Tuesday and Wednesday
My favourite restaurants
in Vegas keep disappearing. But that's okay, I usually find new ones
just as good. This is what happened for my 2nd breakfast
in Vegas. Instead of going outside even briefly into the cold, I
walked through the Mandalay shops and then through its vast casino to
the Four Seasons to sample its Veranda, a place I'd found online in
searching breakfast places in Vegas. I was assured by the fact that
it was in the Four Seasons that it would be good. Just had no idea
how good. I ordered the frittata Bianca, which I'd lusted after on
its menu online. It was extraordinary. And the service was worthy of
Le Cirque. I'm given a daily paper to peruse, constantly called by
name and served endless chamomile tea as good as that fine tea can
get. Initially I can't open my honey jar. Nor can the server. I am
then brought two pre-opened jars and my love affair with the tea
commences. The Bianca looks daunting. How can I eat that much food at
7 AM? That's serious dinner quantities. But instead of overwhelming
me with its quantity, it thrills me with its quality, to such an
extent that as its ending looms, I try and cut smaller and smaller
pieces to avoid the depression of its cessation.
I walk by a large
statue of Michael Jackson, who must have loomed as large over the
young boys he preyed upon, and fill a cup of the filtered sparkling
water they are offering on tap in the lobby. It's cold and good.
Back to the NoMad Bar for
lunch. I'd heard Humm makes a mean burger.
The last hamburger I
recall eating was Daniel Bouloud's deluxe burger when he ran a couple
of restaurants in Vancouver long ago. It was the day of Obama's
inauguration. The day was very cold. The burger took me two days to
eat. Two very good days. Humm's burger lived up to my expectations
but the cocktail I had with it did not. No midget like its sister
yuzu-implied beverage, it instead swaggered onto my table with a
cucumber sash as bold as Mohamed Ali in drag. You do not want to
drink a cocktail with cucumber when you're enjoying a pickle. The
pickle really made the burger, but the pairing was destructive.
A great piece of art
brings me as much enjoyment as a great meal or drink. Yayoi Kusama
was having a show at the Bellagio so that was my afternoon plan.
Still had an hour to kill before her show, stopped by Vesper, my
favourite Vegas bar to see what extraordinary concoction they could
create. Long benefited from their creativity, and today is not
different.
Bar queen Jennifer Yim discerns I like Tiki drinks, so she
makes me one combining Alva Cachaca “Amurana,” Plantation over
proof rum, Gifford banana liqueur and passion fruit liqueur,
pineapple, lemon and lime juices, shook and topped with passion fruit
pearls. It is a miraculous drink. Yayoi's mirrored balls are
thought-provoking and her room of mirrored lights does great things
to my eyes.
An extraordinary breakfast frittata, a great burger, a
wondrous drink and an art experience that expands my enjoyment of the
lights I encounter while wandering the shiny, sparkly halls of the
hotels means this is a great day, right? And then my Lyft takes me to
Mordeo.
A kind of Mordor for food.
Well, the staff is real nice. When I tell the clinging service person
(owner? Chef?) that I had wondrous crab at Partage the night before,
he insists that his crab is better. It is superb.
And then things
begin to descend. Trusting the online menu and reviews more than I
should, I order the trout ceviche. It is hotter than the sun. Unlike
Jennifer's healing helio-trophic Tiki drink, this sun is not my
friend. I complain, and the cheffy guy exchanges it for another trout
dish; this one, he insists isn't so strong. Well, maybe Superman
isn't as strong as Superduperman but they're both coming from the
wrong place. Cheffy guy sends out a glass of white wine to go with
his ardently promoted crab dish and unfortunately it doesn't extend
its charms to my charring tongue from the spice insult. Forced to
flee from the conflagration, I summon the wetness of a white sangria.
