Searching for Cultural Enlightenment in Sin City

Aces and Ales
3740 S. Nellis Blvd.
Las Vegas, NV





The last time I wrote a review in Las Vegas, I think I clearly articulated my distain for Sin City.

Vegas is an inauthentic lowest-common-denominator amusement park for unimaginative American travelers too timid to use their precious two weeks of vacation time to go anywhere real or interesting.

So here I am. On another business trip to Las Vegas.

Trillsville.

Okay. I have an idea. I’ll do what Suit757 always does.

Why should Las Vegas be any different?

I’ll seek out the local crowd -- away from the vulgar tourist masses.

Yep. I’m setting out to find “real” Vegas.

Wherever that might be.

Most of the 40 million tourists who come to Las Vegas every year never venture more than 100 yards in either direction from The Strip.

But as anyone who has sat in a window seat on approach to McCarran International Airport can attest, there is more to Las Vegas than The Strip.

More than two million people live underneath the apartments and residential rooftops that sprawl outward across the desert valley floor as far as the eye can see.

Yeah. That’s where I am headed.

Screw valet parking, lousy beer selection and hoards of 80 year old widows on walkers throwing their Social Security checks into slot machines 25 cents at a time.

I am going to find a local’s hang out to drink real beer with real people.

So I typed my favorite word into Google Maps.

B-E-E-R.

One of the first results that popped up was Aces and Ales, 25 minutes out into the Vegas sprawl.

There was just one problem with my strategy.

There aren’t any “real people” in Las Vegas.

I mean, I’m not saying that Vegas is populated with the Walking Dead, I’m just saying there really isn’t much of a local Las Vegas culture to tap into.

First of all, nobody is actually “from” Las Vegas.

Hanging out with the “locals” in Sin City isn’t like going to a Friday night fish fry with the lumberjacks in Northern Wisconsin.

Workers in Las Vegas don’t grow timber or mine coal or extract oil from the ground or build automobiles.

Virtually everyone in Las Vegas works in one industry: servicing those 40 million tourists -- and each other.

They park your car or carry your bag or give you your room key or slide you a beer or make your bed or cash out your gambling voucher or take off their bikini top for your viewing pleasure or taxi your drunk butt back to your hotel.

All for a tip of course.

So I guess what I’m saying is that hanging out on a Wednesday afternoon with the locals at Aces and Ales wasn’t quite as culturally enlightening as I hoped it would be.

But the beer was top notch.

Aces and Ales is a Las Vegas Mecca for good beer that is open 24 hours per day.

Yeah. Like Sin City itself, this joint NEVER closes.

Aces and Ales was started by bonafide rock star, Keri Kelli, in 2009.

The former guitarist for Alice Cooper loves craft beer and has utilized his connections to some legendary craft brewers to create a destination in this metropolis of mediocrity to try rare high quality beer.

Fortunately I got there just before 3pm -- the start of “Hoppy Hour”. All drafts are five bucks, a steep discount off the high alcohol/high priced beers on tap.

Awesome.

I sat at the only spot at the bar that didn’t have a video poker machine.

And I was the only patron in the place under the age of 70 -- and every one of them had their heads down punching away at the video poker buttons.

Surprisingly, most of them were drinking Budweiser or Miller Lite.

Maybe this isn’t so different from The Strip after all.

The 40ish bartender was friendly and helpful. She flipped the TV to the afternoon baseball game for me and waxed enthusiastically about all the high powered beers on tap.

I started with the Mikkeller Beer Geek Breakfast Stout, from those crazy beer geeks in Denmark who specialize in brewing off-the-wall concoctions for adventurous American craft beer drinkers.

It wasn’t really breakfast time but I suppose 3 o’clock on a Wednesday is close enough.

Malty, sweet and smooth, I’d happily make this beer my breakfast of champions -- if I were to take up beer drinking at 8am.

Probably not a good career move, but as they, say, “You can’t drink all day if you don’t start first thing in the morning!”

Noticing that I liked strong imperial stouts, the bar tender gave me a sample of Nectar Black Xantus, an 11.5% powerhouse of flavor. Luxurious and sweet as liquorish, it was like going straight from breakfast to dessert.

The Stone IRS 2011 was yet another imperial stout -- but very different from the first two. This one was more sour than sweet. Interesting, but not what I’m looking for in a dark beer.

Eventually I switched to a nice IPA by Smog City Brewing out of Southern California called

Hoptonic. Excellent choice. Perfectly balanced with a nice hoppy kick.

If this sounds like a lot of beer, well…

…it was.

And it wasn’t.

Most of the beers are served in small 8oz shot glasses. But that is because they have double to triple the alcohol of a normal beer.

These aren’t gulping beers.

Which was a problem for me when I bit into my Moondog Grilled Cheese Sandwich loaded with pepperoni, salami, cheese, olives and jalapenos.

Most restaurants that serve jalapenos as a garnishment cook the spice right out of the peppers. So I wasn’t too worried when I placed my order.

