A smattering of local strip club cuisine
In the wake of the anti-nude ordinance, strip club patrons throughout Louisville simultaneously experienced a hollow disappointment. Gone were free-range nipples. The customary revelation of genitalia in a dancer’s final gyrations disappeared.
Of course, only female flesh can quell this full frontal famine. But the law is the law. Apparently, though, patrons have found a way to satiate their throbbing hunger — food!
Strip club owners tell LEO in the last year, food sales have soared, even in Indiana where no such ordinance exists.
“I don’t know why this thing has jumped the river,” said Lane “Rude Boy” Mahoney, Rustic Frog’s top chef. “But I’m damn near slaving away back there.”
Perhaps it’s a Pavlov’s dog kind of phenomenon: Men with liquor-swollen bellies spy silicone and crave meat. Whatever the reason, it’s not uncommon to now see a few dollar bills in one hand, a menu in the other.
Given this new flesh-to-fork trend, LEO decided to sample a few specialties at three of our region’s adult nightspots: P.T.’s Show Club, Rustic Frog, and Trixies Strip Club and Sports Bar.
First stop: P.T.’s for their famed steak buffet. Upon my arrival, a medley of ’90s-era rap pulsed through the cavernous space. I grabbed a plate and piled up healthy portions of T-bone, rump roast and bulbous, skinned potatoes.
For the full experience, I sat at the lip of one of the stages.
The meat, warm and moist, delivered on taste. Upon tenderly chewing my second generous mouthful, a dancer, seemingly upset at my foodie focus, bent over and smacked her pasty-clad breasts at my fork. Bam! Bam! Bam! Three direct hits. It caught me so off guard, the meat slipped into my esophagus and lodged itself. Fortunately, the gentleman next to me slapped me on the back, either in an effort to save my life or congratulate me on the stripper’s personal gesture.
We arrived at Rustic Frog on a warm Saturday evening as the sun set on the Ohio River. The shambling, log monolith might not whet the appetite upon first glance, but I’d only heard raves about Rustic’s chicken salad sandwich.
Served in a plastic, shallow basket, garnished with stiff crinkle fries and a shriveled lemon wedge, the sandwich immediately brought back memories of childhood: white bread, meat bathed in mayo, nary a lettuce leaf nor tomato to infuse vitamins.
My waitress, expertly coordinating lime-green six-inch heels with a citrus-hued bikini, tried to sell me on side items only available “upstairs.” But I told her I’d like to finish this one off alone. She scoffed and stormed away, forcing me to leave a dismal tip.
Our final stop, Trixies, proved a grand finale. It was $2 Jell-O shot night, a divine way to lubricate the gastrointestinal system for Trixies’ five-alarm jalapeno poppers, dubbed “blazin bursties.”
The liberal serving of round, breaded poppers, about the size of plums, came on a ceramic plate and lived up to their name. Upon the first bite, surprising, spicy ooze scorched every corner of my mouth, a bit of pleasure and pain. I just couldn’t stop at one. The ratio of two poppers per one Jell-O shot helped pace my way through the entire portion.
*This story is part of LEO’s Fake Issue.