MGM Grand Detroit
The title itself practically an oxymoron, MGM Grand Detroit is something out of a Star Trek or Twilight Zone episode - you awaken to find yourself in a tiny replica of Vegas, accurate in almost every respect yet somehow "off." Imagine Kandor, Superman's city in a bottle. The MGM is an escapist attempt by the ragtag survivors of armageddon to create a secure oasis in the midst of the post-apocalyptic wasteland that is Detroit, Michigan. My experienced gambler's eye quickly picked up the differences between this simulacrum and the model: staff that was predominantly black rather than South Asian, ticket machines that were perpetually broken or out of funds and a cashier who asked before dispensing change in the form of oft-maligned hundred dollar bills. The most significant disparity, though, was the mandatory display of a driver's license when passing through security checkpoints located at every entrance to and exit from the casino floor.
That first night, the table minimums were something in the range of $20-25, which gave me pause given that my favorite (3-5-7 Poker) required four bets per hand to be profitable. I decided to keep the risk low and play a slot machine or two before we resigned ourselves to drinks. Upon locating the machine I knew would pay out, I plunked in twenty even as my naysayer of a boyfriend placed a side bet that I wouldn't win a thing. I'm nothing if not contrary; I turned my twenty into fifty bucks, picking up not only thirty in cash but something in the range of forty bucks' worth of complimentary drinks from D., which is perhaps the sweetest victory of all.
Except for the fact that the second of my parade of beverages, the "Sexy Orange", tasted more like old woman ass than sweet.
After what seemed to be a fairy tale quest for the perfect bar (e.g. "this one's too loud", "this one serves only tequila", "this one inexplicably has a fifteen dollar door charge despite being completely empty"), we settled in for a rousing evening of liver damage and mind-alteringly poor covers of Stevie Wonder by an invisible pianist, a bored bongo player and a scantily clad lead singer wielding a vicious egg shaker.
The next morning, forced out of our typical protracted torpor by the cruelly unrealistic 11 A.M. check-out time, D. and I once again passed through security and braved the casino floor in search of a breakfast that was not meant to be. It seems, unlike its timeless inspiration, the MGM Grand Detroit actually operates on something approximating a normal waking and, consequently, dining schedule. In short - there was no twenty-four hour breakfast to be found there. Instead, we had our choice of pretentiously named mundane eateries (e.g. "Krunch", which served standard fried fare (fries, hamburgers, fish sticks, etc.)) or the "Palette Dining Studio", which was really just a fancy term for a buffet. I ruled the latter out when my inquiries about french toast or pancakes were met with a loud exclamation from one of the three black girls working the front desk:
"We got Tom Cruise in tha house!"
D. attributed it to my leather jacket and fabulous hair (maybe he just said "jacket"), but I kept preoccupying on how short I look when he stands next to me in his six inch heels. Needless to say, we decided to find food elsewhere, but not before I sidled up to the now $10 3-5-7 table, ignored the requests of the woman next to me to "rub [her] back for luck" and won ninety bucks. I immediately cashed out, enduring a mass of indignation from the rest of the table.
"You really gonna just cash out after winning one hand?"
"That's how I roll," I replied to the woman whose back still longed for my Midas touch.
"Oh dayyy-ummm! He said that's how he rolls!"
Insert head bobbing and the jiggling of multiple chins.
I tossed the dealer fifteen bucks tip, threw D. five dollars for slots and, from my whopping two Detroit gambling experiences, left the MGM a hundred dollars up, which is, indeed, how I roll -
Small, but perpetually up.
That first night, the table minimums were something in the range of $20-25, which gave me pause given that my favorite (3-5-7 Poker) required four bets per hand to be profitable. I decided to keep the risk low and play a slot machine or two before we resigned ourselves to drinks. Upon locating the machine I knew would pay out, I plunked in twenty even as my naysayer of a boyfriend placed a side bet that I wouldn't win a thing. I'm nothing if not contrary; I turned my twenty into fifty bucks, picking up not only thirty in cash but something in the range of forty bucks' worth of complimentary drinks from D., which is perhaps the sweetest victory of all.
Except for the fact that the second of my parade of beverages, the "Sexy Orange", tasted more like old woman ass than sweet.
After what seemed to be a fairy tale quest for the perfect bar (e.g. "this one's too loud", "this one serves only tequila", "this one inexplicably has a fifteen dollar door charge despite being completely empty"), we settled in for a rousing evening of liver damage and mind-alteringly poor covers of Stevie Wonder by an invisible pianist, a bored bongo player and a scantily clad lead singer wielding a vicious egg shaker.
The next morning, forced out of our typical protracted torpor by the cruelly unrealistic 11 A.M. check-out time, D. and I once again passed through security and braved the casino floor in search of a breakfast that was not meant to be. It seems, unlike its timeless inspiration, the MGM Grand Detroit actually operates on something approximating a normal waking and, consequently, dining schedule. In short - there was no twenty-four hour breakfast to be found there. Instead, we had our choice of pretentiously named mundane eateries (e.g. "Krunch", which served standard fried fare (fries, hamburgers, fish sticks, etc.)) or the "Palette Dining Studio", which was really just a fancy term for a buffet. I ruled the latter out when my inquiries about french toast or pancakes were met with a loud exclamation from one of the three black girls working the front desk:
"We got Tom Cruise in tha house!"
D. attributed it to my leather jacket and fabulous hair (maybe he just said "jacket"), but I kept preoccupying on how short I look when he stands next to me in his six inch heels. Needless to say, we decided to find food elsewhere, but not before I sidled up to the now $10 3-5-7 table, ignored the requests of the woman next to me to "rub [her] back for luck" and won ninety bucks. I immediately cashed out, enduring a mass of indignation from the rest of the table.
"You really gonna just cash out after winning one hand?"
"That's how I roll," I replied to the woman whose back still longed for my Midas touch.
"Oh dayyy-ummm! He said that's how he rolls!"
Insert head bobbing and the jiggling of multiple chins.
I tossed the dealer fifteen bucks tip, threw D. five dollars for slots and, from my whopping two Detroit gambling experiences, left the MGM a hundred dollars up, which is, indeed, how I roll -
Small, but perpetually up.