There comes a time in life where you just have to fall into the fact that some people want omelets and some other people hear that other people want omelets and they decide “hey, I want some of those too.”

It on was a warm November morning outside of The Signature at MGM Grand in Las Vegas that I fell into that fact. The scenery was a hard shift from the darkened streets and inviting marquee of blue and pink and green that streaked across just hours earlier. But now, the sun’s reflection bounced from the white sidewalks, scorching my already-woozy retinas, which were already getting a solid drubbing from the foggy feeling in my dome.

As a preface, I don’t like omelets. It’s just not my thing. It’s a fun word to say and has a funny memory of Dexter’s Lab associated with it but using eggs to make a fork-only sandwich with stuff jammed inside of it just isn’t appealing at all. If you’re into them, great! You do you. I’ll pass.

It’d been a night of doing who-knows-what and drinking what-even-is-this-anyway and gambling how-much-money-do-we-have-left on roulette and blackjack. It was me and a pair of friends who’d all flown in separately to Vegas a few nights earlier.

The groans and “oh mans” that we passed back and forth were proof of a fun night, but the sounds coming from our intestines said something else entirely. A quick browse online for breakfast places showed a handful of locations along the Strip, which was where we were trying to stay since we were at least somewhat familiar with it and hey, it’s Las Vegas. That’s the place to be.

We’d been ridesharing our way across Sin City since we sure weren’t about to rent a car. I couldn’t imagine driving in Vegas. Especially as first-timers. Lucky us, those apps are a breeze. Boot it up, pop in where you wanna go and someone gets back to you. Boom. Done. Just wait for the ride to show at that point.

It’d been working so far. Was a fun way to explore Las Vegas. You meet all sorts of folks doing rideshares. All sorts.

I never knew how much fun roulette was until I started playing it. You bet on a square, or several, and see where the ball lands on the wheel. You never really lose, well, it’s hard to completely bust on a gamble anyway. Wager enough and maybe you’ll only lose a percentage of your bet instead of the whole thing. Rideshare apps are kind of the same. You make a bet, that’s choosing the ride. And see where the ball lands, that’s your driver.

If the police had asked me to describe the car we climbed into out of the bright morning sun, I’d have nothing but stutters and ums to respond with. No idea what it was. Four doors? Narrows it down some, at least. I remember the driver though. How could I forget him?

He was my first kidnapper.

We exchanged hellos and strapped ourselves in for the ride as he confirmed our destination. He wasn’t a fan. It was some restaurant of no reason to remember, chosen because of reviews raving about the omelets. I had no say in where we were going. I was outvoted earlier.

“Don’t go there, that place is a roach house,” the driver croaked out through a thick accent that indicated he was from somewhere, but I couldn’t place it. “What are you lookin for?”

“Uh, omelets?”

The driver tilted his head, leaned his neck back and looked up, pausing for a moment. Thinking.

“Ah, right. Sounds good. I know just the place.”

Squinty-eyed in the back seat, I glanced over to a friend and half-raised an eyebrow as best I could at him. He looked back at me and gave a small shrug.  

“You boys mind?”

My friend in the front seat gave the go-ahead.

When you think about it, that’s quite the power move to pull on three strangers who just got into your car, hi-jacking their itinerary and saying their decision is terrible, that this other place is miles better when it comes to omelets. Then again, what were we going to do? Say no? Of course not. How would you even do that?

“Nah, that’s OK. We’d rather go to the –” No. No way. There’s no way. You just go with it.

Which worked out anyway since the driver rattled his car off before we could even think of protest, whisking us away to wherever it was we were going.

“What brings you boys to Vegas?”

He’s a slim, middle-aged, bald man, probably shaven actually, with a muscular build. He spoke quickly, incessantly, as if talking was his form of breathing. It might have been.  

After a raucous night of fun and a brutal morning of the aftermath, there were no long-desired quiet moments before breakfast. During the trip, he regaled us with tales of his entrepreneurship – a technology repair service called Never Nerd or something like that* – his passion for competitive watersports, of which he was incredibly accomplished* and his supermodel (whether that was intended to be true or just a nice descriptor, I don’t know) wife that he had a pair of kids with.*

*Each of these was a lie. I was convinced of this. I didn’t exactly mind though. People tell lies to people. That’s just a thing that happens. When you’re out and about and mingling with folks you’re almost never going to meet again, why not stretch the truth a little and be more interesting? I’ve done that. It makes for better stories. This story is true though.

“Oh, you know. Vacation! Meeting up with these guys, having a good time,” front seat-friend said, bringing his left thumb over his shoulder, pointing at us in the back.

Having seen through the driver’s lies and just not being in the mood for talking, I instead found a surprising level of comfort slumped over in the backseat. Vegas looks different in the daytime. My head waved slowly left and right like I was zombie, slack-jawed and waiting for food to show up, ideally not omelets, so I could spring back to life.

“Isn’t that right, Chad?”

Outside, casinos flew past the window. There goes Luxor. And there’s Excalibur.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Oh hey, there’s Mandalay. I think we were going to go there for the aquarium later this week.

Hey. Wait a second. I know where we are. I studied the map of this place online. We’re leaving!

We rolled up to a strip mall lined restaurants and businesses, like they’d been copied and pasted from the other dozens of places we’d driven by already. There are no casinos in this part of Las Vegas. Once you’re on the highway and off the Boulevard, it’s just the same old city you’ve seen a hundred times before.

The goal had been to take a brief, two-minute ride to some restaurant either on or just barely off the Strip, grab a bite and then go do whatever people do in Las Vegas. Keep gambling, I guess. We did a lot of that already, it was fun – let’s keep doing that. New York-New York has this great roulette place. Won $90 on video poker at Bally’s. I lost it immediately, but I had also won it.

The best places to eat, drink and have a good old time are usually holes in the wall, right? There was this great place in college that fit the description. Was across the way and up a bit from the pub we usually frequented, but man, it was good. Great prices, not a lot of seats, not really a college-kid kind of place but still a great atmosphere to hang out and play pool in.  

This slick white or gray building with a dull façade proved that it was a concept no different thousands of miles away. It’s still hard to see with the sun razing my eyes, but there’s nothing that says this place sells breakfast. There’s nothing that says this place really does anything.

But, according to the driver, it was the only place in Vegas that did omelets the right way.

Blech.

He didn’t drop us off at the front of the place. He didn’t just take off looking for another fare. It wasn’t that easy. Instead, he drove around the lot, found a great place near the back and shifted it into P.

“Alright boys,” he said with a long pause before finishing his sentence. “We’re here.”

And then he killed the engine.

That’s when it hit me. It hit all of us, I think, since the three of us passed looks back and forth. We figured he was just looking for a good place to let us out and not block any traffic. But no.

He’s going to eat with us.

Again, what do you say in this situation? We can’t back out. We didn’t turn him down when he started to head in this direction, we certainly can’t say no now. How would that even work? And what if we did say no and we still decided to go in and eat, but he came in too? And what if we were seated near each other and oh, just – just go with it. Fall into the fact.

Hopping into the bright lights of early morning Las Vegas with a fully illuminated sidewalk blinding me, I followed everyone into the mystery building and entered into this little cramped – oh would you look at that it is a restaurant. It’s got two floors with a black and white chessboard tiling and everything somehow has a green tint everywhere you look. Must have been a skylight or something.

It smelled sticky. Like someone had knocked over a dozen syrup bottles, looked down at the floor and just shrugged and walked away. A job well done. There were no natural paths inside, but the driver led the way, deftly weaving past the chicanes of tables and patrons that I kept bumping into. He knew the place. Trailing behind due to stubbed toes and apologies, I saw the driver stop and confidently say “four” before continuing to walk.

We headed up a small staircase to a row of tables that were way too close to each other with seats that might as well have been stacked on top of one another, forcing us to knock elbows and maintain a solid face-to-face conversation. Three real-life friends and a random driver we met through an app. Sharing breakfast together. In Las Vegas.

I sat diagonally from the driver, who quickly flipped through his menu and sat it down, declaring he knew what he was ordering.

Omelets. The same thing everyone else was craving.

This guy right here. He was just hungry or something. Saw we were onto something good when he saw where we wanted to go. But wanted to go to his place. Wanted his meal. Wanted someone to eat with?

The conversation with the driver pressed on. I decided to ignore it while looking for something that wasn’t omelets. Front seat-friend continued to field the questions thrown to our group, as well as firing back with questions of his own. We’re from different parts of the country, and in one case, another country entirely. The driver’s a native. He drives for a rideshare app for fun, as a way of meeting people*.

I can’t remember what I chose, but it wasn’t omelets. I know it was quiet when we ate though, a nice change from the earlier prattle that didn’t sit well with the senses. I don’t know if the food was the best breakfast Las Vegas had to offer, but it was alright. I don’t know if could have told the difference between that place and our original destination, but that felt like it was forever ago.

It’d been about seven minutes.

Time flies when you’re co-opted by a stranger in his car and taken to another place that you didn’t really want to go to and had him insert himself into your breakfast before you begin another Las Vegas adventure but hey, that’s just how it goes sometimes, right?

The drive back wasn’t quite as weird. Wasn’t quite as long. Wasn’t so bad. He didn’t charge us for either trip and asked us where we’d like to be dropped off at since he’d literally made our plans for us. We chose the foot of the Signature, where we’d have started our morning at originally. And as we neared the destination, the driver said something else. Something different from the just-getting-to-know-you kind of small talk.

“So, what are you boys doing for dinner?”

Oh, come on. This is easy. I’m finally paying attention to the conversation. I know the answer to this one.

“We’re not sure yet,” front seat-friend said.

Perfect. Just lie. Say we don’t know anything. Say we didn’t look that far. Say we didn’t make any plans yet.

“But.”

Wait, what are you doing?

“We saw there was a Korean barbecue place nearby.”

Seriously? Did he just?

“Oh yeah, I know a good place for Korean BBQ,” the driver said, enunciating those final three letters with a flourish which indicated that he did, in fact, know a good place.

The driver told us a name, the one we’d seen, lets us know that we absolutely had to try a drink called Soju (note: this is a bad idea) and to give him a call, here’s his number, when we go. He hadn’t been in a while and wouldn’t mind going again.

Huh. How about that.

When we were finally in control of our own destinies again, I asked to see the card he gave. I intended to rip it up right there. But I decided to take a look at it anyway.

Wait a second.

A tech repair business card? Really? What the? Was I wrong about this guy? At least that part? Was he telling the truth? Maybe he was a gold medalist father of two who drives for fun and to meet people and eat omelets and –

Whatever. Who even cares? I wasn’t about to find out. My other friends could, but I decided there was no way I was calling that guy. Right? Right?

Right.

With blistered feet, fewer squints and food in our stomachs, we made our way back to that one great slushy shop that we passed through on our first trek through this part of the Strip. I went with cherry again.

We did end up going to that Korean joint later that night. Rideshared that one too. Made sure to make sure it wasn’t the same guy. You get the name of the driver ahead of time. We remembered the first one’s.

Real nice place. But don’t drink the Soju. Or at least know what it is before ordering one for each person because you can’t take it with you. And you’re sure not going to leave without handling it in some way.