Beer and clothing in Las Vegas

Well it’s over. Tonight the sausage trail came to an end. Last November saw me taking my first trip to the Shetland Islands, tonight I witnessed the final of The World Food Championships. Oh, and if you’re interested the final table drew together the winners of all seven categories to be judged by a panel of professional food critics, judges and celebrities (what the f*** is a professional celebrity?) who finally chose the sandwich category over all others.

Once again I am too far ahead.

I did attend the breakfast buffet this morning, très occupée by any standards. I opted to try some new selections, breakfast spectrum (or something) which looked like a suet based mixture of everything, which was awful. I also finally tried pancakes bacon and syrup, which was awful, far too sweet with no substance or taste to the bacon. As I left the buffet area the queue was immense, I was so glad I had left it until after nine, or had I?

Since I arrived in Vegas I had fallen into the habit of early rising and equally early attendance at the event, usually well before anyone else had really bothered to turn up. I was determined to ensure that today, the last day of the event and also the final event of The Sausage Trail, would be different. After breakfast I downloaded a Red Dwarf episode, watched it then had a snooze for half-an-hour until noon. Satisfied that I had wasted enough time and that the ‘Final Table’ event would be well underway, I showered dressed in the best clothes I had saved for this final event and departed.

I feel that I must state at this point that the my dissatisfaction with Vegas, my jaded gloom, had grown to such a point that I could have quite easily, and happily, stayed in the room downloading TV shows and ordering room service. Moments after I awoke I looked out of the window, my curtains were open, at the gaudy, coloured towers of the hotel facade. My heart sank, more than ever, more than anything, I wanted to be at home. Still, this was the final push, as Catpain Blackudder would have said, so I brushed my hair and combed my teeth, steeled my resolve and set off for Caesar’s Palace.

I had, yesterday or the day before, I forget, stopped using expensive taxis and started using the cheap and impressive monorail. The service runs from The MGM Grand in the South to the remnants of The Sahara in the North (the hotel not the desert). Today I rode al the way to The Flamingo, a rather tired and sad reflection of the glorious, shiny and shallow superficial nonsense it once was. I wandered through yet another casino and mini-mall before traversing the rat-run walkways that link all of the strip hotels and finally arrived at Caesar’s Palace.

The event was cordoned off in a car park between the plaza and the strip. The ubiquitous competition tents were present as were the bars and VIP area. I ordered a G & T as I scoped out the joint, availing myself of the VIP food, fantastic fare, especially the duck and pasta. DJ chef was manning the, whatever DJs man, and gave a running commentary. Evidently the event and judging was due to start at 3PM, I checked my watch. ten minutes to go, yet there was no movement either from the teams or the judges. It then struck me, what a nob!! The outdated colonial approach in this backwater nation was such that the daylight saving happened a week after ours. I WAS EARLY AGAIN! ARSE....

Over the road was the faded grandeur of The Flamingo. The frontage visible from the Palace car-park contained non other than ‘Margaritaville’, the inspiration of Jimmy Buffet. How could I resist? I didn’t. A rum and coke and an opportunity to use their free wi-fi later I was a tad happier and closer to the start of the final judging over the road.

I sat in, what I believe are called here, the bleachers, with another G & T and watched the proceedings.

Seven plates were brought out and sampled as the cooks/chefs were interviewed by Adam. Then the elimination began. One by one the categories were sent on their way. First chilli, then recipe then BBQ then side-dish then chef leaving burger and sandwich to contest the final. (I have not checked notes not corroborated my thoughts so I may be wrong with the order of elimination).

Amidst much whooping and additional consternation the awards were made and then it was all over. I was somewhat disappointed that the recipe category, which was based on lobster infused with butter and god knows what else, was left on the stage looking lonely and ignored. Shame about my gout otherwise I would have snaffled the ‘kin lot.

With the event finished, the celebrities shuffled off to have their photos taken with the contestants, organisers and other celebrities. I sought out Casey and Jeff to express my gratitude. Casey was very interested in the sausage trail and sort of introduced me to Harry, the BBQ entrant from Holland. He was a great guy who was struggling to bring the American approach of BBQ to Europe. We exchanged details, when I say that I do of course mean that he had prepared and gave me a business card and I did nothing. He did agree that sausages should be included. Casey then urged me to talk to the CEO of MMA Creative, the man who had made the whole event possible. I waited and finally spoke to Mike. He was obviously preoccupied but was interested in my suggestion that a sausage category is included next year and that this will increase the international appeal. Of course I offered to form the exclusive front in Europe for this...why do I do these things?

That opportunity aired I left.

The journey back to the hotel was confused by a fault on the monorail leaving only one side of the track working. On my return I was pleased to see that my room had been refreshed. I dropped most of my shit, grabbed my Mac and headed for the bar.

Which is where I now sit, writing, and drinking Bud shite as I watch THE game. It’s the Denver fundamentalists against the Atlanta racists, it’s not I’m just illustrating my ignorance. At half time there will be a raffle, I have two tickets and most honestly hope that I do not win whatever football paraphernalia is on offer.

Back to The Sausage Trail. I do feel slightly deflated and sad that my journey is over. I would like to set off on another adventure immediately but what would be the point? I need to document and journal the past year in an evocative, empathic and entertaining manner. I am highly fortunate in that I have a professional editor on hand to stop me making a nob of myself.

So that’s it. I guess from now on my blog should only be called; ‘Pirate Badgers’.

Happy? No, not really. The way I feel now I wish I was with Emma and the monkeys.