With yet another summer begun for me, it was time to head to the border (the Cali-Nevada border, that is) for another dance competition with my youngest and the rest of the family. I started Dianderthal two years ago just before this same competition in Vegas with not much hope that I’d keep it going for more than a week or two, as I’m good with starting, not with maintaining. And still I’m here, with many, many food experiences shared and plenty of unfortunate typos and grammatical errors (I’m working on my revision/editing skills).
While I tried some great dishes on my previous trips, to the LV, this time I was on a straight-up mission to eat Vegas. I think I did a pretty good job considering I was there just three-point-five days and had to juggle gambling (I lost), two days of dance, lazy rive time, and the preferences of fam of five. Good thing I stayed busy – who knows how much more of Vegas I may have eaten. I probably should have jogged back home rather than nod off in the passenger seat as the hub drove so I could burn just half of the calories I must have sucked up on my trip.
I buffeted it.
I’m definitely not a buffet girl but everyone said I had to try Wicked Spoon, the bad-ass buffet at The Cosmo. Nowhere to be found are troths of gravied meat or jumbo pans of warming vegetables in a stewy bath. This place puts the individual in buffet with single-serve plates and dishes (and baskets!) that eaters can pick up to populate their plates. This sort of thing thrills me since I have a thing about disparate types of food touching one another (e.g. I wouldn’t appreciate the sauce from my teriyaki chicken sliding over and seeping into, say, my cornbread muffin). They offer “all you can drink” wine (in quotes because there’s a time limit of 2 hours, which doesn’t even begin to contain all that I can drink) and lots of options from around the globe. My favorites were the fried chicken wings and the Heathbar chocolate covered strawberries.
I late nighted it.
Also in The Cosmo, I enjoyed two greasy slices of pie late night at the joint that has no name, but is known by the masses as Secret Pizza (and also Hidden Pizza). We just walked up to staff and asked “Pizza?” and were quickly told to go upstairs and down the hallway plastered with retro record albums.
And I made it back home, full and then some. Good thing it’s time to start training again for my next half marathon.