You’re walking past a bait and tackle shop in West Palm Beach. The air smells vaguely of salt and citrus. A seagull squawks. A palm tree sways. And then someone winks at you and slips you a time-traveling, martini-soaked secret. 

You’ve just found Mary Lou’s. A lounge so lavishly unhinged it feels like Truman Capote and a Miami witch designed it during Mercury retrograde.

From the outside, it’s charmingly unassuming but on the inside it’s an opulent fever dream—where Slim Aarons meets a surrealist painter and throws a party for everyone too bold to RSVP. Nothing here is quite as it seems. Think: velvet drapes, fishing memorabilia, contortionists, disco ball dreams, and at least three guests who may or may not be ghosts of Palm Beach past. The door policy? No boring vibes. Ever.

The lounge is named after the impossibly fabulous Mary Lou Curtis, Palm Beach’s original fashion renegade and grandmother of co-founder Alex Melillo. It’s decadence with a wink. Mary Lou’s is a cocktail bar but it’s also an entire moment. A mood. A slightly inebriated state of elevated nostalgia. It’s where the '70s, the ‘80s, and a touch of Studio 54 chaos get reimagined for the glitter-soaked now.

The menu is as unholy as it is divine. The caviar comes with housemade Doritos, fried chicken bites, and hash browns. (Obviously). There’s an A5 Wagyu Big Mac. Truffle carrots. Banana crème brûlée nested in its own peel like a tiny edible throne. The cocktails are alchemical spells—each one tracing the lineage of martini evolution, from 1896 to 2222. That’s not a typo, that’s a prophecy.

Don’t expect a playlist because you’re getting a curated sonic journey. Grammy-nominated duo Sofi Tukker has joined The Chainsmokers as Creative Entertainment Directors, so the music is going to slap and surprise you. The opening night featured jazz chanteuse Goldie Heart, a DJ set from Pete Bolte, and a floor show of flexible femmes that made your drink sweat harder than you did.

Mary Lou’s is less about dining or drinking and more about entering a dimension. The mood leans toward black-tie surrealism. Guests arrive dressed in outfits that straddle the line between louche and theatrical. The mission? To resurrect glamour, but make it gloriously weird again.

It’s Palm Beach but with secrets. And martinis. And possibly a contortionist handing you a lamb chop on a silver tray while humming Donna Summer.