Vancouver is kind of like the city-version of that place: A near-enough respite from the asinine prudishness of the Northwest U. The gals doff everything here, the drinks are alcoholic, and nobody has to stay ten feet away from anyone else if they don't want to though don't take this as license to be an utter idiot and touch one of the dancers, that is unless you want to walk down some stairs with your face.
Unless you're sporting tits, most places are going to charge you a small cover, and once you're in, you're expected to buy drinks, same as anywhere. We've got six good places now, not counting the ones out in suburbia. There used to be more but the bikers just keep fucking it up for everybody. At the mouth of the Granville strip, the Cecil is our city's welcome mat to the Downtown area their sign, boasting the "hotsy of the week," is the first thing you see coming off the Granville Bridge.
It's the only peeler joint in town that employs dude waiters, and surly ones to boot. Must be a union or something. At night, expect to be hounded mercilessly by the VIP-room girls.
During the daytime, it's a good place for a crappy burger with a side of vagina. Vancouver's answer to the Bada Bing, with a ripe family history old man Philliponi got whacked in his own office upstairs. Close to all the bars downtown, and therefore ideal for a quick nipple if you're bar-hopping.
If you don't read tabloids, a dancer supposedly went the "extra mile" for him in the back room then took it to the papers; yaaaawwwn.
