Las Vegas – Chasing Phantoms

BrewDog Brewing in Las Vegas

You may remember that earlier this year I took a road trip through the Mojave along Death Valley Road (known to you mortals as CA Route 127). It was a fascinating though slightly melancholy trip, with far more going on than you’d expect for a desert drive. And relevant for today’s blog post is the restaurant where I got lunch right after picking up my rental car in Las Vegas. It’s a place called BrewDog.

BrewDog is a brewery chain, but we won’t hold that against them. Their operation in Las Vegas is hip and vibrant, and has a comfortable rooftop patio where you can literally look down on the streetbound tourists.

I took a seat at a table in the shade (the thermometer had already entered the 90s when I arrived for lunch). And because I already knew my October blog posts would feature Bavarian pretzels, I figured I’d get one in the can early. So I ordered BrewDog’s “warm pretzel with beer cheese and honey mustard dips.” Are you imagining it the same way I did? It’s a single pretzel with two dips, so surely it’s a big Bavarian pub pretzel.

But no, it’s not. It’s three funny-looking, braided breads.

Despite their disappointing format, these pretzelish loaves showed some promise. They were generously salted, they glistened with brushed-on butter, and they were oven-warm.

I took a bite. It presented just the right amount of chewy “give”to the texture, which was also abetted by the presence of crunchy chunks o’ salt. I then dipped a piece in the beer cheese, which tasted quite delicious indeed. It was creamy and tangy and warm, with a barely-detectable beer finish. (The honey mustard, on the other hand, was thin and watery, with a heavy sweetness and almost no mustard. It tasted like honey mustard salad dressing. Which perhaps it was.)

Anyway, I figured I’d just stick to the beer cheese. I took another bite, and it too was good, although the top of the beer cheese was beginning to congeal. I stirred it up a bit and tried a third bite. This time I noticed that the “pretzel”was beginning to get tough.

To cut to the chase: This dish was quickly passing its eat-by date…which is about three minutes after it’s placed on the table. Bite by bite, it became progressive tougher, like quick-set mortar. After I managed to gnaw through the first loaf, I gave up, for the second had the consistency almost of a Snyder’s of Hanover hard pretzel. And anyone who’s shared a meal with me knows I am not a slow eater!

Meanwhile, the cheese dip remained tasty, but quickly developed the consistency of latex paint that’s in an old can that’s been on the garage shelf since the first George Bush administration.

I suspect microwave usage. To be fair to BrewDog, they probably expected that this dish of three pretzels would be shared by a group of people, and thus consumed quickly. I was treating it as a leisurely meal. But still, microwaving bread (if that’s what they did) is unacceptable.

Golden retriever on a bicycle reaching toward a microwave

3 stars for the first pretzel, 0 stars for the second and third, for a weighted score of 1 star.

PRETZEL TRIVIA

I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t realize until today that October is National Pretzel Month.

What I did already know, and surely every schoolchild knows, is that National Pretzel Day is April 26.

So why is National Pretzel Day not part of National Pretzel Month? The day was proclaimed in 2003 by Pennsylvania’s then-governor Ed Rendell. Naturally the proclamation emphasized the importance of pretzels to Pennsylvania’s economy and society. (We’ll overlook the fact that a state’s governor declared a national holiday.)

National Pretzel Month, on the other hand, has murkier provenance. According to the Infallible ChatGPT, “The exact origins and official creation date of National Pretzel Month (celebrated annually in October) are obscure and undocumented.” But I suspect the National Bakers Association (“The voice of the baking industry”) had a hand in it. In any event, October makes sense as the best time for celebrating pretzels, given Oktoberfest and all. (And yes, I’m aware that Oktoberfest doesn’t align exactly with the month of October, but Americans don’t care about that part.)

But wait! J&J Snack Foods, the conglomerate that make the Superpretzel I reviewed recently, claims that April in National Soft Pretzel Month! So literally one-sixth of the entire year is devoted to celebrating pretzels in one form or another.

Clearly this is a cynical ploy to sell more Superpretzels, since the promotional poster they sent to schools everywhere includes trivia facts like “Every year Superpretzel bakes 1 billion pretzels” and “[Superpretzel’s parent company] is the largest manufacturer of soft pretzels in the world.”

So I’m going to ignore April and instead stand by the (relatively) honest National Pretzel Month designation for October, and I hereby retroactively declare this month’s blog entries to be my humble contribution to this most auspicious celebration.

MAILBAG

Loyal reader Pam S., borrowing a page from the Da Vinci Code, thinks she made have discovered a hidden element in the Last Supper portrayal I shared on Monday:

Spring officially began a few days ago, which of course signals the opening of road trip season. And right on cue, loyal reader Peter D. helpfully sent us a Los Angeles Times article highlighting a stretch of highway in the Mojave Desert that piqued our interest. It’s California Route 127, and it’s known to old-timers as Death Valley Road. It dates back to the FDR administration–or, perhaps more relevant for a California highway, it dates back to the administration of Governor James “Sunny Jim” Rolph, Jr, a man who lasted three years in office before he collapsed and died while campaigning for re-election.

Route 127 is about 91 miles miles long, running along the eastern edge of Death Valley National Park from the Nevada state line down to the town of Baker on Interstate 15.

