Club Owner’s Research Is Never Quite Done

Most club owners might not consider winding up a night at work by going out all night and hitting more nightclubs around the city.

But not Rudolf. He does it a few times a week for fun, and to see what the competition’s up to.

He’s eager to go even though he’s limping around on a sore foot, the result of a loudspeaker dropping on it.

The evening begins at 11 p.m. on a Saturday, after his Beverly Hills nightclub, Tatou, has settled into a groove and he doesn’t need to schmooze any more.

“OK, let’s go!” he announces, and we’re off in his white convertible Le Baron, a rental.

First stop: Babylon, a new Moroccan-themed restaurant/bar in West Hollywood with an unlisted number, owned by club promoter Brent Bolthouse.

The doorman warmly greets Rudolf and ushers him in. All the doormen in town know Rudolf, and they treat him with the respect of a dignitary. Ropes part, torsos bow, cover-charge fees are waived. “Are you with Rudolf?” they ask deferentially. “Then go right ahead.”

Babylon is crowded and loud. Rudolf orders a Campari and soda and watches the passing parade of leather and bell-bottoms.

He likes to watch.

“Let’s go,” he says about 15 minutes later, and it’s back in the Le Baron and off to Barbarella, a former La Cienega restaurant that becomes a bar/club on weekends. The place is small. People mostly drink, talk and smoke, save for one young woman in a silver jacket who dances alone at the bar.

After a while, Rudolf nods, and it’s out the door and up the street to the Gate, an upscale nightclub/bar/restaurant. A group huddles outside the ropes, staving off the cold while waiting for the doorman to allow them passage. Rudolf glides right in.

He strides into the VIP area and greets a woman with a kiss on both cheeks. Small talk is made with some Tatou regulars before he runs into director Rob Weiss (“Amongst Friends”). They talk about the young filmmaker’s projects.

After 20 minutes, Rudolf wants to check out Cafe Maurice, a French restaurant next door with a raucous bar where the TV is on with the sound off while music blares.

“This kind of reminds me of New York,” he says, sipping another Campari.

Leaving, he takes pity on the people waiting outside the Gate.

“That’s terrible--they shouldn’t make them wait like that,” he says. “They should let them in.”

Zucchero is next. This Italian restaurant on 3rd Street near the Beverly Center has been turned over this night to a promoter who opens it up to a trendy, black-clad European crowd, sprinkled with a couple of transvestites in 6-inch platforms.

“I wouldn’t let these people in,” Rudolf says, surveying a group of young men at the door. “But this is a different kind of club.”

Back in the Le Baron, he steers toward West Hollywood, to Highball, another one-night-a-weeker at a Santa Monica Boulevard restaurant. It’s about 2 a.m. and the club seems past its peak, holding only one-third its capacity.

Now Rudolf wants to check out Temple, a gay dance club near Wilshire and Western that houses a Korean restaurant by day. On the way in, he gives $1 to a panhandler.

This place has an energy Rudolf likes. The music thumps so loudly you can hear it down the street. Rudolf watches the young men dancing, tapping his fingers.

As he walks to his car, the panhandler calls out:

“Hey! Aren’t you that guy from Beverly Hills? From Tatou, right?”

“Yes,” says Rudolf.

“I used to be over there,” the man says, “but there got to be too much competition.”

“Yeah, times are tough,” Rudolf says sympathetically.

Last stop: Deep Space, a rave taking place in the brewery space of Eureka, Wolfgang Puck’s now-defunct restaurant on Bundy near Olympic. By 3:30 a.m., only a handful of Generation Xers are still on the huge dance floor while computer-programmed slide projectors cast images on the wall. Rudolf walks the floor’s perimeter, pausing every few paces to watch.

“The slide projector was the best thing about that place,” he says. “Most raves are kind of cold and asexual.”

Five hours and eight clubs later, Rudolf calls it a morning, racing back into Beverly Hills on his way home to Hancock Park.

He doesn’t look even a bit tired.