Dinner at the Eiffel Tower restaurant in Las Vegas

August 27^th, 2015

My sister Leslie and I went to Las Vegas in August for a few days of hiking, but also so Leslie could have a good Las Vegas experience.  I let her know we were going to have some good meals and she brought some outfits to match.  As a guy, I brought the same clothes I was going to hike in.

Our first night in town we ate at an Italian place at the Venetian.  It was great.  The second night I decided to book the Eiffel Tower restaurant at the Paris Casino. I’ve never been there, but heard it was great and looked out over the Strip.

Hot day in Vegas, so we took the monorail and walked around the strip till our 7pm reservation.  A few minutes before, we presented ourselves at the elevator entrance and greeters.  The people right before us were asked to remove their hats because of the dress code, and I was reaching for my hat as the greeter turned to us.  What I didn’t see in the email reservation confirmation was the dress code rules.  No Hats, Collared Shirts and pants required.  Well it was 106 out and while I had a collared shirt, I was wearing shorts.

But, they had a solution.  The greeter offered loaner pants.

You would think time would stand still as I mulled over this option, but in fact it creeped along with the seconds ticking by visible on the face of the greeter and my sister.  I was thinking of how many nice restaurants were nearby where shorts were allowed.  I was wondering how much humiliation I was willing to take in order to deliver on the promise to my sister of a fancy meal and most important; I wondered if I did say yes, would I just be in a bad mode the rest of the evening.  I didn’t want that to happen.

“Sure”

I could do this.  No big deal.  Great Story to tell people.  Not only could I do this, but I’d have fun.  I can do this.

“What Size?” she asked.

Okay, already it’s not as easy as planned.  I’m telling some girl half my age my pants size on a crowded casino floor.  I suck in my gut, give her the number which she then calls in to god knows who and we are allowed to approach the elevator.  I can do this.

We go up in the elevator and are met by a second greeter.  She says one second, leaves for a moment and returns with a nice department store type bag folded flat with something inside; I assume the pants.  I take the package and then hesitate.  It’s a really nice bag.

“I’m not buying these, am I?”

I started to wonder if the Eiffel Tower made their real money off expensive pants sales to schlubs like me.  I guess I wasn’t buying them.  I asked where I change and she motioned to the bathroom where I went while Leslie waited.

Now you might expect a place that would ask patrons to don borrowed pants, that place might have a bathroom to accommodate it.  You would be wrong.  A nice bathroom, but no extra room or nice place to sit down.  I had to take up one sink, put some stuff on the counter and pull them over my shoes and over my shorts.  I pulled them up to discover that the greeter on the casino floor had not heard me correctly.  These pants were 10 sizes too large.

Okay, can I do this?  Another not so frozen moment went by as I stood there in front of the bathroom sink holding the waistband of the borrowed pants pulled out from my waist a good 6 inches.  Clown Pants.  I’m now wearing clown pants.  I could take them off, I could tell Leslie we have to go somewhere else.  She would say she was okay with leaving.  Seconds ticked by.  I can do this.  I take the belt off my shorts, I feed it through the belt loops of the clown pants and I kind of take up the extra space in front by folding it over on itself and tighten up the belt.  I wash my hands, tuck in my collared shirt, grab my now empty department store bag and head out the door.

We are shown to our table.  The view is amazing and the sun is just setting.  We overlook the strip and onto the fountain at the mirage. 

The food is great.  Our waiter and servers are the best.  We are having a great evening.  I did it.  I did the right thing and we laugh at the pant size mistake and all is good.

The evening is winding down.  We have had our wine and the check arrives.  But I’ve got one more hurdle to get over.  The minute that little platter is set down at the table and the waiter says “Whenever you are ready…” I realize I have a problem.  My wallet is in the back pocket of my shorts which are now covered over with a pair of clown pants and a tightly drawn belt.  But hey, now it’s all good.  These are just the funny parts of the evening.  I tell Leslie and we have a laugh, I excuse myself for a trip to the bathroom where I unbelt and unlayer the pants, reach in and get my wallet and then put everything back in place for one last go through the restaurant.

Back at the table we pay and as we exit nobody gives any reminder to me.  But even so, I walk into the bathroom, dodge other guests coming and going while I remove the clown pants, fold them nicely and put them back into the department store bag, wash my hands and exist as if this was just another part of any dining experience.  I hand the bag to the elevator greeter and we head down and back onto the strip.

We had a great time, but I’m especially happy that I was able to not care about what was really minor impediments to an otherwise great meal.  There’s Leslie in one of the nice dresses she brought, I’m in the hiking shirt I later accidentally left at 10,000 feet near the Raintree Bristlecone Pine.  Clown Pants on, but not in photo.