Moi J'adores The Cosmopolitan.
It is chic in a totally non-fussy way. There is ample seating which is a rarity in Las Vegas and unheard of on Le Strip. The art is funky and world class. All in all, The Cosmopolitan is exactly what this burgh has needed for a long time. A hip and urbane place that locals can dig even while surrounded by Tourist Girls in Sausage Casing Skank Dresses.
Did I mention, J'adore The Cosmopolitan?
Well. I do.
Fuckin' Holsteins, on the other hand, should be 86'd from The Cosmo as it drags down the property like that fat dude Sandra Bullock was married to at a Bat Mitzvah.
Way total bummer.
So.
Me and The Bestie decided to sashay over to The Cosmo to check out the "secret Pizza place". Upon entering Moi decides it isn't quite what I am looking for at the moment.
I say, "let's go to Holsteins."
Cue ominous music.
"Don't go in the basement White girl!"
My first clue as to where the evening would be going was when we were greeted by the hostess. About 12, she was dressed in a dowdy outfit that looked like nuns forced her to wear it due to the itchy underbits that kept a tortured grimace on her innocent, Squirrel in the headlights face.
"Um, we're, um, really, um busy. It's like a hour wait, un, I think. But, you can eat in the waiting, bar sorta area."
Okaaay.
So.
We sat and waited for our waitress.
Who knew we could have read the first three chapters of a Suze Orman book in the time it took for our server to arrive?
Who. Knew.
So.
The Bestie loves dark meat.
But.
That's a whole 'nother story.
Where was I?
Oh. Yeah.
He orders a "WELL DONE" whatever Burger. I order the Kimchee thingee Medium Rare. We were asked what kind of fries we wanted? I said the chip things and I forget what The Bestie ordered. It would turn out to matter. Later.
We also ordered two of their signature Milk Shakes. Lactose intolerant Negro that I am, I still could not resist two of my favorite fat boy things combined, booze and Ice Cream! They were all right. In fact, they were the best thing about this whole Gawdawful, I'd rather be sitting through an endless loop of "Trog" starring Joan Crawford during her "A Bitch needs a job, ok?" period, Holsteins experience.
About 3 hrs later the server..oh, wait, did I mention this was like the third server we had seen by this point?
Didn't I?
Silly Me.
"W-T-F!" screeched the bestie.
Rememember, he had ordered "WELL DONE!" This looked like one of those partial birth abortions that Republicans are always going on about.
Umbilical cord and all.
Really. I swear.
Now. It gets GOOD.
Our server (like #15 at this point) had the temerity to say with a straight face to The Bestie who was bugged out by all the blood in front of him, "That's our version of 'WELL DONE!'"
Really?
No, seriously?
It's a good thing Sally Field didn't have to go up against this Bitch when they were casting for Norma Rae. That would have been an Oscar she would never have put on her commode shelf. The utter sincerity with which she said it was Gobsmackingly audacious and worthy of not only an Oscar, but, the ultimate glory, A GOLDEN GLOBE!
So.
I said "you need to take that back and burn it." Server #15 started away. "Um, excuse me, but, you need to take mine as well", says Moi. "Why?" says #15. "Because I don't want to be eating my food while he has none."
At this point #15 is truly going for for the triple crown, she's going to add an EMMY!
Daytime.
"What's wrong with that?"
Why nothing.
Nothing at all.
If you were born of Lesbian Wolves.
Who the hell would eat in front of a fellow diner for Gawd only knows how long it was going to take while whomever brought back The Besties burger?
As. If.
So.
Along comes, I kid you not, servers #16 AND #17! Two pimple faced kids who looked like they just won a bad acid trip to Willy Wonkas Chocolate Factory on "Underwear Night". Guess what they brought us? No. Really. Guess.
Give up?
Two
entirely wrong burgers.
"IT'S NOT MY FAULT! I JUST BROUGHT OUT WHAT THEY GAVE ME!", said Wednesday Adams. "I'M JUST A RUNNER!", said Bobby Brady as he sulked away.
"What's the problem?" It was #15. Yet. Again.
"Well, other than your Kansas City Bomber attitude" I silently thought in my grade school Russian, "these burgers are BOTH wrong."
Eyes rolled as she snatched the plates up and shoved them at Wednesday with a gruff send off to whatever table they were meant for not knowing whether or not I had flavored them with Coke boogers, or whatever.
FINALLY, we got the burgers we ordered correctly cooked.
They were OK.
Just.
THEN.
The bill arrived.
I have never wanted to see a bill so badly in my entire life.
Well. At least one that I was paying. Trust. MANY times I have been glad to see a bill arrive, but, that's because a wrinkly old white hand covered in liver spots would finally have something to do other than trying fondle me whilst I simply wanted to enjoy my Creme Brulee.
That Tyler Brulee guy is sorta hot.
But. I digress.
Where was I?
Oh. Yeah. The fucking bill.
After 17 servers and what seemed like enough time to give a coffee enema to the Ed Hardy wearing tourists next to us, the bill was $65!
So. It took SIX burgers to get the order right. Those "what kind of fries would you like?" were not what came with the burger. Oh. No. They were extra. The shakes while good had come at the cost of a meal that SOMEHOW added up to about three times what I would normally want to pay IF it had come through a window with a Clowns head attached. If only.
So.
I wrote quite a little letter on the "How Did We Do?" card.
Stop.
"How Did We Do?"
Are you fucking kidding me? Did Pol Pot give out such cruel cards after a "visit"?
I wrote all over that thing and sent it back WITH my card to pay for this little bit of no reason for cows to have died for.
Oh, yes I did.
And you know what happened?
They committed the Ultimate Las Vegas Sin.
No. Not signing Shania Twain for a long term run. She's got like two songs and a bad divorce, am I right?
No.
Worse.
No manager came out to see if "something was wrong?" No anything taken off the bill. No care whatsoever that a customer was NOT a happy camper.
Nada. Zilch. Bupkus (or however you spell that).
Just "give us your money and Sod Off!"
Numerous calls and Tweets later, still, NOTHING.
So.
If you are simply dying for a burger.
On a desert island.
With Rush Limbaugh.
And a branch of Holsteins.
Eat Rush.
At least you might get a Viagra boner.
The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas
3708 Las Vegas Boulevard South
Las Vegas, NV 89109
Holsteins
Who Gives a crap.
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