Sometimes, unforseen circumstances turn into dates with destiny.
I rolled into Vegas on a Saturday afternoon, just to visit my favorite cheesy reality TV locations (Pawn Stars and American Restoration, if you must know). I planned to stay on the Strip for one night, and spend the wages of sin alone and unsupervised in a neon blur of whiskey and poker chips.
But souvenir shopping accomplished, I realized I was not in the mood to stay in Sin City as a solo, squandering my earnings and tarnishing my spirit in a land of debauchery. Sin is more fun with company.
Instead I headed towards Death Valley, a better match for my mood.
And there, on the outskirts of town, where the concrerte meets desert, it was. In-N-Out. And I was hungry.
I had heard the legends. Tales of mysterious lingo and off-menu items known only to the initated, the In-N-Out Illuminati.
I spoke into the speaker words I had been taught to remember, but did not fully understand: "Double double. Animal Style. Chocolate Shake."
And life changed. Forever.
Can we build one of these in north Jersey, puh-leeeeeze?