|Barely pertinent Fremont Casino photo taken at the wrong time of day for this blog post, but featuring painted ladies.|
Not a little pecker, you pervs with bad eyesight, peckish, PECKISH. As in so hungry I could eat an El Cortez Keno lounge naugahyde seat cover.
I was very, very hungry.
I knew just what to do about it, too. The thing that I would do, that would fix the thing that I had to do something about, that thing, was... to... eat lunch.
Hey, not every blog post can be an E. L. James literary spank-fest leather clad sweaty red-skinned masterpiece. Whaddaya want for nuttin' ?
I happened to know a little out-of-the-way, quaint, secluded restaurant downtown that served the most incredible, delicious, delightful, calorific, large-portioned steam tray culinary delights... and I headed there forthwith.
The best part? My 1960s style California Meal Coupon books (pictured in an earlier post, labeled a 'pocket dump') would cover my gourmet lunch in toto! (The totality, not the inbred dog. Did someone say a breaded dog? That would be a Pogo. Or Corndog.)
Where are you going with this, Flushiepants???!!!!
Fine, fine, okay, I'm going to the goddamned Lanai Express food court for some gut-bombing Chinese.
No reservation needed! But still, so very popular, that one often had to line up to obtain the day's unique treats!
So, I slid over to the Fremont Hotel and Casino, and made my way to the Lanai Express. To my delight, the line-up was really quite manageable.
And I found myself getting to know some rather cheery (and large, it must be said) Latino fellows from L.A., just in front of me in line, who specialized in creating and driving those delightful automobiles that jump up and down with incredible vigour! I love such a spectacle! Who would ever have thought that a vintage Impala could hump the pavement like a '6 months and done' adult film starlet doing it in the 'reverse cowgirl' style?
I am not stereotyping. These lads I mentioned had matching shirts that professed their hobby, and the environs in which they engaged in said hobby (Los Angeles). Humping Impalas. Tassles. Velvet. Chrome. All of that.
Flushiepants fears no man in such circumstances, and so it was that I struck up a conversation with the one next to me, the largest, meanest, most muscular-looking one, probably the 'chief' of his car customizing buddies.
My opening line, sure to elicit lively conversation, went like this:
"I'll give you a buck if you can eat one of those hot dogs."
One of THESE hot dogs.
You know what's worse than frankfurters that spin for about 3 days non-stop on one of those rotary displays full of rotating heated tubes at the Woolworth's lunch counter, in an endless, dizzying, slow roasting, grease rancidifying tilt? I'll tell you what. Said frankfurters that would give their bloated, sunburned, blistered skins if only they could instead spend life as a delicious drink inside the Honey Dew drink dispenser with the plastic tank on top that had the Honey Dew drink pumped endlessly, on the inside, in an infinite cascade, the only way out from which was to end up in your waxed paper cup.
I think Honey Dew is a Canadian thing, but you get the picture. Hot dogs have it rough! Just ask anyone in working the graveyard shift in Emergency on Hallowe'en.
The thing about the Lanai Express chinese food - it's tasty, it's cheap (coupon, baby), no, wait, it's still cheap at $6.99, if you have to pay for the two item Combo plate, and they pile the food on like you were having a last meal before trudging across the tundra, mile after mile, trudging across the tundra... right down to the Parish of St. Alphonso.
|When there's condensation on the food, you know it's going to be, well, special!|
|I'll have the mountain of Orange Chicken, heavy on the breading, easy on the chicken.|
The 'hot dogs'. The 'frankfurters'. Dear Jesus God, these things looked like they'd been dragged by a Low Rider for a lap or two before being chucked in the steam table bin for about three weeks. (See above.)
You could not pay me to eat one of these. But I could pay my new friend with the 18" biceps and (surprise) black t-shirt to eat one, maybe.
Actually, it was kind of funny, the big latino guys were hell bent on kicking back and bustin' ass with some low ridin'... shrimp cocktails?
Yeah, six of them. Three per very large guy.
I glanced back at the little Indian fellow in line behind me, who looked a tad out of place, given that his stomping grounds were, as far as I could suss out from his manner of dress and the faint scent of spice (Buryani?) on his long sleeved shirt, was from Hyderabad in Andhra Pradesh, India. What he was doing in a steam table lineup that served none of the delicacies of his homeland, and dished out mountains of cholesterol-laden crap... I will never know.
I gave him a knowing 'mountain of crap' nod.
"Hyderabad." I said with authority. "Right? Right?..."
He ignored me.
|Tats 'n cocktail sauce. So El Badass!|
"That wouldn' be so baaad..." he said.
So, now, I had to temper my argument, which I had originally stated with unmistakable black and white precision, that any consumption of the displayed Death Dogs would surely lead to... death, I guess.
Yes, I backed away like a fucking coward.
"I... I guess under certain... circumstances? It would be okay. It can't be as bad as it looks. The road burns are just on the surface anyway, right?"
My meal got ordered and the staff loaded up the custom-designed one of a kind, petroleum-based 'styrofoam' holder. What a delight!
The team members of the car club got their little shrimp cocktails and pushed down to the cash, I got my 'styrofoam' gourmet stir fry meal (I'd opted for chicken in black bean sauce, along with the exotic 'fried rices' to go in a pairing with the Orange Chicken Delight) and the little Indian fellow behind me, wagging his chin slightly to and fro in a manner that spoke either of the elegant Hindi culture, or perhaps the globally loved musical performances of Mr. Stevie Wonder, ordered, to my shock, surprise, and perhaps guilty delight - because I would soon witness his death - One. Chili. Dog.
Holy fucking karma crap.
|One Chili Salmonella Dog!|
"Bet you a dollar he don' live," I said.
Everybody laughed a healthy, appetite-increasing laugh.
At the register, the lovely young attendant agreed to give me a portion of milk, cow's milk, hopefully no offense to anyone, and include it's cost in what was covered by the coupon. Her reward? A generous shiny nickel, tossed into the tip jar.
(Please. I gave her a buck, ok???? Screw you for believing that.)
Yes, I donated a generous filthy, damp, soiled dollar bill, to tide her over between gigs at the Gentleman's Club.
I took care to dress my authentically ethnic meal (with complimentary Sricrotchi sauce), and found myself a table. It had to be the best table ever - it was almost clean.
|A Feast for King Flushiepie! A Feast!!!|
As I delicately savored every bite of the exquisite Orange Chicken, I saw the most beautiful young girl, clear of skin, firm of breast, and 72% free of tattooed skin.
I smiled a non-threatening smile at her as she walked by - and on her tray I noticed.... a foot long hot dog?
I thought it was an anomaly that Mr. Hindi had ordered a Chili Dog from the Bin of Steamy Despair - because nobody in their right mind was supposed to actually eat those beaten up e-coli tubers.
And here she was! Another hot dog eater! About to dig in!
And why not?
There is no lady-like way to eat a foot long hot dog.
As I burped my way out of the Lanai Express Gourmet Dining Lounge, yes, I felt sated... but there was something else on my mind.
Something... lost. Forbidden. Hidden away atop the 90 story Fremont Hotel and Casino tower.
(Okay, 14 stories.)
The fabled, lost, enigmatic Sky Room.
Note: I am no longer live in Vegas. How long can a lost weekend last, anyway? Crikey these tales take a long time to spin! Thanks for sticking with me. There is lot's more to come.
A big Veeblefetzer thank you to Boogaloobboy for supporting the Strict Rules of Parlay (Queensbury Variation)!
Thanks!!! It's really appreciated. F.P.
Thanks!!! It's really appreciated. F.P.