Situated a few feet beneath that OfficeMax in the Pearl District, the Pink Rose is a subterranean bunker of bad taste. You enter through an archway bearing a too-close-to-Pinkberry typeface, and emerge into something that could be a dance club at the Las Vegas airport. Look down and you'll see a rose icon emblazoned on the floor; look up and notice that someone painted an Ed Hardy T-shirt on the ceiling.

The service was friendly and accommodating—I think they genuinely wanted us to have a good experience—but it all felt a little amateurish. It was nothing egregious, but it's tougher to be generous when there's nothing particularly redeeming. My lunch order eclipsed the time on my meter. They waited until we were done with our appetizers to ask if they should fire the entrées. The waiter did give a nice drink recommendation, a hot toddy made with their house-infused peach bourbon—the flavors worked really well—but it came out at room temperature. In the end, I was desperate to wash off the smoothness of the place with whiskey and a decent jukebox.

I wish there were something nice I could say, but any attempt sounds like, "It would be one of the classier strip clubs in town." The fact of the matter is, I can't think of a reason to go back to Pink Rose, at least until somebody else takes over the lease.

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