It’s official now, so raise a toast—er—prost—to the new Las Vegas Hofbräuhaus. It’s been open since January, but the grand opening was last night. About a thousand invited guests gathered to watch a ceremonial keg get tapped, listen to oompah bands, and sample a groaning board of wurst, dumplings, and sauerkraut. Oh, yeah, and drink beer. It was a real baptism by suds, because the smallest beer glass available held a liter, and I didn’t see anybody having just one.

And I was looking, because this, like all such events in Las Vegas, was a great opportunity to people-watch. There were loads of real Germans in their Bavarian Sunday best, and a sprinkling of pseudo-Germans in Americanized dirndls and Pleather-hosen. There were young guys in baggy shorts power-chugging dunkel, and photogenic blondes on the arms of old men in expensive suits. There were grubby journalists with huge cameras, and stylish twenty-somethings with tiny shirts. The Hofbräuhaus staff had scrubbed themselves especially well, and the beer mädchen were wearing cute white knee socks and their hair in tight braids.

It was all sehr fröhlich, and as the beer flowed, the noise level increased to rock concert levels. This made it hard for the ceremonial speakers to make themselves understood, but it was still easy enough to understand that the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce is happy that the Hofbraühaus is here, and that the “Staatliches Hofbräuhaus in München” is glad they made the licensing deal that brought the Vegas offspring into being.

Their smiles might also have something to do with the fact that all the HB beer served in Las Vegas—an amount that’s projected to reach 116,000 gallons a year—is the real thing, transported all the way from Munich by container ship.

In between plaque presentations and a multitude of prosts, the bands played on, cranking out tunes like “Roll Out the Barrel” and “Valderee, Valdera” on accordions and tubas. A very athletic guy did a complicated maneuver involving a full beer glass, a handstand, a one-armed pushup, and a slow somersault. All the beer went down his throat at the end, and when he stood up, he wasn’t even slightly out of breath. Then a lady yodeler earned a few huzzahs, followed by some full-skirted dancers with foot-slapping partners.

And then—just before the apple strudel was served—Elvis entered the building. He leapt onto the stage in his pale blue rhinestone-studded body suit and started belting out “Viva Las Vegas.” Everybody roared, and a sixty-ish lady jumped up on a table. The noise level rose to new heights.

Elvis Presley is, without a doubt, the perfect patron saint for the Hofbräuhaus. Just like the beer hall whose stage he blessed, Elvis did a stint in Germany, rose to world renown, and cloned himself in Vegas.

So it’s as official as the best Las Vegas wedding. Hofbraühaus is here, open, and baptized by the King. G’zuffa!