Reno Rambling - Too.

Reno's Peppermill; a mile or so from what’s left of The Strip's glory years.  In the sixties the strip was a glittering string of casinos and hotels; Fitzgerald’s, The Sahara (which would become the Flamingo Hilton), Mapes, The Nevada Club, Cal Neva, Harold’s Club and a full deck of smaller players. The strip has since been stripped. 

Yeah, Reno has seen better days.  It was a destination for headliners; the likes of Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis and Dean Martin would play Reno and then move on to do a set of shows at nearby Lake Tahoe.  When I was a kid I saw Bill Cosby with my parents at Harrah’s.  Cosby was in his comedic prime.  Thought that I would die laughing.

In the early eighties, during Sinatra’s final days on the stage and as Reno’s lights were flickering I took the wife to see “old blue eyes.”  It was the days of getting dressed to the nines for a dinner show.  I was advised to have a tip ready if I wanted to get a decent seat.  We fell in line and I nervously fingered the tip in my slacks pocket.  We got to the very formal, stern looking man in charge of our night’s fate, I slipped him 4 twenties and hoped for the best. In those days of living small paycheck to small paycheck 80 bones was a fortune.  The maitre d' didn't even look at the bills, just shoved them in his pocket.  It was as if after years of being greased, his palm somehow knew whether the tribute was worthy of a seat with a view or banishment to the high, dark reaches of the showroom.  My offering got us a little past halfway up the room with a decent view.

Sinatra was aging and pudgy, the pipes rusty from cigarettes, booze and fast living. But he was Sinatra and he owned that room with a presence as large as the Sierra Nevada mountains that loom to the west. It was one of those memories that sticks with you; an event you drop in casual conversation; a playoff game, viewing the Mona Lisa or seeing Sinatra in a big time showroom. 

Reno in the glory days

The headliners skip Reno now.  I don't even know who a headliner is these days.  But I know who isn't. When we were in Reno the big deal in town was a young woman named Kellie Pickler - didn't know who the hell she is.  So I Googled her.  It seems that Ms. Pickler is a country music singer who finished sixth in American Idol and later won a Dancing with the Stars competition.  In the days of Sammy, she would have been an opening act or relegated to a lounge.  Now American Idol also rans and tribute bands get to play the big room.

During those days of splendor, if you weren't a gambler and by some quirk found yourself in Reno you could always visit Harrah’s magnificent collection of 1400 vintage cars. That’s no longer an option.  In February of 1980 Holiday Inns acquired 6 million shares of Harrah's stock from Bill Harrah's estate. The car collection was thrown in and Holiday Inns decided to sell the biggest part of it at auction for $100 million.  On this last trip Cora suggested we go see it again and I told her that sadly it no longer exists as it was.  A small portion of the collection still exists in Reno in the National Auto Museum. 

Went running early one morning along the Truckee River that bisects the city just as the relentless, blazing sun was peeking from behind the eastern desert hills.  Down and outers were curled up in corners or just rising to commence whatever it is they do during the day.  I told the wife about these homeless and she said "My God, it's so hot."  I responded that its gotta beat the winter cold.  We were in Reno last November and as I ran along the same path in mid twenty degree temps I saw nearly as many ragged unfortunates seeking warmth. 

The buffet.  Every big hotel has one and when we were younger Cora and I looked forward to stuffing ourselves beyond the brim and then bellying up to the dessert bar.  After multiple passes at the main courses bellying is just about all you can do.  You stretch your arms out past an engorged abdomen and grab a slice of cheesecake, a slab of chocolate cake and a small collection of petit fours. And that's just on the first pass because you can't miss the ice cream station; God knows that back home they don't have ice cream, whipped cream and sprinkles - anywhere.  Now that we've hit our sixties a buffet doesn't deliver so much bang for the buck anymore.  The eyes might be willing but the stomach is weak.  This time round we were going to skip the buffet but we found that getting old has a few perks; one being two for one for seniors at the Peppermill buffet.  A few years back my vanity vowed that I would never, EVER, accept a senior discount.  My wallet has beaten back vanity and if someone wants to proffer a discount in honor of my longevity, then I'd be honored to accept. 

