My escort leaves me in the dining area in the back—sort of an indoor courtyard—where I wait for one of the owners to drop by and explain what this Oktoberfest madness is all about. All I know is that it's essentially a holiday centered around drinking—like St. Patrick's Day, only stretched out for two weeks. And since Las Vegas is not to be outdone when it comes to partying, the Hofbrauhaus is stretching it out for six weeks, to the very end of October.
There are at least 200 people seated under the room's painted sky, and their echoing voices make it sound like 10 times that. Strangers from adjacent tables giddily smack their steins together, and on two wide-screen TVs, the band from the main hall plays an assortment of oldies and muffled German drinking songs. They even perform 'The Chicken Dance," with the crowd eagerly participating with a flap of their wings and a shake of their tail feathers.
After waiting nearly an hour for the owner to arrive, I decide that continuing to watch the show on TV when the real thing is only a room away is a lot like attending a U2 concert and listening to their latest album on my iPod the whole time. The owner is too busy catering to Siegfried and Roy, who dropped by to tap the first keg of Oktoberfest. Roy Horn has his wheelchair in tow—literally in tow; he's getting around fine on his own two feet while an assistant pushes the chair behind him.
In the packed main hall, patrons stand on their benches, holding their steins aloft and cheering on the band. The band leader pulls random people from the crowd for drinking contests. Well, not entirely random. Being hot and blond seems to improve your chances. I sidle up beside a table near the stage, and a guy named Willy, clad in lederhosen and gold beads, puts his arm around my shoulders. Usually it's a little later in the evening before drunken strangers grab me, but this is what they call gemutlichkeit in Munich. It's a German word for that warm, fuzzy feeling you find with a group of good friends—or at the bottom of a massive stein of Hofbrau beer. For Willy, this celebration is a little slice of home.
"I've lived in Las Vegas for 13 years," he says, "but it's always great to find a little piece of your heritage."
A man carrying the Hofbrauhaus' blue-and-white checkered flag begins a conga line. This is typically when I would duck into an obscure corner, hoping to go unnoticed, but I am, after all, 1/128th German. Why not be wholeheartedly Bavarian for one bright, shining moment? I get in line, somewhere behind Willy.
"Germans are crazy," Willy says. "Put that in your paper. Say it was fun, but Germans are crazy."
Done.
Hofbrauhaus
Where: 4510 Paradise Road.
Info: 853-2337.
At long last, Matthew Scott Hunter has a valid reason to drink. You can e-mail him at [email protected].