Wikieup Trading Post: super cute old diner, but can't say much about the food. I think grilled cheese and fries was the only vegetarian option other than a cheese enchilada, which was just not going to happen, curious though I was. It seemed unwise.
Driving. Northern Arizona. Wikieup Trading Post. Navigator/Photographer/Documentarian. The Saddest Palm Tree In The World. Sunset on The Strip. The Venetian. Very very good food at Yardbird(watermelon with lemon oil and farmer's cheese; roasted/blackened carrots with coriander and cumin, really great; and pretty definitely the best mac and cheese I've ever had). And a $15 cocktail so unexpectedly delicious that Nelson had two of them, called a Southern Revival (Wild Turkey 81, lemonade, passionfruit, Thai basil). Many games of pool at Dino's Loungeuntil bikers rained on our parade. One as-fast-as-possible beer at Club Platinum not pictured due to the absolute wrongness of it all.
I hadn't been to Las Vegas in 20 years. You forget how easy it would be, given a proper bankroll, to lose entire days there, because it's never nighttime in a casino. Or always nighttime. The lighting never changes, nothing ever closes, everything is always possible. Denver omelette at 4pm? Sure. Martini at 8am? Coming right up. Just as long as you keep spending money.
This would also be the beginning of my recognizing the arcaneness of American menu terms to non-Americans, specifically diner breakfast lingo. "Do you want hash browns or home fries with that?" Ehhm...."Red-eye gravy? Grits?" No idea. "How do you want your eggs, over easy? Sunny side up?" I'll just have pancakes, it's easier.
Pictured: Denver omelette, hash browns, biscuit; short stack with fresh strawberries. Bottomless cups of coffee. Winning big at slots.
So we pick up the van from a very unpleasant woman named Sandy in Las Vegas. Her underling seems frightened to death of her but must really need this job. Or she's his mom. As he's putting our paperwork together, the following conversation ensues:
Underling: "OK, so...there are really only two 'no-go' areas, mkay? Mexico, and Death Valley". Me: "Mm-hm. Yes. What exactly do you mean by 'no-go' areas?" Underling: "It means you, well...can't go there. Our insurance doesn't cover us there."
Me (to myself): "Fuuuuck, really?" Me (to him): "Ah, OK, yeah. Yeah, sure! Got it."
Then I signed and initialed lots of papers that I'm pretty sure said I wasn't going to take their van to Mexico or Death Valley.
Then? I followed the fucking plan* and drove directly to Death Valley. This is the badlands of Zabriskie Point, both with and without Team Photographer Nelson.
Oh yeah, and hilariously, Kevin the van spent the week toying with our nerves by not starting sometimes. The first time he pulled this shit was at Amargosa Opera House and Hotel, pictured below, which is, of course, located in Death Valley Junction where none of the three of us were supposed to be. Imagine my face at the sound of the uselessly clicking ignition.
* Death Valley had been the plan for months. Their website had always said that they didn't advise going to Death Valley between May and September, but you could still do it. If you had a breakdown, however, you were fucked: you were completely liable for the van and any extortionate repair costs. I quickly computed the likelihood of Sandy and myself having a productive conversation about what their website said vs. what her underling had just told me and decided that I should probably just take my chances. I mean, "what could go wrong in Death Valley?"
This is an often-NSFW, mostly gluten-free kitchen notebook that also occasionally threatens to turn into something else and fails, thus remaining its same old cryptic and superficial self. These posts begin to fail to explain (start at the bottom).