There’s something demented about Hash House: its shocking immoderation. Dishes are laughably immense, piled as high as Jenga games. Even Guy Fieri would think it’s in bad taste. Everything on the down-home menu, which the restaurant calls “Twisted Farm Food,” sounds like a good idea mostly in anticipation: one-pound burgers (stuffed with the likes of bacon and cheese), skyscrapers of fried green tomatoes, a platter of sage-dusted fried chicken and waffles deserving of its own area code, pancakes like bedspreads, non-stop brunch. The HH is a meal with a high risk-reward ratio, and it’s a sure bet there’ll be leftovers—it’s no wonder the brand came from Vegas.