THENASTYBITS (5 page)

something to the experience—and, in fact, it was the best of the offerings: pretty, in its artfully opened pocket of corn husk, and flavorful. A very well-conceived dish which, unlike the quesadilla, compared well to the more rustic Mexican versions. "This is as good as any tamale on earth," I offered. "This is great. You could go looking for the perfect tamale in any mercado in Mexico and not find one as good as this. Unimprovable."

"The kitchen does a good job," said Ruhlman, begrudgingly. "Just don't look out the window."

A "Northeast Lobster Out of the Shell with Red Chile Coconut Sauce" masked a perfectly cooked lobster with a fairly insipid and cloyingly sweet sauce, and the Brussels sprouts (which I liked) made absolutely no sense in its proximity. "Sixteen Spice Rotisserie Chicken" was, again, perfectly cooked, but it would have been fine with about eight spices. "Coffee Spice Rubbed Rotisserie Filet Mignon" was also flawlessly cooked, though decorated with the same squeeze-bottled orange sauce as the chicken. The kitchen crew did everything right, cooked everything perfectly, with dead-on technique, but I found myself carping about the conceptual disconnect: "The same damn squeeze bottle stuff. All these years later—"

"The kitchen is doing a really good job," interrupted Ruhlman correctly (if uncharacteristically).

"Why put your personal 'imprint' on this stuff? It's gilding the lily," I griped, wondering why a nice piece of lovingly cooked filet mignon would be in any way improved by a rubdown with coffee.

"They don't come here for a steak, Bourdain," muttered Ruhlman. "They come here for
Bobby's
steak. Taste the magic, man. You're not buying a meal. You're buying a
personality."

"But the food is fine. The food is good. Why wrestle it into submission?"

"The food is good. They do a good job here," said Ruhlman, looking nervously around for another margarita.

The desserts at Mesa Grill were outstanding. A "Coconut Custard Brulee Tart" with fresh fruit struck exactly the right balance between Flay's "signature" style and eating pleasure. A "Warm Chocolate and Dulce de Leche Cake," which could easily have been yet another ubiquitous "fallen chocolate souffle," was extraordinary, and was served with pecan ice cream. The two desserts (and the margaritas) helped put us both into cheerier moods. You could do a lot worse than to eat at the Mesa Grill. It's a hell of a lot better than it has to be. Looking outside the thin glass partition and around the room, one gets the impression that the customers here would be just as happy with a well-prepared burger, as long as it was "Bobby Flay's Burger," served under Bobby Flay's omnipresent, smiling face. That the kitchen clearly works hard to get it right, and that the chef appears to as well (Flay was in town only a couple of days later), speaks well of the place. Now if all concerned could be less insecure about changing with the times, maybe let the ingredients speak more for themselves, it could be pretty damn impeccable. Though I'd suggest tinting the windows. The view from the tables is a little dismaying.

It took a while to locate Todd English's Olives in the gargantuan Bellagio. If anybody's got a right to phone-it-in, crank-out factory food, it's English. He has restaurants all over the world these days, and a chain of airport pit stops (Figs). But I spend a lot of time in airports, often moved to murderous rage by the usual overpriced, not-even-trying gruel that seems to be the norm, and I'm always happy to see Figs. He's made
my
world a better place already. English does not suffer from the burden of too many stars, or a signature style. No one expects to walk into an Olives and find Joel Robuchon. The exterior of Olives at the Bellagio only reinforces that sensibly lowered expectation. It looks like a one-time Bennigan's, without the faux Tiffany lamps. Once one steps inside, however, things only improve. There's a lovely terrace overlooking a huge, man-made lake which one could easily mistake for European—if there weren't casino hotels in the background. With a little willing suspension of disbelief, one could spend a delightful few hours there. As

2
-7

Ruhlman was MIA for the afternoon (probably squandering his kids' college funds at the crap tables), I dragooned my assistant producer, Nari, into joining me for lunch. The service at Olives was supremely confident, and casually, enjoyably efficient. When we ordered three appetizers and two entrees, our server asked, "Have you eaten with us before?" When I said no, she warned that, "They're large portions."