Not as good as what I drink at home, and not as wine-knowledgeable as
I'd expect from a wine bar, it at least puts out the fire. Next, I
risk a dish of baby scallops. Alas. They reeked of the sea. And not
in a good way. That's one good dish, and three really bad dishes,
plus drinks that functioned more as amelioration than even the
suburbs of beverage pleasure, I vastly over tip (they are so
Enthusiastic, and maybe when they learn to avoid spices and fishy
seafood, they'll eventually feature edible food) I depart for what I
expect to be an easy walk over to Edo tapas, which on my phone is
only a few blocks away. Well, maybe I should have called for another
Lyft. I have great difficulty finding the place in time for my
reservation. So many strip malls! But find it I do. The chef is from
Barcelona, where tapas first entered my life in a serious way. Would
these be as good? I begin with a kiwi based cocktail. “We have
really fresh kiwi today,” my server tells me, but I appreciate it
insufficiently. Last year's was the kiwi trip. I make the mistake of
ordering the lobster thing, which my menu does not mention, comes
with avocado. I go out of my way to avoid this evil fruit. If only I
could escape to a universe without avocados. Nonetheless, with
careful, selective forking, I avoid their poison and enjoy the
lobster thingie. Luckily, I order some bread with tomato gratings.
The bread is from Spain, I am told. Well traveled, yes, but well
flavoured? Outstanding. And remember, I'm still full from the bad
food at Mordor or whatever it's called. Next up, the mushroom dish.
Once more it has vanished from their real menu, but because it lives
on on their online menu, they create it for me. Maitake and other
mushrooms dance and cavort atop a custard of cauliflower which is so
good it validates the whole trip. And that's saying a lot!
Back at my hotel early, I
decide to check out its central bar, as it's on my way through the
casino. I order its blackberry drink, but it somehow forgets to be a
drink. It isn't shaken. It isn't stirred. It's some blackberry spirit
on the bottom, and then a bunch of gin. Now, I'm no enemy of gin.
Tanqueray is a fave. But I didn't order a glass of gin, I ordered an
attempt to see what the bar could do with my favourite fruit. It
flunked.
I had planned to venture
off into Gehry land today, lulled by the unusual sun, though it was
Vancouver-like cold outside; but decided Yayoi was enough art and
getting out and about for one day. Didn't use my 3-day Deuce pass at
all. Lyft seems reliable, and beats waiting out in the cold for a bus
for half an hour.
audio: https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/autobkiography/Vegas+Ate%2CTuesday.mp3
Up Wednesday morning
anxious to see if Veranda's Italian omelet could be as good as
Tuesday's palate-boggling frittata. Once more, I am papered, spoken
to pleasantly, and am generally enchanted. Their Italian omelet was
perhaps the best thing I've had with eggs.
There was a time in
university when I basically lived on omelets. All kinds of omelets.
Tangerine omelets. Peanut butter and honey omelets. I could drift
away into eggy possibility but then, as now, craved a cheese and
tomato omelet above all others. Veranda's eggy wonder earthquake of
tongue pleasure arose from the enchanting mushroom sauce that filled
the omelet like Coltrane fills a solo. This is really what I come to
Vegas, or go to any restaurant for. My wife can get these
inspirations from friends or even TV shows. You always want to find a
better version of what you already love. If you love pizza, there is
really no Best Possible Pizza. Same with omelets, grilled cheese
sandwiches, burgers, and many other rather pedestrian things. This
isn't fine dining or serious expense. This is paying attention to
your tongue and following where it points. Your taste buds can't let
you down. They are you. This Italian omelet, along with yesterday's
frittata Bianca are things that I can make at home. These are not
impossible. What Edo did with its mushrooms and cauliflower would
require Dona Flor to come to life with her cook books from the great
Jorge Amado novel Dona Flor and her Two Husbands. (flick ain't
bad, but read the book and droool.). Spending the travel points and
staying in a hotel long enough to eat at all the restaurants I want
to explore, and increasingly, the physical demands of endless walking
takes a greater toll than it did 8 years ago, I have to evaluate, is
this trip worth it? Were it to be the last, have I gotten everything
I could get out of this city; these excursions, these expenses and
the wear and tear on my tendons this city requires, do they balance
out in my favour? That doesn't happen often in this town.
It rains on and off. Can I
go downtown to bask in the expected torrents of pleasure I expect
from the Gehry building? It is the last day of my 3-day pass so I
must do it.
Lunch at Milos.
It
requires some convincing that I don't want the whole lunch meal, just
the shrimp. They reluctantly subtract the appetizer Greek salad,
which is big enough to float me to Greece on a raft of bad dreams,
and the desert fruit plate. I meliorate their greed for my dracmas by
ordering a wine pairing with the tomato partnering shrimpy protein.
