In recent years, Las Vegas has been ditching its Disneyland tendencies in favor of its sinful side. Billboards have gotten racier, Treasure Island’s pirate show gave way to the more risqué Sirens show, and now, as you drive down Las Vegas Boulevard, on the corner of Rue de Monte Carlo, you’ll find a towering red-skinned, bikini-clad she-devil beckoning tourists to enter the bar resting beneath her black stilettos. I love this town.
As I drive down the Strip, gazing up at the pitchfork-toting colossus, I try to imagine what Diablo’s Cantina would look like with its scantily clad go-go dancers shaking their moneymakers on the upper level, as they normally do on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. They’re absent this Thursday night on account of the rain, and I can’t help but wonder what would cause more accidents at this intersection—slick roads or the distraction of gyrating bodies on the side of the street.
After parking, I avoid the rain by traveling through the Monte Carlo. On the far side of the casino floor, tucked away in the corner, is a dark door leading down into Diablo’s. I half expect to find a sign posted over the door that reads, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” Instead I find a metal sculpture of Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders above the caption “El Mundo.” Rounding the corner, I begin my slight descent down the corridor to yet another metal sculpture. This time it’s a flame-engulfed devil that’s setting the tone—“El Diablito.”
I emerge from the hallway into the restaurant portion of the bar, where rustic furniture and décor sit alongside multiple sleek, widescreen TVs, all of which are lit in a burning reddish light. Around me, tourists feast on all manner of Tex-Mex dishes, from nachos with guacamole to filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Descending a short staircase to the lower bar, I discover that hell throws a pretty rowdy party. The place is packed with foot-trafficking tourists, looking for a margarita or two along with a dose of “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”—our sinful tagline, proudly displayed on one of many wall-mounted wooden signs. Other posted catchphrases include “Lien adulterous whores welcome” and “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” They sound like dirty T-shirt slogans. And as I consider that, an employee passes, wearing a shirt that reads “Keep talking—I love drunk girls.”
The lower levels of this drinking man’s underworld are certainly fun, but I’m looking for something truly crazy on this journey. With one level to go, I ascend the back staircase to the top floor.
Ah, this is where they keep the crazy. As I pass through the door into the outdoor, upper bar, my eyes immediately meet with a giant, dancing chicken. On the stage beside him is a little person adorned with a sombrero, shaking maracas. Huh. Man-sized chicken and chicken-sized man. Just off the stage, a man in a luchador wrestling mask taunts nearby patrons into taking shots from the shot girls. To avoid getting sucked into the madness, I rush past the bar out onto the rainy balcony.
Looking up at the strings of colored lights over my head, I find myself inadvertently staring into the crotch of the giant devil woman above me. I feel vaguely impolite ... and perhaps a little turned on.
While ordering the first of what will be many margaritas at the bar, I notice the Wheel o’ Sin—a spinning wheel with different drink specials listed on it. Every time a team scores during Monday night football, the wheel is spun, giving patrons deals, ranging from free tequila shots to free hot-sauce shots to a free hit off the octabong (an eight-man beer bong) for the first eight people to reach it.
With margarita in hand, I look across the room and spot a neon red sign that reads “Sinners Welcome,” and with that prompt, I quickly scan the room for the seven deadly sins. Gluttony? I repeat: filet mignon, WRAPPED IN BACON. Check. Lust? Between the dancers dry-humping the chicken onstage and the drunken couple dancing and drooling all over each other in the rain, I’d say check and check. Greed?
No, no bar-side video poker here, but there’s plenty of that next door in the casino, so check. Sloth? Well, I’m here, so ... uh, check. Pride? Envy? A crowd like this has got to make the newly opened Diablo’s proud while making it the envy of other casino bars, so two checks there. But what about wrath? Thankfully, that’s the absent sin. Everyone’s having too good of a time to get angry. And that’s what’s great about Diablo’s.
As Milton wrote, “It is better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.” And Diablo’s rules.