It was a completely unneurotic meal. English specializes in big servings of very decent, casual Mediterranean, and that's what was delivered: The bread basket, with freshly baked and well-seasoned focaccia and
carta da musica,
was of way above average quality. A flatbread pizza of white clams and broccoli rabe pesto was terrific. Sweet pea ravioli with pea shoots was just right, and a gnocchi with sausage was a bit tougher than it could have been but tasty. Halibut with mascarpone polenta was fresh and correctly cooked and tasted of what it should: halibut and mascarpone polenta. The "Crispy Yellowfin Tuna" was a clunker, deep-fried to rare yet unpleasantly dry and deposited on a perfunctory salad; and the desserts were of hospital quality; but Olives manages to exceed expectations rather than bloat them. It's a welcome counterpoint to the excesses of the casino, a casual, fun, and filling respite from the madness outside.

"This is what's great about Vegas," babbled a momentarily ebullient Ruhlman, well into his fourth sake. He was talking about Okada at the new Wynn Las Vegas, a "combining [of] the French and Japanese worlds" from chef Takashi Yagihashi.

"I mean . . . look at this," he spluttered, "the guy [Yagihashi] goes from a sixty-five-seat restaurant in the suburbs of Detroit to
. . . thisl
It's amazing."

And Okada is amazing. The spanking new, two-hundred-thirty-seat restaurant opens onto an artificial, yet stunningly beautiful, bamboo- and tree-lined lagoon. Water falls over rock shelves through what appears to be a dense, Asian jungle just outside. Marginally familiar with the chef's previous venue, the well-reviewed Tribute, I had to admit it was quite a transition. This was what Vegas has to offer: a new life for talented chefs like Yagihashi. Private dining rooms; a sleek, new, stylish, multimillion-dollar main dining room; a large sushi bar manned by "traditional
Edomae
sushi master Miyazawa." An open kitchen serving
robata yaki
(marinated skewers grilled over Japanese charcoal). An open kitchen serving "caviar tastings," braised short ribs, and bento boxes, among other fusion offerings, along with tempura and teriyaki—a scattershot potpourri of mix and match, and a vast selection of sakes.

All right, so the sushi wasn't so hot: The rice was cold and gluey, the
uni
(sea urchin) not the freshest Pve had. Perfectly good
otoro
was cut too thick, and across connective tissue. But it's impossible not to be swept along by the enthusiasm of the place. Okada exudes high energy, pride, optimism—and the American dream of a successful future. It celebrates the different and the "exotic" in admirably bold fashion. Our server cheerily explained to Ruhlman and me (two jaded and grizzled food writers if ever there were any) what an
omakase
was (tasting menu), and we felt compelled to feign ignorance and wonder. What followed was a hilariously frenetic, yet intermittently delicious, trainwreck as food cranked continuously from the various stations without coordination. Our serious yet beleaguered sommelier struggled mightily to match always excellent sakes to a double-time procession of courses, arriving with a perfectly matched unfiltered sake, for instance, only to find another course had been plunked down in the few moments it had taken her to fetch it. Plated offerings and family-style tastings seemed stacked in holding patterns around the table like planes over JFK at rush hour.

The always dangerously manic-depressive Ruhlman's mood began to swing.

"I've got The Fear," he murmured, picking unhappily at the "lobster trio," an inexplicably smoked lobster tail which tasted of, well . . . smoke; a lobster croquette that could just as well have been "sea leg," and a "lobster gelee" served in the inevitable shot glass. "Maybe there's a downside to this. If Yagihashi had opened in New York first, before coming here

...
he would have been
killed
by the critics. He would have learned."

Okada's offerings veered between the truly excellent and the sophomoric, but never without enthusiasm and pride. A sampling of skewered
robata yaki
arrived, a perfect grilled prawn, flawless "BBQ short rib," an unctuous grilled spear of
otoro,
and a bizarrely incongruous grilled lamb chop slathered with black olive tapenade—a discordant note which thankfully didn't take away from the excellence of the rest.

But the "Baked Sweet Sake-Kasu Black Cod" was just fine; the sakes were wonderful; and looking around the beautiful dining room, spying a mulleted, shorts-wearing couple in T-shirts, the man in a trucker hat and sandals, the woman in sneakers, both happily picking over their food with chopsticks at a nearby table, I felt decidedly more sunny about things.

"You miserable, misanthropic, elitist swine, Ruhlman," I barked. "This restaurant is good for the world! Look at this place. Look at this food. Feel it! It's enlightenment! Where do you want these people to go after they've won a few bucks at the tables, in their few moments of hopeful optimism before it all goes down the tubes tomorrow? TGI McFunsters? A steak-house? The midnight buffet at the Riviera? Look at what they're exposed to here—in the middle of this terrible desert, among the mile-high sno-cone daiquiris and mai tais, the dollar-ninety-nine shrimp cocktails, the cynical crap-fest up and down this strip! A taste of the new, Ruhlman. A taste of Asia! New sensations! New ingredients! They'll get drunk on this fine sake and look out at that lagoon and think, 'Maybe Asia would be cool. I
like
this stuff!' Look around the dining room, Ruhlman. Those are your countrymen—and they're eating
well.
They're eating
new.
Now God bless America and order more sake."