But after one bite, my head was on fire.

This sandwich included big disks of raw jalapeno -- seeds, stems and all.

Fortunately, the bar tender rushed me a glass of tap water to douse the flames. Wouldn’t want to try that with a ten percent alcohol beer.

While I would have preferred a higher cheese/meat to olives/jalapenos ratio, the sandwich was exactly as advertised.

Can’t complain.

For me, the highlight was the Arrogant Bastard Ale Onion Rings made from scratch with its namesake beer batter.

As I enjoyed my meal, it became clear that as usual I was the only guy in the place nobody knew.

And the only one in a suit. Of course.

Two very old men and a women who has been working in Las Vegas for 47 years sat next to me.

She and the bar tender started whispering about “the good looking guy in the suit.”

I immediately began nervously calculating how many minutes it would take me to finish my beer and get the check.

It didn’t take long before the lady turned my way and began telling me her story of how she came to Vegas, dealt cards for decades at the Sands and then took a job working for the government.

She soon launched into a monologue about how the “difficult working conditions” doing government work were made bearable because of the union.

She is now the union shop steward -- a bonafide government union boss!

“You know, they claim we make $80,000 per year, but that’s not true. I make $39,000. The rest is benefits and that shouldn’t count,” she tried to explain.

“But at least we can’t be fired.”

I didn’t bother to tell her that the $80,000 sure counts for the taxpayer who has to pay the bill.

But that is Vegas culture for you, to the extent that it has one: two million people working hard doing nothing but taking other peoples’ money.

By the time I polished off my sandwich, the bar tender asked me if I minded cashing out since her shift was over.

Even though I was still contemplating one more beer, I didn’t mind at all. This is Vegas. Everyone lives and dies on their tips.

She worked hard and deserved to be tipped for it before she hit the I-515.

Since it was “Hoppy Hour”, my three beers and sandwich were all five bucks each. So $20 plus tax.

I figured if I was paying full price, the tab would be closer to $34. So I left her a $7 tip on my credit card slip.

I guess I was feeling generous since the Depression Era patrons drinking Buds and playing video poker didn’t figure to be big tippers.

Meanwhile, the replacement bartender, a young attractive girl, who possessed the assets to make more money at any number of other various Sin City occupations, took over.

I ordered a pint of Smog City’s Saber Tooth Squirrel, a delicious 7% red ale, from her.

Since it was my last beer, I handed her some cash to pay for it up front and left $1.50 tip on the bar.

Like I said, I appreciate good service.

Just then, Bartender Number One makes her rounds, grabs my credit card jacket and the cash I left for Bartender Number Two and walks off in a huff.

She probably figured all I left her for her TV channel surfing and beer commentary efforts was a buck and half.

Hopefully she figured it out when she looked at the credit card slip.

But that didn’t stop her from pocketing the younger girl’s tip.

So if I ventured out to the Las Vegas suburbs to immerse myself in the real culture of this city, I guess I got what I came for.

From the 70 year old government union boss sitting next to me -- to the bar tender -- everyone’s in competition to pocket everyone else’s money.

And now you understand why I’d just assume hang out with the lumberjacks in Wisconsin.

Rating: Would Wear a Free Shirt.

Faking it in Las Vegas

The Pub
Monte Carlo Casino
3770 S. Las Vegas Blvd.
Las Vegas, NV





I’m probably not the one to write this review.

I’m just not into the Vegas thing.

I don’t get it.

Eighty year old women slouching around casinos on their walkers throwing quarters into slot machines just isn’t that entertaining to me.

Neither is losing money.

Call me crazy. Or cheap. But I kinda like to keep my money. I don’t find losing it to be all that fun.

If you’ve been paying attention to the website, I think you can figure out the kinds of things I like.

Places off the beaten path that reflect the soul of real America – that make travel not only bearable, but memorable or enlightening.

The authentic. The real deal. Mom and pop.

Beer and baseball. Burgers and barbeque.

Regional delicacies in those hidden corners of America that just can’t be found in your suburban strip mall back home.

In other words, I like everything that Las Vegas ISN’T.

It’s probably not a coincidence that after 320 reviews on this site, we’re just now doing the first one in Las Vegas.

I’m not going to insult your intelligence by describing all the ways Las Vegas is the capital of inauthentic American mediocrity.

I mean, in a place with a fake New York City skyline, a fake Eiffel Tower and a fake Venice canal, this city is famous for promoting the fake and inauthentic.

That is obvious.

That is why 40 million people come here every year.

People like fake. And prefer it to the real thing.

Who wants to deal with the expense and hassle of flying to Italy – and those annoying people who don’t bother to speak English -- when you can ride a gondola right here in the good ole U.S. of A?

But surely there has to be some place in this massive metroplex of tourist tripe to get something unique and unusual that I can’t get at home.

As it turns out, Suit757’s parents are the perfect people to ask.

They make half a dozen treks across the continent per year to throw my inheritance into slots and video poker machines.

And I’m fine with that.

