“Disorienting.”
Thus, in a single, perfect word, did a friend describe everything that I don’t like about Las Vegas. And that “everything” is nearly everything, with the exception of the food and a short list of other attractions. But I do understand the appeal, so if the “Vegas Scene” is your thing, have at it — I won’t be there to get in your way.
Now, back to that food: Does any spot in America outside of Manhattan offer a denser variety of excellent eats? Seems unlikely. Here are some of my favorites.
Rao’s (Caesar’s Palace). The antipasto platter (as in, “not merely one of many possible appetizers; the appetizer”) is so good that while we were eating it, a man passed out and fell to the floor. That man wasn’t with our party and was seated at a nearby table, but that’s how good it is.
Vetri Cucina (Palms). The first surprise here was that the Palms still exists, because I’d always assumed it to have gone under with Old Blue Eyes. The second surprise was the Casoncelli alla Bergamasca, a sausage-stuffed pasta of Lombard origin, topped with sage leaves and Speck. And the 56th-floor windows cast a tranquil veil between you and the twinkling lights of the distant Strip.
CUT (Palazzo). The steak described as a “kobe-wagyu hybrid” (note to carnivorous purists: I am gullible and verified neither its provenance nor its composition) is easily one of the best I’ve had anywhere not named “Argentina.”
Mon Ami Gabi (Paris). Prince. MJ. George Michael. Whitney. Bowie. None of them had waited around for me to finally see them live, so when the Madame X tour rolled into the Colosseum, my buddy and I were there to see La Ciccone. The show’s — notoriously — late start gave us a chance to first enjoy dinner after our long drive, which we did at Mon Ami Gabi, and not out of deference to the preference of his French wife (who chaperoned our ‘80s nostalgia pilgrimage), but because it’s actually good cuisine française, especially for being in the middle of a desert. Don’t miss the frisée salad with lardons (slab bacon) and poached egg.
Holstein (Cosmopolitan). The ahi tuna salad was surprisingly good for a place named after a German province on the North Sea. Bring earplugs.
Marché Bacchus. In Vegas, anything not on the Strip seems like it’s in Sacramento. And so my colleagues gave me a hard time for taking them on an overland expedition “all the way out” to Summerlin, all of 15 minutes from our hotel. The ribbing stopped, or at least slowed, once we passed through the charming wine shop at the front of the establishment and, beyond a door in the back, took our seats in the bistro’s lakeside sunroom. The occasional grunt loosely resembling “good choice,” “nice spot” and “decent” escaped, haltingly, among chews. It’s the first time I’ve actually liked — rather than merely tolerated on a dare — escargot.
Market Café (Vdara). It may look like an airport Illy, but it serves one Illuva avocado toast.
Estiatorio Milos (Cosmopolitan). Many years ago, my rep for a firm we engage told me at his company’s own after-hours reception, “You know what? This food stinks. You want some real food? Check out [his competitor’s] event over at Milos.” The double-cut lamb chops and baklava brought us back year after year after year after year (etc.), until evidently someone realized we weren’t actual revenue-generating clients.
Zen Kitchen (Waldorf). Quiet, sunny spot for breakfast, whether to keep it simple with slow-cooked, steel-cut oatmeal, or to power up at their extensive buffet.
Beauty & Essex (Cosmopolitan). As with the restaurant’s NYC original, the schtick here is that the dining area is entered through a speakeasy-like door at the back of a functioning, street-facing pawn shop. The food’s good enough, but schtick around for the choco-tacos at dessert.
Joël Robuchon (MGM Grand). I’m a sucker for a good beet salad in almost any configuration, and these guys took “configuration” into a previously unknown realm, right on the heels of which came some chef’s great idea of chestnut soup. All of which is fine, but when tea service comes in the form of half a dozen live plants wheeled to your table, from which your bespoke mix of leaves is hand-clipped and brewed on the spot, you really begin to wonder whether you’ve crossed a line into the realm of ridiculous indulgence. And if you’re not sure, the ecstasy-inducing soufflé leaves no doubt. Might be the quietest dining in town.
Esther’s Kitchen: Make the short drive to this Italian-leaning spot in the Arts District. Four of us foraged across wide swaths of the menu, and only the steak (helped by garlic and rosemary) was very good, while everything else was spectacular. And just when we thought it couldn’t get spectacularer, the evening culminated in a procession of desserts coming closer and closer to perfection with each arrival: first a pot of butterscotch budino (pudding), then chocolate pie with crème fraîche ice cream, then, finally, a damn-near-perfect plum tart.
WANDERLOOSED 