by Marc Dombrosky and Hugh Fogel

We never thought it was going to be fun.

The huge sign on side of Bally’s beckoned us. Seven buffets in 24 hours.  Caesars, Imperial Palace, Rio, Harrahs, Flamingo, Paris and Planet Hollywood. $39.99, $34.99 is you had a player’s card. Ballys wasn’t included- must have a top secret buffet somewhere. We chose to have bright blue wristband passes proudly displayed. No tracking company card for us.

When we all started discussing it a few weeks ago it seemed like a Herculean gastronomical feat–something to be attempted but perhaps unfeasible, otherworldly, dangerous. Perhaps. But perhaps we could beat Harrah’s at their own game. Take their challenge (offer?) and break the house. Win. Seven buffets in 24 hours? We’ll take that bet. It hadn’t (as far as we know) been done but it could be. In our plan, it translated theoretically to a few hours in each, casually walking down The Strip, some quiet grazing, picture taking, backpacks, becoming tourists. Disappearing. Integrating and becoming invisible in a city of transitional eating. Someone stays at the table and watches our stuff while the rest of the party moves around, stalking new trays, fresh goods. Make the rounds. A tactical foodie strike. Recon, incursion, withdrawal. Mission Accomplished. Honestly, with a few drinks in us and some cocky *we’re locals and know how it works*, it made sense, felt right. It could be funny, awkward, sickening, absurd, hallucinatory, and frightening. Fear and eating. Pioneers. Guides in our own town. Sherpas. We would probably get full.

What happened at Rio on our first night/meal was all of that and more I think, now, almost an hour after we departed. We saw people walking around barefoot. We witnessed mass consumption of crab legs, a line maybe twenty or thirty deep at times with people pulling somewhere between twenty and thirty legs per plate away with them only to return again and again and again. The crab legs formed a forest, but seemed like a renewable resource. The forest of legs never lessened while we were there. We debated whether or not the table next to us was populated by attractive working girls and their pimps, or perhaps first-timers (no decision, as yet). We witnessed a bride give a speech at her own wedding party. We tasted several (not all nine, but like five, most of them blended together) kinds of gelato, prepared by Randy Sebastian, one of 2003′s top pastry chefs in the world. We met tourists who offered us timeshare opportunities in Phoenix, San Francisco, and points east. I talked with a kid who had just been laid off his job as a crane operator in Jersey and who had come to Las Vegas to relax, think about what comes next, and save a good amount of money eating his way around town with a twenty-four hour buffet pass. Nearly everyone I spoke to had done their homework before dining strategically amongst Harrah’s properties; Paris or Planet Hollywood for breakfast, Caesar’s (or Paris again) for lunch, and Rio–only Rio–for dinner. Rio. Rio. Rio.

So yes, to answer outstanding questions, we also did our homework and kept inscrutable figures. At Rio, It takes something like 107 steps to walk the length of the entire buffet, burning a measly 7.6 calories. The average wait time on a Saturday night before Father’s Day at 8:00 pm is approximately 45 minutes. The maximum capacity is 733 (although it certainly feels like more). Harrah’s suggestions for dishes is–by and large–pretty good (I heard it described tonight as *fine* although *adequate* could probably do just as much justice):
Pizza (yes).
Sushi (no).
Teppanyaki (yes, oh hell yes, and the kid from Jersey went through the line at least twice that I can vouch for).
Carved meat (yes).
Asian BBQ (yes).
Strangest items: mac & cheese and baked beans & ham salads.
And extra points for ambrosia.

We didn’t drink at the bar, the restrooms appeared nice, if not crowded, and there was a keno board that went largely unnoticed.  One last thing: Rio has two buffets. This wasn’t the seafood one.

In between bites we made rules, a map, and a plan. Tomorrow, Paris at dawn.

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• Eating Las Vegas: Max’s Open Response to Hugh Fogel