SH goes in search of the truth about ladies’ nights.

It’s easy to dismiss ladies’ nights. We slander them as a cheap trick designed to lure both sexes, exploiting the siren song of free booze for chicks, and the inevitable urges of men. We wonder what type of guy and what type of girl would go to such a place. More to the point, we scoff and declare “Why aren’t they just called 'men’s nights'?”

Whatever lowest common denominator marketing strategy it was that first conceived the ladies’ night, a split second later, males in the area had sniffed it out – and that was the point. There was no golden era of sisterhood, when females got together to enjoy dancing and gossiping free from the gaze of guys. The men were there in a flash, striking up conversations, and playing their part: putting money in the cash registers.

But does any of this matter to the punters? With half the city’s bars and clubs holding ladies' nights, it appears not. So why the pull? What is the particular attraction of each? To answer these questions, a couple of game males set about on a research mission, which started at the only place it could: Zapata’s on a Wednesday night, the Mecca and Medina of the drink special world.

The initial signs played to the stereotype, with a guy-to-girl ratio of roughly 7:1 – not quite the scene depicted in the advertisements. Sure, it was a cold night, not made for partying. And we, admittedly, arrived too early (9.30pm) – but then again, so did a lot of guys, all of whom had strategically carved out a position at the bar. Each time the door opened, hundreds of eyes fixed on the arriving guest, hoping that it had breasts. Alas, it usually had a trench coat, a power tie, and a stack of real estate business cards.

“A girls’ night out can end up more as a game of hide-and-seek with drunken guys,” admitted one of the outnumbered female punters at Zapata’s, who we shall call Sara. “But my girlfriends and I still base our schedule on all types of ladies nights in different venues. After all, who doesn’t like free margaritas?”

Quite. And while most of the men had started off looking around the room restlessly, with tunes like Rockwell’s Somebody’s Watching Me featuring Michael Jackson picking up the pace, and with a few more beers, the place turned into something approximating a good night. Forget sisterhood, Zapata’s is about brotherhood!

In fear for our cynicism, we decided to leave, turning our back on the first girl clambering up on the bar, and suggestions of “massage” outside the gate (someone had obviously clocked how to turn the low girl-guy ratio into a business opportunity). The next stop was Mint. Fortunately, the guy-girl ratio moved considerably in our favor, dropping to around 1:1. The “women only before 10.30pm” rule had succeeded, building up a head of female presence before the male stampede. But just as that problem had been solved, another materialized. This was far less of a party - more sedate, and certainly no liberal sampling from the Best of the 80s: Volume 2.

Next night was Attica. Rumor had it there had been a fashion show earlier in the evening, and it was reflected in the crowd. Tall girls, tall guys, confidence everywhere. We weren’t sure how this was different to any other night at Attica, but the effect was positive, and, with a fairly favorable number of ladies, two fingers up at our naysaying. From there it was on to Mao where, thank heavens, we missed out on the semi-naked muscle men which reports told us had been very successful in luring grinning girls onto a stage. “I don’t like that look at all,” a very kind-hearted girl called Jane assured our rather slender selves at the bar. “It’s gross.” Thanks, and kind of you to say that, but plenty apparently did. It felt more like a weekend.

So after two nights and four visits, our guard had dropped. But come on. What is there to hate? Chicks? Don’t think so. Free drinks? Hardly. And for the girls’ point of view, back to Zapata’s, where as Sara so eloquently put it: “Who cares – doesn’t it look like fun?”

How they fare: