Meet Me at Foxwoods... or not
You may be wondering what a dour individual such as myself is doing out of his urban environs like this. My twin brother and fellow Connoisseur, Jon, was celebrating his upcoming nuptials and this was his last hurrah as a bachelor. Of course, I blame yet another fellow of this erudite brotherhood, Michael, for arranging the whole event. Now don’t get me wrong, I would endure far greater tortures to see my brother happy, but what I lay before you today is a cautionary tale. So take heed, fair reader, for today I bring you my review of Foxwoods Casino, technically Resort & Casino. Like so many other things about this place, the addition of the word “Resort” is a carefully planned bit of marketing verbiage.
Chalk it up to my non-compulsive nature, but I don’t really dig gambling or spending hours on end immersed in a grey-haired sea of chain-smoking geriatrics. Gambling is an overrated pastime as far as I’m concerned, but the swanky lounge lizard in me loves the idea of casino and lounge culture and design. The reality of it is, simply put, that Foxwoods and all casinos for that matter, are ingeniously designed complexes perpetuating the emptying of their patrons’ wallets in the most efficient manner possible all while keeping the guise of a fun-filled time where vice is a virtue and all one’s responsibilities take a back seat to that glimmering hope that you’ll come out of this better than before.
Everything in Foxwoods is specifically in place to lull the patron into a sense that you are asleep yet awake in a land where repetitive motions are rewarded with flashing lights and sounds, and all of your bad habits are nourished with an endless supply of booze, tobacco, and low-priced buffets. The lighting is set at a subdued “Magic Hour” twilight level adding to the excitement, and the air is supercharged with pure oxygen to keep even the most emphysemic octogenarian hobbling to the slot machines all night long. There is no way of knowing what the “Real World” time is, what with the 24-hour buffets and the blatant omission of clocks of any kind. While there is some natural light coming in from strategically placed skylights, there is even more “light” coming from backlit panes of frosted glass in the windows of the village façade that lines the halls of this Casino. This lack of a true night and day caused our cadre of Connoisseurs and friends to miss our bus home the next day, but that is another story.
I fatigued quickly in this environment, lacking the necessary compulsion to stay seated at a video poker machine and keep slipping in the twenties, I walked around quite a bit surrounded by the walking dead.
I’d review the vast quantity of food that I ate, but it almost all fell in the dead zone of mediocrity. There were, however, two saving graces. First, the Bananas Foster at the buffet; I spooned the syrupy hot bananas onto a tiny waffle and topped it with a couple cherries. It tasted like the way barbequed angels ought to taste. The waffle absorbed the excess syrup and cherry juice and it dish was finished quickly. It made both excellent dessert and welcome respite from what was an otherwise purely carnivorous dinner.
The other noteworthy food I had was a half of a jerk chicken which an otherwise lousy BBQ place onsite served up as the day’s special. The dry rub on the crispy chicken skin was rich, spicy, and savory. There was a black pepper heat and the strong and very welcome taste of cloves present. The chicken itself was moist, tender, and delicious. One other pleasant note, the dish was accompanied by a tiny but terrific cup of macaroni and cheese with ham. One day I will tell you all the horrible things I do with macaroni and cheese at home.
As this event was attended by all members of the Connoisseurs, much liquor was consumed. We first went to a red-lit, stainless steel-shod hole in the wall attempting to pass itself off as a Martini Bar. I personally had a Lemon Drop served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass… not an excellent drink to sip on. The Buddha’s Hand (a.k.a. Citron)- infused vodka was nice, but the drink as a whole was in an uncomfortable middle ground of being both too sweet and not sweet enough. I followed this with my drink of choice, the Tom Collins. The Tanqueray used in this drink was smooth, a bit flowery, and, as is my complaint with this particular brand of gin, nearly devoid of any hint of juniper. As the bartender was apparently unaware, a Tom Collins is made with tonic water (or club soda for the quinine-intolerant) so what I ended up with was what amounted to a Gin Sour, not horrible, but not what I was looking for.
Michael brought two bottles of wine which I was around to partake in. The first was a French sparkling white which tasted very much like white grapes, not dry in the least. I would compare it to a sparkling Riesling, quite tasty. The other was a nice red from God-knows-where with some nice tannins and a good strong black cherry taste.
When fatigue finally got the better of me and I passed out around
The pool was four feet at its deepest, but the hot tub was excellent and the steam room was intense, especially for a novice like me. Once we had purged our bodies of their ill-humors in the steam room we made our way to the aforementioned lousy BBQ place. It was here that Michael left our party to return to