The Mynt

The Mynt Last night, for a friend’s birthday, we decided to go hit the Mynt for a night on the club scene.

I have not been “clubbing” in years. Many many years. But I went anyway — for fun mainly, but partly out of curiousity as to what this place was like. I’d heard about it, seen the photographs of the club on the web, (http://www.mynt.ca/) but I’d never actually experienced it myself.

Before going, I surmised that I would probably need cash for a night out; as clubs prefer to deal on a cash-only basis. It’s quicker and easier than handling credit and debit cards. But the question is, how much cash should I take out of my account? What’s the cover charge? How much to check my coat? How much are drinks going to cost? I don’t know — as I said, I’m a reborn clubbing virgin at this point! The good news is I’m driving, so that’s going to keep my drinking to a responsible level anyway, but still… how much money do I need?

So I finally arrive at a figure, which I also believe should fit within my own personal budget, and off I go, excited and ready to enjoy an evening of people-watching and partying at Calgary’s premier nightlife locale, The Mynt.

The first step of the evening is to park my car. I suppose I could park on the street and walk to the club, but that’s a hassle. In Calgary, you never know how cold it is likely to get. Parking fee: $5. Flat rate.

Fine. So I park, and wander over to the club.

“Good evening sir, welcome to The Mynt,” says the large security man at the door as he opens it for me. He didn’t seem to realize that actually asking me for I.D. would have been a compliment.

I say nothing, sigh quietly to myself, wishing I had more hair on my head, and go inside.

Inside the door is a gorgeous young girl sitting at a cash register, and another host person, well dressed this time.

“Good evening sir! Welcome to The Mynt!” He said, obviously happy to see me there to help him get a paycheque next Friday. The girl sitting at the cash register smiled at me, flashing her beautiful dimples.

“Thank you,” I replied, “this is the first time I’ve been to a club in years. I guess there’s a cover charge tonight?”

“Yes,” said the girl, flashing another smile. “$7.”

“Whoa!” I replied, fishing out my money, “that’s more than I was expecting.”

“I know what you mean,” said the well-dressed door guy, “I remember when it was three or four dollars.”

“In my case, I was clubbing about a thousand years before you were both born.” I responded as she handed me my change. That produced a chuckle from both of them.

“Have a great time, sir.” they both chorused as I walked past them and on to the coat check.

My change from the cover charge didn’t last too long. It went to cover the cost of checking my coat. So now I’ve paid $15 and I’ve only just got in through the door.

My friends had said that they would meet me in the “O-Room” which, I guess, was a term for the type of activity which goes on down there or something. I decided to make a circuit of the club first to see what it was like. The main floor of the club was upstairs. It consisted of an extensive bar area with a section of low couches around coffee tables for a chique-modernesque-intimite-setting-where-you-have-to-yell-so-the-person-sitting-next-to-you-can-hear-what-you-are-saying atmosphere. I’d forgotten how loud clubs can be. Behind the bar was a glass box within which two people were situated adding live bongo and saxophone music to the background of deep and progressive house music.

Downstairs was another bar area and dance floor. Again, loud music and extensive seating. Lots of tables had little signs on them marked “reserved for …” So now people are making reservations at nightclubs. Interesting.

I paused for a few minutes to watch the gyrations going on down on the dancefloor. People were certainly enjoying themselves. Especially the gents who were getting up-close-and-personal doing the bump-and-grind with the babes in f-me dresses.

Eventually, I found the O-Room. Finally, it made sense! The room is shaped like a letter O. The circular bar in the middle of the room makes the inside of the letter, while the circular wall around the outside of the room makes the outer boundary of the letter. You sit in and walk around the rest. When it’s advertised, naturally, you hear that tacky “boom-chackalaka” porn music that everyone, even those who claim to have never seen porn in their lives (liars, mostly, even the religious zealots) will recognize.

I walked over to the bar, pausing for a moment to do a double-take at what one of the girls in the room was wearing. I tried not to be too obvious about it, because I’m a married man and don’t want any cans of worms opened. I swear, if this girl had lifted her arms over her head, all the men would have had a wonderful, erm… eye “popping” experience. Not that that would have been a bad thing. That was taking the concept of f-me dress to the extreme.

The girl behind the bar came over and said hello. I was rather surprised, and pleased, mind you, to have her extend her hand over the bar and introduce herself. “I’m Nicole” she said, shaking my hand as I told her my name, “What would you like?”

“Oh I don’t know… can you make a Vodka Mudslide kind of drink?”

“Hmmm, let me think for a minute… OH I KNOW! If you like creamy drinks.. OH LET ME MAKE IT!! I KNOW!!!”

“Okay.” I said, a bit concerned, “go for it.”

She put about three shots of different liquor into a glass, the only one I recognized was Bailey’s, and then topped it up with milk. “Tell me what you think.” She said.

I took a sip. Oh my God, it was good. Damn good. “That’s … incredible” I said, “what’s the damage on this?”

“$12.50,” she said.

I choked.

“Well, it’s a triple, you see,” she replied, as if that would explain it all.

I handed over the money, and tipped her, quite well, actually. I liked her, and she deserved it.

The rest of my evening was a lot milder than that first drink. A few rye (whiskey) and cokes and that was it. Once I was done with alcoholic drinks, I asked a bartender for a simple coke as I was driving. She leaned over and yelled in my ear, “we have a minimum $3.50 charge here,” I choked again, “but this one we’ll keep between the two of us.” She earned a nice tip as well.

The experience was interesting to say the least. The men were spending there time watching the writhing female bodies out on the dance floor, and the ladies were, well, writhing out on the dance floor.

In the past, I noticed that there are some people who should wear f-me dresses, and some who shouldn’t. At this place, I was very surprised to notice that those who should wear f-me dresses were, and those who shouldn’t, weren’t. In other places, many who shouldn’t, do and those who should, don’t. Perhaps the doormen at The Mynt were very discerning as to who they allow to pass the threshold of the doors of the club. I must remember to compliment them.

Will I go back to The Mynt? Probably. Will it be soon? Probably not. I found the prices very high. I’m not cheap in any sense of the word; but I like to get good value for my money. Is The Mynt worth the price? Not really.

About Steven Britton

Steve is a freelance programmer, partial billionaire, dad, Recovering Atheist, Conservative, and occasionally prolific blogger.