The Laundry Room Finally Let Me In

A speakeasy so strict, so small, and so damn good, it keeps dodging me like I owe it money.

Let me start with this:

The Laundry Room has been trying to avoid me.

Three reservations.

Three cancellations.

First, friends decided against it and cancelled for some Cirque bullshit that sucked. Next, apparently, they cancelled our group, so I took everyone to The Underground, the third one, because wifey landed in the ER. (Nothing says “Vegas weekend” like a gown, a pulse ox, and insurance bills.)

So when Sunday, December 30th rolled around, and we headed towards Fremont East, I half-expected the universe to send a swarm of locusts or a flash flood just to keep me out again.

But not this time.

This time…the door opened.

And I finally made it inside the speakeasy that all the other speakeasies pretend they’re competing with, but absolutely aren’t.