 Hard Rock Cafe
I found myself in Vegas for one of those impromptu "Hey, let's all meet in Vegas!"-type weekends organized by someone for a friend's birthday. You know, see some people I hadn't seen in awhile, have some drinks, make fun of stuff, catch up, etcetera. Some people have a real affinity for Vegas, but my appreciation would more accurately be pegged as "impatient tolerance," and being there in a group didn't help matters. By yourself or with one similar-minded person, you can at least go see the stuff that most appeals to you. Factor in a bunch more people, and the lowest common denominator is what you'll get. Which is how I ended up, on my final night there, despite the proliferation of many expensive and decadent restaurants up and down the Strip, at the motherfucking Hard Rock Cafe, our mutual friend's choice for her big birthday dinner. Going to the Hard Rock Cafe at all, anywhere, is already a singular act of defeat. In walking through its doors, you simply surrender the desire for an exquisite meal or unique experience in favor of solid, banal, inoffensive lameness. You can't really go wrong with a meal at the Hard Rock, but you won't go especially right there, either. It's the restaurant equivalent of a James Bond movie … no surprises. But going to the Hard Rock in Vegas? Why, that is simply perverse. That is saying to God, "Ha! See this! I'm not even going to try to find somewhere fun to go! Of all the splendors in your kingdom, I choose the Hard Rock Cafe, where my maximum potential enjoyment is 60%!!!!" Hm, actually, maybe God would approve of the Hard Rock Cafe in Las Vegas … it certainly is one of the least Vegas-ish places in Vegas. The restaurant is not even part of the hotel/casino, but rather situated in the parking lot a block or so away, like a Chilis or Applebees or whatever. Oh wait, I forgot: "Clapton is God." Now it all makes sense. For what it was, it was fine. Everyone had an alright time. The food was huge and satisfying, the drinks were middle-of-the-road, the service was forgettably functional, and no one died. The music memorabilia was sufficient … I got to see a 4-page letter written by a post-high school Madonna, and dine in the shadow of Sammy Davis Jr.'s pants. But this was a far cry from the singular Las Vegas dining extravaganza I was seeking. I should have gone instead to Cirque de Soleil's Appétit, where you can taste the world's finest French-Canadian delicacies while being bent into impossible shapes on a four-seater trapeze. Sigh. No, as with the rest of Vegas, that doesn't actually exist. Just smoke and mirrors to make you feel like you're having a better time than you are.
Review by Short Shortman, March 2004 |