To be a real player in the Nevada hotel game ya gotta have a steakhouse.  Not just any steakhouse. Hell, the venerable Cal Neva where my parents used to go advertises steak and eggs for $4.99. I'm one of those that subscribes to that old saying that you get what you pay for and if you're paying 5 bucks you must be getting more gristle and cowhide and less meat.  As for the real steakhouses there’s a formula; no steak on the menu can cost less than 40 dollars; there has to be a porterhouse that’s at least a pound and a half; the steaks are all a la carte; side orders cost as much as a main course at any other restaurant and finally, there’s a lot of pomp, circumstance and reverence involved with the presentation of your slab of dead cow.  And hey, I’m okay with all of that.  I’ll pay good money for a good steak and I’ll risk going beyond my digestive limits and vomiting at the table by getting a side of mac and cheese; and if the waiter wants to treat me like a dignitary and present my steak and wine as if they’re the body and blood that’s perfectly fine.

The Cal Neva Meal Deal

Just an observation.  If you’re ready to spend 50 dollars on the perfect steak you’re going to treat it right.  Right?  Who drinks a Corona with a dry aged New York strip or white zinfandel with steak Diane?  Who does that?  Well, the people on either side of us did.  A meal that screams “drink a nice bold RED zinfandel with me” and you decide to wash it down with Hawaiian Punch or beer that’s little better than piss?  Sacrilege.  And yeah I’m being a snob if you like. 

I've been asked why in the hell I don’t go to Vegas instead of Reno.  After all there’s so much more glamour and excitement in Vegas.  Well maybe that’s why.  I’m looking for inexpensive relaxation and it seems to me that glamour is counter-relaxation.  My 28 year old daughter loves Vegas but she tells me that it’s exhausting – even if you go with the intention of relaxation. We like Reno because in the time it takes to drive to the airport, go through security, fly to Vegas and go through all the arrival and transfer from the airport, we've driven to Reno checked in, unpacked and I’m already mumbling about the 13 that the blackjack dealer just foisted on me.  I get a sense in Reno that I’m in control.  In Vegas, you’re just along for the ride.

Reno lost out to Vegas and the competition from Indian gaming.  It can look rough around the edges; and it bloody well looks rough dead center.  I know that there are nice areas of Reno. A friend of mine tells me that the university is quite beautiful, I've seen some quaint little homes and hell, regular people live, work and play there so it's gotta be nice and well, regular.  And there are things to do besides gamble, gulp cigarette smoke in the casinos and milk the ATM for more of a stake. One day I'd like to take the wife east of town to see the high desert and find those herds of mustangs that roam that rough land.  But there's something perverse in me that's attracted to that course city center.

Surrounding the remaining hotels and casinos are pawn shops, tattoo parlors, some adult book shops and a strip club with a perpetually empty blacktop parking lot that looks like a griddle in the shimmering midday heat. Reno is still relatively small and can look kind of seedy.  Maybe that’s part of the attraction; I get a touch of bright lights and the “sins” of Nevada aren't all gussied up.  Vegas wants to be flashy international glitz; its spike heels and a slinky dress sipping a Cosmo.  Reno’s a frontier town, a place that drifters call home before moving on or being moved on.  It's no pretense; roughout boots and dusty jeans knocking back a shot of Old Crow. Vegas has call girls, Reno has cathouses. Reno was a sort of way station for pioneers in the 1850’s and when the Comstock silver lode was discovered it was a mining town with all the rough and tumble that goes with a mining town.  When the lode played out Reno became mecca; for gamblers, for folks who wanted to get married on the fly in a hokey wedding chapel and then with a quickie divorce get shed of that spouse with as little mess as possible.  Folks from Utah who wanted to drink and play and couldn't get enough of either at the Nevada/Utah border town of Wendover headed for Reno.  Even during its glory years in the fifties and sixties Reno played up its frontier roots.  It’s always been a gritty little place, and that’s the way it should be and what the hell, it's the way I like it.