The next morning, Ruhlman disappeared again, leaving an indecipherably scrawled note with the desk at the Wynn. He'd lost tragic amounts of money at the tables, which he'd no doubt have a very hard time explaining to his wife. Though I'd miss his encyclopaedic knowledge of Vegas culinary history, it was none too soon. He needed to hole up somewhere and rest his sushi-bloated body before the final push at Bouchon. Examining the bill he'd left behind, I saw I'd have my own problems explaining to my editor how a man could run up five hundred dollars in "in-room movies." And what had Ruhlman wanted with "1 case of grapefruits," "6 orders of kung pao chicken," "2 cases of Neutrogena soap," not to mention the power tools and lubricants he'd ordered from the gift shop?

It was a relief from Ruhlman's surly disposition and unlovely personal habits to eat lunch with Tracey, one of the camera persons from the production team. She, at least, would be happy to get a good meal—and was unlikely to abuse the waiter.

Unlike Flay and English, Daniel Boulud does have multi-stars to protect—four of them at his eponymous fine dining restaurant in New York. And his other New York store, the more casual DB Bistro Moderne, is nearly as well thought of. But he does everything right in Vegas and generously lets executive chef Philippe Rispoli take the credit (or the blame). In this case, he should be very proud. Everything about the new Daniel Boulud Brasserie in the Wynn Las Vegas is as good as it could be. Canapes of duck confit and foie gras were what you would expect of a hotshot like Boulud (and somewhat daring in Vegas's 110-degree heat). Sevruga caviar with still-warm blinis was classic, fresh, and paired—in this case—with a very respectable house champagne. In the shadow of a monster-size waterfall/ movie screen and reflecting pool, the food and service stand up effortlessly to what could have been intimidating, even ludicrous, surroundings. Lobster bisque tasted like lobster—a welcome relief from the two lobsters I'd previously seen victimized in the name of the chef's larger Vision. "Vitello tonnato" actually added something to the moribund tuna tartare idea, pairing it with veal sweetbreads. Cod and clam basquaise was robustly flavored, amazingly fresh, and unpretentious, and a lobster salad only reinforced the notion that it takes a great chef to let the ingredients do the talking. Desserts were appropriately demure, the service exactly the right balance of friendly, good-humored, casual, and bloodlessly efficient. They should send Boulud and Rispoli next door to Okada to show them how the big boys do it.

You have to love a town where you can both smoke and gamble in a pharmacy. That night, temporarily burned out on fine dining and casino hotels, I wheeled the red Caddy into the parking lot of Tiffany's Cafe and White Cross Drugs, just off the skanky end of the Strip. Loaded up with aspirin to soothe my pounding head, I had corned beef hash and eggs at the counter. At Tiffany's counter, you can see the other side of Vegas. There's no glitz or glamour here. Things must have slid pretty far if you're dropping your quarters into a slot machine at an all-night drugstore. I looked carefully at the weathered faces of my fellow customers—half expecting to see Ruhlman. I tried his cell phone. No answer. I trawled the Double Down Saloon, the somewhat downscale Golden Gate, Binion's, and Riviera casinos, looking among the desperate and downtrodden for my friend's face— with no success. I drank a pink, basketball-size Scorpion at local fave, the Fireside Lounge, hoping that Ruhlman might show up for a mound of nachos and a drink with an umbrella in it. But he never did.

The next day, still unable to reach my fellow doctor of gastronomy, I had a soul-restoring bowl of
menudo
(tripe soup) at the El Sombrero Cafe on South Main. The perfect antidote to the Casinos of the Damned. I put in a little pool time at the Wynn, watching the hardcore gamblers play blackjack in their bathing suits. I was crossing the casino floor when I felt my elbow enclosed in a steel-like, desperate grip.

"Money! I need money," said Ruhlman, in a pair of dirty shorts and a Dead Boys T-shirt covered with a mix of frozen daiquiris and deep-fried Twinkie from Fremont Street. "I've been at the Mermaid for the last forty-eight hours," wailed the one-time budding TV star. "I lost everything. Everything! I was jacked up on some hideous sugar high from those Twinkies.