And so this morning I took a cheap Southwest flight to Las Vegas, where I rented a car and set out to explore this fabled (?) stretch of roadway. I’m going to cover the full 91 miles, but first I had to get there.

As luck would have it, getting to the beginning (or end, depending on your perspective) of Route 127 meant driving a stretch of US Route 95, which is a highway I explored in 2021. Attentive readers might recall that I got as far south as Beatty, Nevada on that trip. Today I had the opportunity to cover another stretch of US 95, between Las Vegas and Beatty. I must say, it’s a whole lotta nothin’.

*“In the desert you can’t remember your name/’cuz there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.”*

Well, not quite nothing. While looking for a gas station, I saw this sign along US 95:

Now, Area 51 is indeed in this general area, but this facility and signage feel a little too obvious:

It turned out to be one of those combination convenience store/alien souvenir junk/gas station operations. (It’s almost identical to Jackass Joe’s, that I visited in Utah last year.) But this UFO-themed place has another distinguishing feature:

That’s right–the front door of the Älien Cathouse is right next to the gas station’s water and air hoses. As you may or may not know, brothels are legal in Nye County, Nevada. While I was pumping my ethyl (if you’ll pardon the expression) a husband and wife were posing with their young children in front of the Cathouse.

I got back on the road, and after a short time I was approaching the California state line, where I passed a Last Chance Nevada casino whose roadside calling cards are, confusingly, a giant pig and a giant cow.

(Interesting side note: The cow used to stand atop the now-defunct “Holy Cow! Casino and Brewery”in Las Vegas.)

Finally, as I crossed into California, I was instantly on California Route 127. I was eager to see for myself the road that the LA Times calls an “antidote to the frantic pace of our modern condition, a necessary pause to see not what has been forgotten, but what endures.”

Shortly after starting my journey along CA 127, I arrived at a magical place called Death Valley Junction (pop: 3). The town was founded in 1907, when the Tonapah and Tidewater Railroad ran a spur line here to serve the Pacific Coast Borax Company’s plant. (You have to admire the chutzpah of naming a mining operation in the middle of Death Valley after the shores of the Pacific Ocean.) Borax is a naturally occurring mineral that was discovered here in Death Valley, and is used for cleaning and other uses.

Anyway, the western writer Zane Grey published an article decrying the horrible living conditions of the borax workers living in tents out here in the desert. So the Pacific Coast Borax Company, sensing a potential PR nightmare, built proper housing and facilities right here where I’m standing. This company town was constructed almost exactly a century ago, and it had offices, a hotel, worker dormitories, an infirmary, a community hall, and other facilities. By all accounts it was a thriving community.

This state of affairs only lasted for a few years. It seems that a richer vein of borax was discovered elsewhere, and the Pacific Coast Borax Company moved its operation out of Death Valley Junction. Then, in the 1940s, even the railroad left town…literally. The rails were pulled up and sold to the US government, which used them for the war effort in Egypt.

*The few remnants of Death Valley Junction’s borax plant, as seen today.*

*The 100-year-old dock where borax was once loaded onto railcars.*

Without the railroad or the borax operation, Death Valley Junction essentially became a ghost town. Except for the hotel, which struggled along, the old company town was left to decay.

Then something wonderful happened. In 1967, a ballerina and artist from New York named Marta Becket was on tour through the west, and her car broke down near Death Valley Junction. While the car was being repaired at the town’s sole garage, Marta explored the old buildings and fell in love with them. In particular, she envisioned the old, abandoned community hall as an opera house. Here. In the middle of the desert.

*The garage where Marta Becket serendipitously took her car and walked across the street to discover what would become the Amargosa Opera House.*

So Marta Becket and her husband leased (and later bought) the property, converted the community hall into the Amargosa Opera House, and opened for business. Marta herself would perform on the stage every weekend. For forty years. Here, in the middle of the desert. A story in National Geographic in 1970 caused this little secret in the desert to become world famous. People came from around the world to watch her perform and to see the artwork she painted on the walls of the opera house and the adjoining hotel.

Marta finally retired in 2012, and died at age 92 in 2017.

The Amargosa Opera House continues to honor the legacy of its creator with daily tours and various performances throughout the year. My tour guide was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable person named Sue, and she also works at the hotel.

Speaking of which, I’m spending the night here in the old, original hotel that the Pacific Coast Borax Company built in 1924. Some say the place is haunted…..

Beer of the Day

The BOTD comes from BrewDog in Las Vegas. It’s their Black Heart Nitro Stout.

Because it’s a stout, it has the usual roasty and malty notes. Plus, as a nitro beer (i.e., it’s carbonated not with the usual carbon dioxide but with nitrogen), it has a creamy mouthfeel and a slightly sweeter taste. The nitro also presents an attractive, cascading-bubbles effect and a creamy head.

All that said, this beer was underwhelming. It has no complexity; it just tastes like someone filled a sock with oatmeal and steeped it in dishwater. There is absolutely no finish and, it seems, no hops. And at a scant 4.1 ABV, there’s no alcohol bite. This is a beer that’s nice to look at, but that’s about it.

Tag: Las Vegas

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