322 Pizza Bar

Fremont Street, where old Vegas breathes its last gasps amidst the towering specters of its flashier, younger siblings. It’s past midnight, and the echos of Frank Sinatra seem to haunt the airwaves. At 322 Pizza Bar, the worn-out countertop has seen better days, but that’s precisely where its charm lies.

The slice? $8.99 might sound steep for a piece of pepperoni pizza. But this isn’t just any pizza. It’s a slice of salvation for the drunk, the lost, the gambler who’s down on his luck. The crust, a perfect balance of chew and crunch, plays host to a tangy tomato sauce. The cheese, slightly burnt and bubbling, nestles those spicy, crispy rounds of pepperoni like precious jewels.

It’s not gourmet. It’s not going to win any culinary awards. But as the neon lights dance in the reflection of that oily cheese and the hum of the old Fremont Street sings its siren song, that slice is everything. It’s Vegas, baby. And sometimes, you don’t need gold to strike it rich.