Friday
We awoke on Friday morning to a gloomy start. The low clouds hung over the strip like a hangover. I'm sure mirroring what many of the visitors were also experiencing. This night we were going to see Ka. A production of Cirque du Soleil that we had seen a year before, but this time my husband snagged us, literally, the best seats in the house. Being married to a former lighting and sound theater guy has its perks. We were excited. So excited, in fact, that we couldn't decide on whether to eat before or after the show and where to go. We made reservations at 3 different restaurants, figuring we'd decide closer to the show.
For the morning we had a croissant and coffee in our room while getting ready. Between buttery, perfectly flakey layers of pastry and showering in our overly large bathroom, the clouds lifted and gave us a lovely blue sky and shinning sun. So we walked. We walked up past the older hotels that have somehow remained on the strip. Past Bill's Gamblin' Hall and Casino, past the Flamingo and the Imperial Palace and Harrah’s. And unlike the behemoths that continue to populate the strip these hotels sit right on the sidewalk and push their faces into yours as you walk past their smell of smoke and cheep buffets. It was at the Venetian that everything changed. It was there I saw the sign. Bouchon. I stopped in my tracks. The Bouchon? Thomas Keller? Kith and Kin to French Laundry? Two cookbooks in my house from two restaurants by one chef who's avoided all pretense of the celebrity chef and remained true to his art? After about a minute of starting at the sign I told my husband that we were going, no matter what. He knew he could not refuse me. Thus reservations were made for Saturday night.
The rest of the day we walked the strip, ate at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill in Caesar's Palace and ordered room service after being unable to come to a decision after Ka. Not our finest hour, but it was 10 at night and it was the only smoke-free option for eating. Saturday would be better.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Not So Brilliant Meal
Welcome to part one of a three part series on my recent trip to Las Vegas.
Thursday
I do not travel well. Not in the least and the fact that my husband continues to be my husband after traveling with me is miracle number 1 in his inevitable journey towards sainthood. I seem to go through a systematic mental breakdown as soon as I get in the car leading all the way up to me unpacking my bag wherever it is that I'm going to. Between ticket lines, security lines, boarding lines and a sardine-like travel experience, I experience a temporary insanity. Let's just say it's not fun for anyone involved. On the other hand, I think I've made considerable progress in overcoming my fear of flying. At least, that's what I'm telling myself.
We decided to go to Vegas five months ago since all our traveling since our honeymoon has been family-centric. Just me and Ben. We booked a happy little long weekend in mid-February the weekend before Valentine's Day. It was supposed to be blissful. Good food, good shows, a silly hotel designed to look like a cartoon version of Paris. Hey, and isn't the Super Bowl usually the last weekend of January? Nope. Not this year. This year it was a week late and every misogynistic, cigar smoking, drinking Jack Daniels out of the bottle while walking down the strip, ogling the nearly naked cocktail waitresses while standing up to demonstrate some sexually perverted story jackass on the planet was there. Oh yes, bliss was mine.
The first night we decided to eat at this little french bistro that has a patio so you can enjoy the wonders of easy people watching with wine. It's been a favorite of mine for a long time. Mon Ami Gabi. My friend Gabi. And she was. I say was, because that was before the steak and frites. It started out well. I had glass of white wine and a lovely butter lettuce salad with beets and goat cheese. It was delicious, but this is a case of good + good = good. Hard to mess up. Ben had oysters that were the epitome of briny goodness. However, my steak had been "tenderized" within an inch of existence and the only part left was the sinue holding it together. I cannot remember a time where I couldn't even chew a steak. I think it only made it tougher. Still the frites dipped in their excellent Bearnaise sauce were crunchy and the perfect amount of tarragon.
Part of the downfall of this meal can be attributed to our neighbors at the next table. 3 southern women who smoked like chimneys and agreed that the best Elton John song is from The Lion King. They didn't even have the decency to smoke good cigarettes. The one smoking nearest to me held her tar stick down by my seat and blew her gag inducing smoke in my direction. Always better to ruin a stranger's meal than your own, I always say. It wasn't the worst meal I ever had, but brilliance was out of reach that night. So we got a bottle of wine and a couple pastries and headed up to our room. Exhausted, we drank and watched Antiques Roadshow. Who knew a wooden spoon set could be worth so much?
Thursday
I do not travel well. Not in the least and the fact that my husband continues to be my husband after traveling with me is miracle number 1 in his inevitable journey towards sainthood. I seem to go through a systematic mental breakdown as soon as I get in the car leading all the way up to me unpacking my bag wherever it is that I'm going to. Between ticket lines, security lines, boarding lines and a sardine-like travel experience, I experience a temporary insanity. Let's just say it's not fun for anyone involved. On the other hand, I think I've made considerable progress in overcoming my fear of flying. At least, that's what I'm telling myself.
We decided to go to Vegas five months ago since all our traveling since our honeymoon has been family-centric. Just me and Ben. We booked a happy little long weekend in mid-February the weekend before Valentine's Day. It was supposed to be blissful. Good food, good shows, a silly hotel designed to look like a cartoon version of Paris. Hey, and isn't the Super Bowl usually the last weekend of January? Nope. Not this year. This year it was a week late and every misogynistic, cigar smoking, drinking Jack Daniels out of the bottle while walking down the strip, ogling the nearly naked cocktail waitresses while standing up to demonstrate some sexually perverted story jackass on the planet was there. Oh yes, bliss was mine.
The first night we decided to eat at this little french bistro that has a patio so you can enjoy the wonders of easy people watching with wine. It's been a favorite of mine for a long time. Mon Ami Gabi. My friend Gabi. And she was. I say was, because that was before the steak and frites. It started out well. I had glass of white wine and a lovely butter lettuce salad with beets and goat cheese. It was delicious, but this is a case of good + good = good. Hard to mess up. Ben had oysters that were the epitome of briny goodness. However, my steak had been "tenderized" within an inch of existence and the only part left was the sinue holding it together. I cannot remember a time where I couldn't even chew a steak. I think it only made it tougher. Still the frites dipped in their excellent Bearnaise sauce were crunchy and the perfect amount of tarragon.
Part of the downfall of this meal can be attributed to our neighbors at the next table. 3 southern women who smoked like chimneys and agreed that the best Elton John song is from The Lion King. They didn't even have the decency to smoke good cigarettes. The one smoking nearest to me held her tar stick down by my seat and blew her gag inducing smoke in my direction. Always better to ruin a stranger's meal than your own, I always say. It wasn't the worst meal I ever had, but brilliance was out of reach that night. So we got a bottle of wine and a couple pastries and headed up to our room. Exhausted, we drank and watched Antiques Roadshow. Who knew a wooden spoon set could be worth so much?
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