Since I have been extremely neglectful of the Cave as of late, I completely forgot to finish the Vegas vacation series. Two posts in two days. Shit...this may become a habit. But probably not.
There is something magical about a restaurant where they wheel a slab of beef right to the table. It sends a message that says, “A Big Slab of Beef is one of the Best Things in Life” which, coincidentally, is also what Clay Aiken will have carved on his tombstone. But anyhow, for those of you who have never been to Lawry’s The Prime Rib, allow me to set the scene.
You enter through one of those rotating glass doors, which I love, because someone is always stupid enough to fall for the, “You first” routine and I can trap them in the doors. That NEVER gets old.
Yes, I am a child.
During the always brief wait for a table, I like to head to the bar for the first of many Fat Tire Amber Ales, but that’s just how I roll. When consuming more protein than a human being should, it is important to lubricate the throat properly with a few drinks. Just ask Snooki, from the Jersey Shore.
Once seated, your server will be called Mrs. Whatever-the-hell-her-name-is because they feel this makes the experience more quaint and rustic. Well fuck quaint in the ear and rustic can kiss my ass; just get to the part where I get to eat. But because I am fucking civilized and classy and shit, I wait patiently through the explanations (for the newbies) and cute little pilgrim jokes until the menus are distributed. This, my gentle reader, is where friendships are made and destroyed in my book. We are at a restaurant with the words PRIME RIB in the fucking name. Why, then, does some insufferable little shit ALWAYS ask what the specials are? And more irritating still, why does a restaurant, with the words PRIME RIB in the fucking name, always have a goddamn fish special?
“Our special today is Chilean Sea Bass lightly braised in a lime aioli soy sauce with a mango and castor oil drizzle, served with a reduction of Tibetan snow peas and aborted baby intestines. The chef highly recommends it.”
We are in an establishment that flushes it’s toilets with rendered animal fat. You can HEAR the blood straining to push it’s way through the almost fully blocked arteries of the regular patrons. Order some fucking beef and have the paramedics standing by, Chief. Daddy’s gotta get his grub on…
FINALLY, the big silver cart rolls over to our table, where some highly-skilled, illegal alien wetback named Paco proceeds to carve the tender slabs of USDA Prime grade extra fucking A on to your waiting plate. It’s actually pretty emotional, even as I sit here writing this. The meat is so soft you can cut it with….well a knife actually. But it’s still the greatest prime rib I’ve ever had, and the fact that it’s actually carved right there at the table, appeals to my latent Neanderthal eat-what-you-kill ancestral memories. No me molesta, Paco. Animal fat is the NECTAR OF THE GODS. By the way por favor, Donde esta el bano?
Meat es muy magnifico, people. Muy f’ing magnifico…
After such a fine meal, there is only one thing to do in Vegas to cap off the evening. Ok, well there are several things you can that would really be pretty awesome, but the one I am referring to doesn’t require a drive to a Pahrump whorehouse and a cursory medical examination by a girl named Justice (Call me!). The ladies wanted to see Barry Manilow, but there was no fucking way any male in this party was going to let that happen. We settled on going to that Elvis Cirque du Soleil show. Because I am a great fan of the King, and the show was created with the expressed written consent of the
National Football League Estate of the Late Elvis Aaron Presley, I even agreed to pay for the tickets. I am so fucking awesome, right?
Until I found out that admission for our party would total just a tad above the cost of an Aston Martin DB9, and that the ridiculously exorbitant amount did not, in fact, include a trip to the aforementioned Pahrump whorehouse. Everybody was back to being responsible for their own damn admission, thank you very much. Enthusiasm dampened by the fact that they had to spend their own money to watch clowns push balls across the stage to the strains of “Hound Dog”(I’m assuming), we instead chose to spend our final night in Sin City getting as drunk as humanly possible while still retaining bladder control. A fine line, as one member of the group, who shall remain nameless, discovered outside of a Sonic Drive In at 4 am. That was some tRICK. Yes, it really was a fRICKen shame. The staff must have had a hell of a time cleaning up the bRICKs outside the restaurant after we left. Yessiree…
Like I said, nameless…