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Tits with Grits Redux

Tera Patrick bounces up to Uptown Cabaret QC After Dark

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Last week, I boldly went where many men have gone before: the Uptown Cabaret.

It all started innocently enough when I sat down to dine at the Uptown Cabaret. I wanted to find out if the Cabaret did in fact have one of the best brunch buffets in town, which is the word on the street.

The strip club is in fact a restaurant, and the food wasn't just good in a Jack in the Box after a late night kind of way, it was actually delectable. And the high caliber wasn't exclusive to the chef. Strip club rule number 14: the caliber of strippers correlates with the caliber of strip club patrons. In other words, the classier the strippers, the classier the crowd; and conversely, the shoddier the strippers, the shoddier (and shadier) the crowd. Uptown Cabaret is all class ... well, class with ass.

While dining on buttered up grits (sans the tits), I was greeted by Uptown's notorious party promoter Roland Ashley, who invited me to come back the following night to see FHM cover model and XXX star Tera Patrick. Patrick's milk shake brought all the boys to the yard, er, Uptown Cabaret. The house was packed for each of her five shows. Her dance moves were as impressive as I've been told her "acting" skills are. She knows how to work a crowd, three stars for the XXX girl. And on top of all that, she's a genuinely nice girl -- just not the girl next door. The crowd included some girls, some girls kissing other girls, and of course plenty of no-girl-getting homies. I think I saw more women onstage tipping the "performers" than men, but that could be because the men were sitting down receiving lap dances, $10 downstairs or $25 upstairs. (Note: upstairs means upscale).

The Cabaret is more like a party with strippers than a strip club, because there's always something going on there. Last Saturday, they had an Ultra Premium Vodka VIP party where just about every ethnicity of female that exists covered the stage. So even strip clubs adhere to affirmative action.

Sundays at the Cabaret are reserved for SIN (Service Industry Night). Although SIN is a common club acronym, considering it's a strip club, it's more fitting. Sunday is also Amateur Night, and Ashley asked me to be a judge for their amateur contest. But I had to decline because, sad thing is, I already judge strippers. Personally, I would rather eat canned beans for the rest of my life than solicit my body. Then again, I don't have a gavel to call a situation to order, and people don't stand when I enter and exit a room; so I'm in no position to judge anyone. Like Wyclef Jean said, "just cause she dances on poles, it don't make her a 'ho, no."

Truth is, strippers have talents; it's like gymnastics on a pole. I saw girls doing splits, putting their legs behind their head, holding naked tripod balances and doing handstands while shaking their booty. It's a little different from the Broadway plays, step shows and recitals I'm accustomed to, but it was a dance performance nonetheless. Let's just say, it made me wish my Voss water was a vodka.

My favorite line of the night came from Kiss 95.1 master of ceremonies Baby Boy. After a dude finished throwing money at strippers like it was confetti, Baby Boy announced to the stripper: "Congrats. You're a proud owner of $19."

Invest, young stripper, invest.

Psssstttt ... If you have any dirt or inside scoop on nightlife, shoot me an e-mail at brittney.cason@creativeloafing.com.

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