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morphed into a bacchanal of models and bottles. 8.0 muralist Bill Haveron recalls, "The sexual tension at night was enormous — it was just people getting outrageously drunk and models excusing themselves to go to the restroom to put powder up their nose." Former waiter Palmer Earley remembers, "Shannon was very open to letting creatives in or celebrities." Still, everyone — even Vanilla Ice — had to cool their heels in the two-hour entry line. Wynne's "casual place for our version of the Beat Generation" closed in 2001, but the creative kids who got their start slinging jello shots (myself included) continued to make their mark on the city. MINIMALIST MELTING POT: STATE BAR When it came to '90s watering holes, less was definitely more. A step-sibling of sorts to the Starck, the minimalist State Bar conjured an icy-cold attitude once you opened a door emblazoned with a sign that read: "No brains, no service." This prickly directive made you feel like you were getting away with something just by walking inside. State's location across from Fair Park meant well-dressed theatergoers bumped up against neighborhood punks — a mix that shouldn't have worked, but it did. That was by design, according to former lighting designer Thomas Freylack, who took over the place at the end of the 1980s. "Everybody was just cool there — there was nothing ridiculous about them," he says. "Because anybody that wasn't cool, I kicked out automatically, because they weren't part of the vibe." State bartender Greg Contestabile, one of three graffiti artists who worked there and added to the scene with splashy murals on the surrounding dumpsters and alleyway, says, "Deep Ellum was in its infancy. We had overflow theater people. We had people that became famous actors like Owen Wilson, and we had the crowd that worked in the industry and the Toni&Guy people from London." State was furnished with little but dim lighting, black banquettes, and projections of atomic symbols on the walls. A regular whose name shall not be uttered (at least by me) once slipped a pornographic Polaroid into a crack under the burnished metal bar. If you positioned your eye just right, you family, this prodigal child was charged with making Anzu a success. Her lethal closet of Dries Van Noten and Marc Jacobs, combined with a preternaturally assured attitude, helped her make the Knox-Henderson bistro the place to be. Anzu garnered fans for its sake- broiled cod and giant fortune-cookie dessert, but it became the hot spot because hotels like The Mansion on Turtle Creek sent their clients there, according to Nakamoto. "[The concierge] was the one that really brought in a lot of people — major celebrities and rock stars," she says. "At the time, Dallas was starting to grow as a cool place. I remember we hosted Alice Cooper because he played golf in Las Colinas." Former waiter Andy Nichols says, "It was the pre-game place — you'd have Highland Park diners, then at 8:30, it switched over and was kind of a nightlife scene. The next thing you knew, [by 11 pm], everyone was gone [downtown]." Nakamoto says that fun fashion people made Anzu's bar area pop, mixing with aspiring local rock stars. Once the USA Film Festival started booking parties for Jackie Chan, John Waters, and Larry Flynt, things got interesting. I have a particularly vivid memory of the latter event, celebrating the 1996 hit movie The People vs. Larry Flynt. While ordering my fourth glass of Opus One (gratis, of course), I couldn't help but overhear Flynt's bodyguard tell Perry, the bartender, to water down his vodka as "he's getting too drunk and can't taste it anyway." Bemused, I turned amid a cloud of Drakkar Noir to see the Hustler founder's brother and consigliere, Jimmy Ray Flynt, standing there in all his white-mock-turtleneck and gold-chain glory. "Have you ever considered posing?" was his chat-up line, to which I replied, "I think I'm too old." (I was 30). "Hell, darlin! Put your hair in pigtails, we could put you on the cover of Barely Legal" was his enthusiastic response — a backhanded compliment if there ever was one. But the rest of the night? You'll have to pry it out of me over a cocktail at my new watering hole of choice. From top: The infamous Blade Runner prop at State hangs over bartender Trippy Thompson. Anzu owner Phina Nakamoto. could see what became an ever-evolving risqué peep show for those in the know — one that possibly inspired the more adventurous patrons who hooked up in the back bar and fire escape. Sipping on one of the joint's three- ounce martinis (years before ubiquitous Sex and the City cosmo, this lethal drink was served straight up) under the blimp airship model from Blade Runner made any newly minted nightcrawler feel both sophisticated and adult — a mood celebutantes of all stripes embraced as they stopped by State on their nightly rounds. What did Jerry Jones, River Phoenix, Johnny Rotten, and Howard Rachofsky have in common? They all dined at Anzu. In 1993, when I first strolled past the dual salt mounds at the doorway (a Japanese tradition for good luck) into a feng shui- inspired, Paul Draper-designed interior, I had zero clue I'd spend the next seven years making the place my home away from home. With 10,000 colorful origami cranes (a year- long project for its owners) strung from the ceiling, Anzu was like the world's chicest high school cafeteria for the "senior class" of Dallas. And a big reason for that was 25-year-old proprietor, Phina Nakamoto. The scion of the Plano Nakamoto restaurant CUTTING-EDGE CELEB HAUNT: ANZU DOUG HICKMAN 117