I got so perfectly packed up that I practically perfected the art of practical packing. My gear was squared away, I was ready to clear out of my green Cabana Suites room in 30 seconds flat.
Next I stretched out for a while and took a load off. It would be a long day by the time I got shepherded onto the Air FU Canada Rouge red-eye home. I'd already paid for a seat upgrade from 'slave ship' class to 'barely humane' class and had a window seat. That reduced the chances of being surrounded by two sweaty snoring fat guys to 0%. There was still a chance of having a sweating snoring fat guy on one side. Maybe I'd luck out.
I settled on a smallish stake for the evening and headed to the casino. I still had a lot of coin in to do if I was to get my room comped. I was short the $3K I needed for the day's room, which was a drag, considering I would be vacating it at around 9:00pm.
It seemed like a good idea to slow play it so I grabbed my old pal, the mesozoic coin dropper Downtown Dueces upright with a view of the stairs and the expansive twenty foot lobby beyond. My money went in, and the cocktail waitress appeared.
"I'd like a glass of red wine, maybe something in a California cab suav, not too dry, with notes of cherry, riding crop leather, a hint of smoke, and a little tease of vanilla in the finish, but not sweet, sort of a ghostly vanilla... would be what I'm looking for."
She brought me exactly what I'd requested, delightfully presented in a 'hipster ironic' 60's gas station give-away tumbler.
|The El Cortez knows it's ghostly cab sauv vanilla notes.|
I finally had to give up on the Deuces, and headed to the lobby bar. They have a piano stationed adjacent and there was someone sitting at that piano and musical piano notes were issuing forth from the strings and sounding board of said piano, so I had to conclude that the person seated at the piano was in fact a piano player, and not only that, he was playing that very piano even as I was listening.
Regardless, by the time it was time to have dinner, my winnings for the day were gone and I was again even steven. Which, all things considered for this trip, was pretty spectacular.
I though I might as well try a steak at 1941 Seagulls or whatever its called, so I saw the podiumster and she directed me to my table.
Which happened to be the exact same table and seat I'd sat at for breakfast.
I ordered up a rib eye steak, medium rare, and it came forthwith, much the way I'd asked. It was pretty good, even very good, not the best I've had but far from the worst.
|That's a mirror on the post. Knowing that makes the picture better.|
The side I'd ordered were the Irish Chef's signature dish, Taters O'Gratin. These were, frankly, horrid.
I'd decided to keep the steak, mention the potatoes, but keep eating. My waiter was at the next table over, chatting with someone dining who, apparently, he was friends with.
I felt certain that the next bite would be the one that he would dash over to ask how everything was.
You know Sir Flushy, he does not get annoyed or cranky very easily.
That fucking waiter. He walked between the table on my right, and the table on my left four or five times and never even looked at me, even though I was looking up at him and waving my fork as if my steak was on fire.
Yes I could have said something, but I kind of wanted to see how bad it could get. The guy fucking ignored me until the steak was mostly gone and the potatoes were cold and even more disgusting than they were when he brought them.
So what was wrong with this potatoes? Well, they were underdone. They were supposed to be lovingly graced with delicious artisanal cheese which would be broiled until browned (but not burned) and loaded with amazing toasty cheese flavor.
The dish had none of this - it had some sort of runny gloppy cheese sauce and a bit of cheese on top that was barely melted. This dish reeked of microwave stank. It had to have been microwaved, dammit!
After talking to his buddy at the table next door for a couple of minutes, I finally caught his attention and he finally asked how everything was.
I told him about the 'taters and showed him and explained about the lovingly graced with artisinal cheese dreams that were now soggy and drooping nightmares.
So, the service at Siegel's 1941 was lacking, Taters O'Gratin got a talking to in the kitchen about his signature glop, and the steak was very enjoyable.
Grabbing a toothpick I headed across the hall to the Parlour Lounge.
This would be the location of my last stand of the trip.
In today's uncertain times,
Don't be a lunk
Gift wrap your trunk