Courting the A-List

Adds John Owen, co-owner of Dive Bar, "There's no VIPs in Cleveland, Ohio."

In our eyes, what initially seems "cool" can rapidly morph into "incredibly stupid," especially when it comes with a high price tag.

Such was the case with V Lounge, a New York-style club located in a basement on East Fourth that featured electronica and $12 Bellinis. Owners made the downtown club hard to find -- even some who dined at Vivo, the restaurant upstairs, didn't know it existed. And customers didn't enjoy paying $4 for the same beers they had for $2 on West Sixth. Three years after the bar premiered, it's now open only for private parties.

Creating a false sense of exclusivity can also kill your business. Tramp, on West Ninth, featured stripper poles and house music, but it was a block away from West Sixth. "People had to make a conscious decision to walk past four busy bars to get to Tramp," former owner Terry Barbu explains.

But it didn't help that customers were made to wait in lines outside in an effort to hold up appearances. "When we finally got inside, there was nobody there," says Vaughn. The executive and his friends would be steaming mad.

Not even money can save you. When Bossa Nova opened in Beachwood, owners hoped a high-class martini bar would score with East Side socialites. It came equipped with framed Picasso sketches, a bar stacked with Cristal, and chefs serving teaspoon-sized appetizers with unpronounceable names for $12. But the cavernous lounge was too big. Even with 100 people, the place looked empty.

To compensate, owners started running Wednesday- and Thursday-night specials. But they attracted a largely black crowd, not the wealthy socialites owners expected. "Instead of embracing the crowd -- who were good clientele -- and working with them," owners simply ended the specials, says Hines. The bar closed last year.

To their credit, West Sixth owners understand their current demographics.

"West Sixth is more of a B-crowd street," acknowledges Barbu, the patriarch of the West Sixth bar scene. "It's not as affluent." What they're trying to stop is the street turning into a C-crowd spot. "We can't give up and start advertising 25-cent cocktails."

Last year Barbu opened up Ultra, a Moroccan-style dance club that plays Top 40 beats. The place is doing well.

On a recent Friday, a group of college kids unloads from a bus in front of the lounge. Tomas Tatarunes, a 22-year-old CSU student who still lives at home in Mentor, stumbles down the dark stairs. He announces that the drinks are a bit pricey, but he's pleased by the sight before him: a crowd of underdressed girls in tank tops and vein-constricting jeans. It's the kind of view that will always make young men come back.

Asked if he's here to hook up, Tomas smiles impishly. "Abso-fucking-lutely."

Back at The View, owners have come to the realization that if they want to survive, they must reposition themselves.

At a Wednesday-night meeting, employees sit around drinking, while managers discuss new strategies. The first suggestion seems obvious: If they want people to come to the bar, they should probably let them know where it is. It appears that being exclusive to the point of hiding wasn't the best of plans.

"I tell all of my friends to come to the bar, but then they're like, 'We can't find the place,'" a bartender complains. Management will soon put a large sign outside.

The bar will also be revamped. Too many people arrive, see the large, crowdless space, and immediately turn around. Heavy velvet curtains will section off the lounge, making the space seem more intimate.

Bartenders are also cautioned against handing out complimentary drinks. Loose pours are also discouraged. "You don't get better tips for being liberal pourers," owner Tom Eggett warns.

Yet this too is a notion that seems to violate the rules of Cleveland. In a shot-and-beer town raised on the generous pour, few things create more lasting animus than a lightweight drink.

To club veteran Barbu, it all smells like a quest better jettisoned. "You can't remarket yourself back up into popularity," he says.

On a recent Friday night, The View is as empty as a Westlake bus stop.