And the Oreos! They
deep-fry Oreos
here, Bourdain! I was helpless under their influence. Now give me money. I'm on a roll at the keno. I'm almost back even." Only a week earlier, I'd seen a blazer-clad Ruhlman playing the Simon Cowell role on the PBS competitive cooking series,
Cooking Under Fire.
Now he was a shell of his former self, unshaven, eyes banging around in his skull like pachinko balls. Frankly, he scared me. I quickly handed him a wad of cash, figuring I could hide it in expenses.

"All right, Ruhlman. Here's your filthy money," I said. "But when you lose it, get up to my room and shower and shave. I'll lend you a proper jacket and some clothes. We've got a scene to shoot in the desert. And then Bouchon. Remember Bouchon? Thomas Keller? The guy you wrote those books with?"

The mention of Keller seemed to have a positive effect on my tormented friend. He stood erect, eyes focusing for what was probably the first time in hours, and wiped an Oreo crumb and a crust of what looked like dried blood off his cheek.

"Yes," he said. "Bouchon. Of course. You're absolutely right." He handed me back the money and strode with new strength and determination toward the elevator bank. "Don't know what I was thinking there for a while. Lost the plot momentarily . . . No matter. All right now, back to business. After all . . . we're professionals."

When you talk about expectations, none were higher than those surrounding Thomas Keller's much-anticipated Vegas version of Bouchon. The knives were out for the chef whom many consider the best and most respected in the world. That a chef of his unquestioned caliber and integrity—whose French Laundry seemed the very antithesis of everything Vegas stands for— would open a restaurant in the bizarro faux-Renaissance Venetian hotel/casino/resort seemed to many an abdication of greatness, even a betrayal of principles. Plenty of food nerds wanted to see him fail—
preferred,
from the safety of their desktop computers, to see him fail—as a punishment for daring to bring good food to what they see as The Worst Place on Earth.

Keller, by this school of thought, should be punished for thinking that gamblers and vacationers from middle America and the South, in their ugly shorts and their socks with sandals, might recognize and appreciate sophisticated, properly cooked French food. To them, it was pearls before swine, a "sellout," an insult to the proprietary instincts of the metropolitan dining "elite." Ruhlman had made a good case, on a foodie Web site, that this was pure snobbery. Why
shouldn't
the masses have access to fine food? he argued. Why
shouldn't
they be invited to the same table we—New Yorkers and San Franciscans and world travelers— see as almost a birthright? Isn't that a great chef's ultimate responsibility, to change things for the better? To seduce, coerce, and induce people to eat better, try new things, experience joy, even
enlightenment?

I thought Ruhlman had made an unusually cogent case. In fact, it was this plaintive argument that had won me over, convinced me to put aside my own fear and loathing and come to Vegas myself. Was he right?

To step into Bouchon is to step into a perfectly, seemingly effortlessly recreated French brasserie. The long zinc bar recreates Paris's famous La Coupole. The details are, typically for Keller, without a false note. It's another world, a little bit of France floating free of the grim realities only a few yards away. The menu is surprisingly traditional. Nothing daring about it in these early days. No
boudin noir
or tripes or even
foie de veau
or other less accessible brasserie classics; just perfectly—superbly— executed mainstream fare. A "Grand Plateau" of lobster, mussels, seasonal crab, shrimps, oysters, and clams, sourced from the same boutique purveyors used by the French Laundry and Per Se, was predictably awe-inspiring. Rillettes of smoked and fresh salmon could easily have been served at either of the motherships if scaled down and prettied up for their fancier rooms. Beignets of
brandade de morue
were light and fresh and as well seasoned and flavored as one could hope for. We ordered
poulet roti,
which is, as most professionals know, the measure of a cook's ability. You can tell almost everything you need to know about a kitchen by how they roast as simple a dish as a chicken. It was better than good. It was the best chicken ever. Moist, flavorful, inspiring in its simplicity. A flatiron steak
frites
made me miserable with its virtuosity. I had previously been comfortable with the idea that I served the best French fries in the country at my place, Les Halles in New York. I'm afraid we no longer hold the U.S. title. Needless to say, they know how to cook, and rest, a steak at Bouchon. Desserts (a
tarte au citron
and a chocolate mousse) were, yes, you guessed it, fantastic. They make it look easy. And it's easy to eat there. No behaving for the waiter. No jacket and tie required. Everything—the room, the service, the menu—conspires to make a beautiful argument that it
is,
in fact, possible to do it right in Vegas. That one
can
create a pocket of calm, casual, yet sophisticated pleasure, of culinary excellence smack in the middle of—yet comfortably removed from—the carnage and ugliness below.