arrival pass without notice. Well, don't you know, I just walked up to Mr. Sonny King (the dad of my dear childhood friend and songster in his own right, Christopher) and after a little patented introduction/shmooze dropped the tip that Rebecca and Monty were indeed in-da-house. Mr. King promptly introduced me to Mrs. Lorraine Hunt (the most charming lieutenant governor/ restaurateur in the free world) who was at the ready with a big hello. After delightful small talk, I re-suggested Rebecca and Monty. Meet Johnny Pizza ("as in pizza, you know, like you eat"). "Oh, yes, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pizza." So Mrs. Hunt tells Mr. Pizza (who handles the entertainment, mind you) to maybe bring this nice songbird up to the mike. "No problem." Mr. Pizza says he'll come over to the table so that I can facilitate an introduction between the two. "Done."

That's when things got weird.

In walked Gov. Kenny Guinn and his lovely wife in full-spangled regalia. I'm telling you rhinestones and feathers. I mean hotcha-cha with a hoo-waddie yowza! I nudge G. to get his camera (always at the ready) ready.

The show goes on. Sonny and Blackie are the shtickmatics. Whatever chops may have diminished over the past half-century--the sheer entertainment value is beyond words! No set-up goes unspiked. No song avoids the full "treatment." Sonny finds huge comfort in the Louis Armstrong milieu, not to mention throwing innuendo on the fire for Italian favorites. And Blackie...throw a wig on his head and well, what can be said short of...wig-out!!!! Local saloon singers and classic performers (do I need to mention the DeCastro sisters?) usually pop up from the audience, and on this night Mrs. Hunt serenaded the ziti out of us before pulling the Guv up on stage. Sadly, no crooning from the silver-haired fox, but, oh vey, the shiny shirt and Elvis glasses! After a lot of verbal stroking, the Guv took a seat where else but our table! Handshakes around and then frank talk about Yucca Mountain (too bad he said "off the record" or one former governor/nuke lackey might get skewered). The Guv seemed more loose than usual and I did notice he had a beverage in hand (but no, I did not check to see if it was "leaded" or "unleaded").

After the Guv moved on to press more flesh, Mr. Johnny Pizza approached. "Rebeeeeccca," Mr. Johnny Pizza said with a smile and open arms. Unfortunately Johnny was looking at K., but hey, mistakes happen. Mr. Johnny Pizza was a true gentleman. He graciously invited the actual Rebecca and Monty to the stage where they, if you'll pardon the hyperbole, focked the knockin' socks off the whole darn crowd. Even Mr. Sonny King gave it up, "Deborah Zilch ladies and gentlemen...she's got more moves than a chess player." Oh, that Sonny.

After the song stylings of Mr. D.B. (a very, very tan man) doing the apt "One for the Road," we concluded another perfect evening at the fabulous Bootlegger. And me? I couldn't wait to get home to write about it. As we were leaving, who else but the governor peered back into our booth. "Hey, great time," the distinguished statesmen effused, "but you better not tell anyone about this or you'll get it." No problem, Guv. Done. In the spirit of the night, I think, nay, hope he was kidding.