More illusions of grandeur

Vegas is hard. Too much to do. Too little time. Too little money. Too little sleep. Too many (beloved, evil) slot machines. You have to keep up with a crazy city built on illusions, some of which come in the form of being constantly accosted on the streets by people trying to entice you with girls and “free” shows.

Well, we fell hard and fast for the latter, even in full knowledge of having to sit through a 90-minute presentation on time-share opportunities at the soon-to-open new Planet Hollywood Towers. But we thought what the hell – all we had to do was pretend we were from Djibouti (South Africans don’t qualify – don’t ask, I don’t know why) and listen to a schpiel before we would be rewarded with massively discounted tickets to a show featuring none other than the bimbo ex-Playgirl Holly Madison.

Of course we didn’t count on getting a salesman from Morocco when we decided to be from Djibouti, so there were one or two agonizing moments of having to answer questions about that country’s language and currency. Fortunately my guess at the Djibouti Franc was indeed correct, but there is no language called Djibouti (hey, for a country with an eponymous capital city, anything is possible). But Mr. Morocco-turned-American-citizen-now-selling-Planet-Hollywood-time-shares didn’t catch on, so we emerged relatively unscathed (2 hours later!), and happily claimed our Holly Madison tickets.

We planned to reward ourselves with lunch at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon, but that was closed, so we ended up back in the fake world of Venice, at Wolfgang Puck’s Postrio. It was very very good.


The Philosophe’s burger was the kind that a lightweight shouldn’t mess with, and as it turned out, he is a (Vegas) lightweight. He was defeated by it. And so was I by my “light” selection of three house-made sausages (chicken and sundried tomato, black pepper and pistachio, and smoked kielbasa). But we were happily sated by fine fare and excellent service.

Much later, Holly Madison, alas, was much less to write home about. So no more about that here.

Lunch today: the legendary Fatburger.


Look at that cute “Babyfat” (ie. small). It was the perfect size for this doctor. My gallant companion, however, was defeated once again by his bigger version. I don’t blame him though – everything here is TOO BIG. I couldn’t even finish my super-size breakfast apple this morning.

But at least the burgers here are real.

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