ONLINE GAMBLING AND CASINO GUIDE

There is probably no worse fate in Vegas than to get a visit from a relative who arrives on Friday afternoon and stays until Sunday evening.  It’s the sociologic equivalent of a prostate exam performed by the Tasmanian Devil on crack.

Unfortunately, yours truly is currently suffering this fate.

After spending Friday night doing the typical tourist thing, “there’s the Bellagio Fountains”, “there’s the Stratosphere”, “there’s a bus that will take you to El Paso … go ahead, get on it, the ticket’s on me” — I crashed and slept late for the first time in five years.

Once everyone had awakened on Saturday, we were presented with the usual visitor dilemma.

“Where should we eat?”

I suggested the Wynn Buffet.

“Oh god, I ate there last time and it was awful!”, said our visitor.

“Really?”, I said with some surprise.

She went on to explain that something was too wet, too dry, too hot, or too cold, but it was all blasphemy to me.

I give Wynn a fair amount of crap because of his Jesus complex, his alleged penchant for choking ladies in the parking lot, the mainstream smokage of his pole when he spouts bullsh*t, and the whole tip stealing thing … but unless I am addressing the man specifically, I don’t think you will ever see me use the words “Wynn” and “Sucks” in the same sentence.

Let’s face it, love the guy or hate him, his properties are top-shelf.  Both the Wynn and Encore are always clean, the staff is usually pleasant, and the restaurants are also above average.

I went to the Wynn Buffet the day it opened, and since that day it has been my favorite buffet.  Other people disagree, and I fully support the dissent (disagreement is what makes a market), but of the dozens of times I have been to the feedbag it has never “sucked”.

I tried to convince our “guest” that her experience was an anomaly, and even suggested alternate buffets, but to no avail.

“I don’t want to go to touristy places, take me someplace local”, she said.

Living damn near equidistant from both the Bellagio and the Fremont canopy, I tried to explain that places like the Wynn and Main Street Station were local, but again, I was overruled.

As a practical matter, I do have several favorite local places which are off the tourist radar such as Mack Ribz BBQ, Boston Pizza, and Tacos Mexico, but most of my food is usually consumed within the confines of casino eateries … usually at a discount because the house covets my $5/hand Blackjack and $12/month of Video Poker.

When you are a whale like myself, $3 off The Sahara Buffet is yours for the asking.  There are certain benefits to being a pimp.

Anyway, one of the great things about shuttling back and forth between my two hometowns was the halfway point.

Philadelphia.

I spent quite a bit of time in the city, and I actually got my second tattoo (a portrait of Steve Wynn’s genitalia) inked onto my flesh at a parlor on South Street.

When I went to Philly, it was also quite common for me to hit the south side and stop at the famous “Pat’s and Geno’s” corner.  I couldn’t tell the difference between the two steaks, so I usually just chose the one with the shortest line.

Given that my guest was of the East Coast persuasion not far from the city of Brotherly Shove, I opined that she might like Pop’s.

For those who are unaware, Pop’s is our local authentic Philly Cheesesteak stand.  Depending on who you ask, Pop’s is the greatest thing to happen to Las Vegas since the moon landing (which was staged just north of Downtown).

My guest finally agreed to a suggestion, and after watching a pig fly overhead while listening to a report about a snowstorm in hell, we piled into my Porsche and headed to the intersection of Alta and Decatur.

Once at Pop’s, we ordered a couple of cheesesteaks, fried okra, and sweet potato fries.

The order window reminded me of Pat’s and Geno’s except that the employees were actually very pleasant and open to my ordering like a noob.  The two South Philly institutions were slightly intimidating because everyone else in line always knew the secret handshake and they had a supercool way of ordering.

“Gimme a steak with whiz, choppers on the get down, flip-flop razamatazz”, or whatever the hell they would say.

In Philly, I just ordered in plain English like a douche from another planet, but I always got one hell of a sandwich anyway.

Just about everything at Pop’s is imported from Philadelphia, including the bread.

I don’t view this importation as a positive referendum on Pop’s as much as I considered it a paramount insult to Las Vegas.  Jesus Tapdancing Christ, when people have to ship bread from 3,000 miles away to make the best sandwich in Vegas … just imagine how bad locally-produced goods must suck the meat puppet.

Working solely from memory, I don’t remember either Philly establishments having a menu as diverse as that of Pop’s.  Pop’s doesn’t just serve steak, but also chicken, barbeque, and a large number of side dishes.

The sandwiches themselves were quite good, and I honestly would put it up against Illadelph’s finest.  It more or less is a Philly Cheesesteak joint complete with Philly owners and Philly ingredients, so this should come as no great shock.

It is such an exact replica, in fact, that an in-depth review of the food is moot.  If you’ve had Pat’s … if you’ve had Geno’s … you’ve more or less had Pop’s.  Making a comparison to one of these institutions is probably the greatest compliment you can pay to a sandwich joint in the USA.

In the interest of full disclosure, pizza is my comfort food of choice.  I don’t crave cheeseteaks nearly as much as Philadelphia ex-patriots, and I could never go head-to-head with a true native’s expertise.  That being said, having eaten the real thing back East on many occasions, and based solely on my own personal recollection, this is as authentic as it gets.

After the steak experience, we headed back into the city, passing the world’s ugliest building and the new Symphony Park construction site.  I grabbed a few shots for documentary purposes.

The project is coming along … slowly but surely.

Now if you will excuse me, I am off to the airport to drop off some baggage.

My own weekend being somewhat ruined, I may see if it is somehow possible to bribe the airline into showing “The Hangover” as the in-flight movie for the return trip.

Payback is a bitch.

• Keep updated through Newsletter or on Facebook

  E-mail:
  

  Subscribe
  Unsubscribe