6757 hollywood blvd
montmartre is “the last village” on the highest hill that overlooks paris. the name is derived from “mont de martyrs,” meaning mountain of martyrs, as many a decapitation took place there before a monastery then an abbey were built there. later on, montmartre became somewhat of an artistic commune, a center for intellectual and creative activity in paris.
today, montmartre is a tourist attraction in paris, sightsee-ers interested in making a stop at the playground of many an artist like picasso. and in los angeles, montmartre is a new bar/lounge, a trendy playground for hollywood’s ritzy glitzy artists that won’t be officially open until early may.
montmartre lounge is at the corner of hollywood boulevard and highland avenue, and (mis)fits in perfectly with all of hollyweird. the flashy neon hollywood and highland complex that hosts wolfgang puck’s high-style dining and a disco bowling alley, the wax museum, ripley’s believe it or not, liquor stores, seedy tattoo parlors, and stores that only have xxx in the window and nothing else. yes, hollyweird indeed.
there’s no sign, just a white domed canopy. there are enormous men in black properly outfitted with earpeices and sunglasses in matrix-style, so we guess that *whispering* this is the place. we can hear the boom boom boom of opening dj chava’s bass as we make our way up a clear lucite staircase that’s lit from underneath. there’s a narrow red carpet all the way up the center, and i misstepped, almost twisting my ankle and god forbid, snapping a stiletto. gawd, i hate those things.(the stilettos, and well, i guess that stupid red carpet, too.)
first stop, not the bar, but the bathroom, which with only one toilet, doesn’t seem sufficient for a club this size. after some much needed re-glossing (since we had only re-applied lip gloss about 19 times in the car ride over already) we did a self-guided tour of montmartre. the main lounge area is pretty, and reminds me of south beach with mostly white decor, and lit up blue behind the bar and on the dancefloor. there’s a second room, also with a bar, that is very different – dark, with stone columns, and looks like a castle corridor. just beyond it is the smoking patio. *eh* nothing interesting going on there so we go back to the main bar.
at $10 a cocktail without a named vodka request, drinks are pricey. *ugh* it was going to be an expensive evening, but i’ve paid far worse. thank gawd my first citron/soda was strong enough to get me buzzed enough that i didn’t care about the ridiculous prices for the rest of the night.
i am a nightlife nobody, but with some giant red connections, i ended up with a precious polka-dotted wristband that let us hobble past the guard on our silly little stilettos into the v.i.p lounge area. it has its own small bar hidden in the corner. low white leatherettes square off five tables for bottle service only. whatever, there's nobody in the v.i.p area, so we ignore the “reserved” signs on the tables to work on our second round. oddly enough, cocktails are cheaper from the v.i.p. bar. we run back over when we see the dj star head for the bar to *what? buy his own drinks?!* but he flashes his drink tickets, we *cheers* and he heads back up to man the decks (but not before we snap photos like the ridiculous dj groupies we are!)
we never left that balcony area, except to go to the restroom, and then discovered a private bathroom in the corner of the balcony later. the rest of the night, some very generous men in all-black fueled our antics with cranberry and a bottle of grey goose. juice was not not my choice, of course, but this is montmartre after all, so *sigh* i must sacrifice my preference for soda. yes, a martyr i was, because i definitely endured some suffering the following day. achy breaky from head to (stilet)toe.