My Quest for Las Vegas's Mermaid Cuisine Ended Up in the Fryer

Mermaids is the pinnacle of Vegas kitsch. Its facade is festive and vaguely tropical; it hires showgirls to regale gamblers with Mardi Gras beads; it sells "world famous" booze slushies; its neighbor is a strip club. It's the only place in town smart enough to fry Twinkies for all the drunks in Las Vegas.

A typical visit to Mermaids goes something like this:

I queue up and eye the menu boasting novelty foods. They've got Nathan's hot dogs, White Castle burgers, pizza, chili cheese fries, and an alluring assortment of fried desserts. Said sweets are advertised on TVs outside, where bikini models nibble on Twinkies and frozen bananas before—oops!—"accidentally" smearing their faces with cream.

With a game plan in mind, I approach the counter. A skinny dude wearing a bandana under his cook's cap makes eye contact, but his glance is so casual I'm not sure if he's ready for my order or fading into a k-hole. We lock eyes for several seconds before he flatly asks, "What're you tryna get?" He seems stoned as I rattle off our massive order: fried Oreos, fried Twinkies, and fried PB&Js. Without saying a word, he turns to the fryer.

Another clerk approaches, tying on her apron. "Have you ordered?" I tell her I want a few more things, and she scoffs over her shoulder. "Slow," she says. "Huh?" I ask. "You're slow," she says. I rattle off the rest of my order: "Greek dog, chicken sliders, and giant hot dog with everything."

When I ask for sliders, Apron warns me it'll take awhile. The line cook, a dead-ringer for Grace Jones, parrots the sentiment. That's fine, I say—I'm here to sample all the delicacies, and I'm prepared to invest some time, money, and calories. At this point, I ask if the sliders come with fries and she tells me that I have to get the combo. OK, make it a combo. Grace Jones sneers.

The transaction turns friendly when it's time to pay. I hand my card and Apron returns it with a cheerful, "Here you go, mama."

Though we're now cool, she failed to disclose that a dog with everything is an abominable kitchen sink suicide mixture.

I can't decide between the chili dog, Italian dog, the Greek dog, and the Mexican dog, so I added a mega dog buried in chili, nacho cheese, feta, black olives, salsa, jalapeños, ketchup, mustard, and relish.

The Oreos are soft, bombed with powdered sugar, and showered in chocolate sprinkles. The Twinkie is still a Twinkie but just bigger, eggier, and warm. The hot dogs are fine—even the everything dog—but the chicken sliders are offensively bad cafeteria fare.

Still, it's all worth it. Between the disgusting snacks, the impatient staff, the sugary daiquiris, and the Mardi Gras beads I got on the way in, I didn't have to show my boobs.

The only thing missing, really, are actual mermaids.