The Southwest - Part 17

STILL August 29th - Will you still respect me in the morning?

Now that we were flush with cash, we decided to go for food.  Beer is food right?

A friend, or should I say former friend, of mine had insisted that anyone visiting Las Vegas just has go to the Double Down Saloon.

I don't know about you, but to me a name like Double Down Saloon sounds like a quaint little tex-mex restaurant.  This being Vegas there would probably be some video poker machines scattered around.
 
Well friends, this is not tex-mex.  

For those of you who have been there: shame on you.

For those that haven't, the Double Down Saloon is the self-described "happiest place on Earth".  Greasier than the KFC sandwich named after it (and far more guilt-inducing), merely crossing the threshold immediately drops you three rungs down the social ladder of polite society.

The Saloon is located in a nondescript building, with no signage anywhere.  So the paramedics will never find you.  Walking in from the hot Vegas sun you squint into a nearly impenetrable shroud of darkness.  As it turns out, this darkness is a metaphor; for your soul.

Seems legit to me.

Once the door had slammed shut behind us, I found myself instinctively reaching for my  rape whistle   wallet.  From somewhere to the right I heard a voice: "You want a drink?"

I couldn't see him, but he promised booze.  I had to risk it.

"I'll take your finest beverage, drop-shotted into your second finest."  I'm all class.

As it turns out, there are two specials at the Double Down.  The first is the notorious "Ass Juice", sold to unsuspecting newbies with the slogan "from our ass to your glass".  The second, the famed the Bacon Martini.  Which is exactly what it sounds like: awful.

I got one of each.  At the barman's advice, I also bought two beers as chasers. 

So I have good news and bad news.  The good news is, despite their best efforts, the Ass Juice is fucking delicious.  The bad news is the Bacon Martini is concentrated evil. 

It is literally made of vodka with pieces of bacon floating in it.  Thankfully (most of) the bacon bits are strained out during pouring.  The result is a salty, alcoholic monstrosity that will not only put hair on your chest but your head on the floor and someone's hand down your pants.

Stubbornly ignoring everything my mother ever tried to tell me, and a very determined gag-reflex, I managed to finish the Bacon Martini.  

At this point, I had consumed four drinks in the span of about half an hour and had completely abandoned all thoughts of breakfast (and being a responsible adult).  

Had I not been mercifully tanked at this point, I would have gone home to bathe in hand sanitizer. 

My mom would be so proud.