They all yelled “Opa!” I left unfull but that was a good thing.
Back at Vesper, Jennifer makes me a blackberry beverage which serves
as an excellent prologue to the sangrias at Hexx bar whose
berry-intelligent sangrias had so besotted me last year. But alas,
the micro-sangrias flunked out. They were served warm. Does any
serious bartender serve a glass of sangria warm? There was ice as an
afterthought but it did not mitigate the horror of warm booze
uncoupling its most appealing molecules and drifting into a taste
dungeon that defies all hope. The drinks were that bad. As bad as
Mordeo's food. Uh, we haven't gotten to the scary bad food yet, but
keep reading. Sauron lives and lives well on the Vegas strip.
The Deuce delivers me to
the Bonneville Centre. I make my way to the Cleveland Center for
Brain Research, the Gehry Building I had come to Vegas to gawk at. It
is gawk-worthy.
It is also a long walk, and overcast clouds
diminished visual enthrallment. I walked as briskly as possible to
the Downtown Cocktail Room. It is a long walk, but their cocktails
are renowned in this town. I was in need of one. Instead I had 3, but
none of them were very good. The three together were smaller in size
than the drink I'd had earlier at Vesper, which was infinitely
better. There is a lesson here. The brain center building by Gehry
spoke eloquently to the disordered brain. I have watched my parents
and others drift off into dementia, where perception is gradually at
odd angles to reality. Maybe this center can help. With some
difficulty and help from a fellow patron at Downtown, I catch my Lyft
ride to the Palms. Serious traffic, so I call to explain my
tardiness. It is appreciated, but seemingly unnecessary. I am called
“darling,” but not for the first time. It turns out to be my
longest Lyft ride. The driver tells me there are 40,000 shared ride
drivers cruising Vegas. My next driver tells me it's 80,000. No
wonder its easy to get a lift. I take the lift up to Vetri, the
Italian restaurant I had such high expectations of. Were the
expectations met?
Hmm.
Beautiful view. Really
nice toilet. Decent cocktail. Opening with the porcetta, it shuffled
into the territory of fine dining. It didn't live there, but it
flirted with my palate. Alas, I was next delivered a board of dishes
so vast, I could never consume them and live. A token bite or two was
imperiling enough, and I had another dish ordered, the gnocchi. As I
said, the view was exquisite. The server kept calling me “darling,”
although she appeared not much older than my grand daughters, it was
kind of endearing, as opposed to the food. The dishes reminded me of
General Grant's strategy in the American Civil War. The Chinese in
the Korean war. Prevail with numbers, despite the casualties. That's
what I felt was attempted by Vetri's dishes, but in vain. The wall
held. Really great food never made its appearance amidst the
onslaught of food that struggled feebly to be very good.
I could have
been depressed, but the setting was impressive and I'd changed my
reservation for 2nd dinner from the highly anticipated
swordfish at Pizzeria Monzu to return to Partage to see if its drinks
and bites were really that good. Uh, no. Should have stuck with the
swordfish.
The crab divinity at
Partage still retained a shadow of it previous excellence, but the
drinks plummeted into a hellish negation of what they had been not
many hours before. The passion fruit pleasure fell into a kind of
metallic grating that attacked my tongue beyond its capacity for
defence. The Tropical seemed like seeing a person with a head and
feet but with no body. The drink's qualities were so distantly apart,
you could spot a distant universe from their boundaries. And what's
worse, the bartenders had no interest in fixing this oddity. Only a
waiter who looked like the Firesign patron and popular actor John
Goodman was at all friendly. Perhaps because they were so much busier
on Wednesday than Monday, they may have not had time to humour my
tastes as they did when I was their only challenge. But the result
of their disinterest creates my disinterest of ever dining with them
again, of ever trusting that something on their online or real menu
would resonate with the excellence it displayed on previous
consumption. OK, on to Sparrow and Wolf to see it it yuzu cocktails
still cook. Yes they do. Yuzu still shines in the excellence with
which it is displayed. I spend a long time talking with a man from
NoMad. I tell him he makes good burgers. He knows already.
audio: https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/autobkiography/Vegas+Ate%2C+Wednesday.mp3