Egg-it Stage Left

Eggslut l l The Cosmopolitan, 3708 Las Vegas Blvd. South, Las Vegas, NV 89109 l (702) 698-7000 l Visited December 2017

Hangovers are a terrible thing. I cockily side-step them often, but when I don’t they’re bad. A slow build of nausea, ratcheting up as the waking moments go on. Waves pulsing back and forth as you fight the urge to retreat to a horizontal position. Sometimes you want to repair and pay penance to your body. Pints of water, vegetables and clean eating to try and make up.

And the other times? Well, the other times you want carbs, melted cheese and something fried. And for those times in Vegas, there’s Eggslut.

As the name suggests, most options roll towards the humble egg. Think a more refined McDonalds’ breakfast menu. Mainly, there are things in muffins. The Fairfax has become my staple option. Scrambled eggs, American cheese, in a muffin, with a turkey sausage for good measure. Then there are optional extras, my brain yearns to sample. I refrained from bacon, but only just,

Initially inauspicious, a bronze muffin in a brown paper bag. But, like a man wandering the street with a bottle in a bag, everyone gives your bleary eyes a telling nod.  An envelope seal of cheese hangs out the side. Draped over a beige organic turkey sausage patty, flecked with green herbs. Like a winter’s sparse lawn. A mound of scrambled eggs, nearly running off the top.

The Fairfax at Eggslut

Easy Eggs – Eggslut’s Fairfax with Turkey Sausage

As your hands press the outside of the bag, the contents spill out the side. At first, you feel like you’re making a mess. Then you realise that the wrapper is to be savoured after, that’s what the fork was for. Scoping a mess of cheese clinging to the paper for its life, and a mound of eggs. It’s messy, sure, but hangovers always are.

Make sure you order the Siracha, either in the mayo or on the side. It’s essential. Eggslut realise long ago that that much heavy food needs sweet spice to cut through it. The hot sauce cuts through the creamy eggs, the Diet Coke cuts through the foggy head.

I’ll make no apologies. It is not fine dining. It’s not white tablecloths and wine glasses. It’s messy, dirty, naughty food. It’s something that you feel like you ought to eat in salacious mouthfuls in a dark corner. Barely pausing for breath and tearing at its coverings. You can feel bashful, maybe. But, you’re in Sin City. Everyone already knows what you’re up to.