Hawaiian Tropic Zone

Part of the Planet Hollywood empire, this lounge bar fronts The Strip and promotes itself well, seducing passers-​by to come in for a drink by way of a combination of BOGOF Vouchers and scantily dressed dollybirds. But then it mostly goes pearshaped.
Inside, bar staff with attitude prefer to talk to their friends, the giant screens play nothing but short cuts from Baseball and American Football games, seating is limited, and second drinks are expensive.
Waitresses are dressed in next to nothing, but most of them (and who can blame them) do not seem to have their hearts in the job. They cluster in force around the servery, like zebras employing the ‘safety-​in-​numbers’ ruse when confronted by a pride of lions.
As it happened, I had a mild complaint about the service. An important-​looking Manager bustled up to me. I told him what was wrong. He looked non-​plussed, as if he had never received a complaint in polite terms before, and uttered I’ll be right back to you. That was the last I saw of him.
And the last I saw of the Hawaiian Tropic Zone, because we left 10 minutes later.