Really. I am.

It’s their money. They paid for twelve years of Catholic school tuition and four years of college. They don’t owe me another dime.

Although I really would like them to spend some of it on a rental car and a tank of gas to drive the few hours to the Grand Canyon on at least one of these trips.

Is that asking too much?

I mean, how many dozens of times can you fly to Vegas and refuse to take a day trip to see the single most spectacular natural wonder on Planet Earth???

In other words, my parents are the prototypical Vegas tourists.

Keep it easy, close and familiar. With valet parking, please.

Maybe they’ll go if Steve Wynn will build a fake Grand Canyon on the Strip.

They suggested I go to Todd English’s Pub near the Monte Carlo.

Good beer selection (for Las Vegas) and gourmet pub food created by one of those made-for-TV celebrity chefs all the rage in Sin City these days.

I checked the website. Sure enough, $25 Kobe beef burgers and a beer list that stretches beyond the typical Las Vegas Heineken/Bud Light/Miller Light crap every other bar and casino serves.

The problem is I’m not really a Vegas kind of guy.

I don’t know Todd English from Todd Snider from Todd Palin.

So as I’m riding the hotel shuttle to the strip, I simply plug “Pub Monte Carlo” into my smart phone because I can’t remember the super famous celebrity chef’s name.

Well that was a problem.

You see, there is a beer pub in the Monte Carlo that serves $22 Kobe beef burgers with over 100 microbrews. And it is called “The Pub”.

But it is not Todd English’s Pub.

No. That one is about 200 yards across the Aria lobby.

I’m so confused.

I can locate a back water forgotten fish camp somewhere along a dirt road deep in the bayous of Louisiana, but I can’t find a celebrity’s restaurant in Vegas when I’m two football fields away from it.

Then again, I get lost at the mall too, so maybe this isn’t such a surprise.

The reason I say this is a problem is that the Monte Carlo “Pub” basically stunk.

Literally.

All I could smell was the putrid stench coming out of the dishwasher under my spot at the bar. Like rotting trash.

Not very appetizing.

I wanted to try the Butcher Burger made with half Angus beef and half ground up bacon for $18.

But when I ordered it medium rare, the bar tender told me it only came well done “for safety reasons”. Apparently bacon needs to be cooked thoroughly.

That’s funny, I’ve eaten my share of floppy greasy half cooked bacon in my life and I’m not dead yet.

Scared off by the prospect of a dry overcooked mound of meat, I opted for the $22 Kobe beef burger which my bartender graciously allowed me to order medium rare.

The first problem with this burger is its name. It is a lie.

Virtually no Kobe beef is sold in the United States. Anywhere. Ever. By government fiat.

You can only get it in Japan.

So I have no idea what I was actually eating. Or how they can get away with labeling it something it is not. Or why it cost $22. Other than the fact that I was eating it in Las Vegas.

The false advertising continued when the “caramelized onions” listed on the menu came out as a slice of raw onion.

That irritated me too.

My fake Kobe burger was cooked to a nice juicy pink but the raw onion and big bulky bun overwhelmed the flavor of the meat.

Even if it was from some fancy Japanese cow, I wouldn’t have noticed the nuance because each bite yielded nothing but a mouthful of bread.

More meat. Less bread. That’s what I want on a $22 burger.

By this point, I was getting a little suspicious that I might be in the wrong place.

I mean, is this the best that a “celebrity” Las Vegas chef can do?

That’s when I started looking around.

What was that dude’s name again?

His name was nowhere to be found.

That’s odd.

Isn’t the whole point of opening a celebrity chef Vegas restaurant to plaster your name all over the damn place?

It didn’t take much Google Mapping to figure out I was in the wrong “Pub” selling fake Kobe beef burgers.

Oh well. Too late now.

At least the beer selection was good.

Pilsner Urquel on tap is always an excellent choice. Fresh, unpasteurized crisp beer straight from the city in the Czech Republic that invented pilsner beer.

My second choice was Duhbe Black IPA from Uinta Brewery in Utah. A strong 9% alcohol beer that is illegal to serve on draft in its Mormon home state, I was happy to down one here in Sin City.

Then I got the tab. Fifty bucks.

Fifty bucks! For a fake mediocre burger and two beers.

I thought Las Vegas is where middle class America comes to gorge on cheap beer and all you can eat buffets!

What the hell happened to that Vegas?

On the way back to my hotel I stopped off for an $11 Goose Island Matilda, an $8 Stone Pale Ale and a couple $10 pints of Guinness at the fake Irish Pub featuring a fake Irish band performing fake Irish music in the fake New York New York Casino.

Somehow I managed to blow close to a hundred bucks without playing a single slot machine.

Like I said, I’m not a big fan of losing money in Las Vegas.

Even if it went to a good cause like drinking beer.

Oh well. Those beers may have been obscenely overpriced, but at least I got more in return for my money than my parents ever do.

And at least I’ve actually seen the Grand Canyon.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt if You Paid Me.