This is from a post that I originally wrote for CardSquad:

The Klondike is a dump, but like many dumps (I'm looking in your direction, Freemont Street) it is a charming
and glorious dump, and an integral part of the character of Las Vegas.

I will never forget my one and only
experience at the Klondike: About a decade ago, my friends and I stopped there for breakfast on our way out of town, to
"soak up some local color and flavor."

We pulled into a mostly-empty parking lot, and walked into a
dark, smoky casino. We made our way past ancient slots and video poker machines with burned-in monitors, and took a seat
at the back of the cramped coffee shop.

Right after we placed our order, a man and a woman sat down at the
table next to us. I forget what she looked like, but he was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, and was a smelly,
unshaven mess. From their conversation, it was unclear whether he'd been released, or escaped. Either way, the waitress
(who was so drunk at eleven in the morning, we were concerned about open flames) didn't seem to care. Because we were
all in our very early twenties, neither did we. The as-yet-unawakened writer in me furiously scribbled down every
possible detail of what was clearly a moment in time we'd never want to forget.

We ate a traditional Vegas
steak(?)-n-eggs breakfast, while half expecting federal marshalls to burst into the joint, and wondered if any of us
would qualify as hostages or not. It never happened, though we all jumped a little bit when a scream errupted from the
casino as an octogenarian hit a jackpot on the nickel slot. When we finished, we left a twenty on the table (which
worked out to about a ten dollar tip) and raced down Interstate 15 toward Bat Country.

Years later, none of us
could tell you anything about the games we played, where we stayed, or whether we left winners or losers, but we could
all tell you, in exacting detail, about breakfast at The Klondike. In fact, it remains one of the enduring highlights
of any Vegas run we've ever made.