Being John Curtas
By Hotel
By Restaurant
Tag: restaurant reviews
Eating Los Angeles – From Top to Tacos
(Gimme gimme)
Los Angeles is a city, a county, a tangle of towns and a state of mind. It begins in the San Gabriel Valley just west of the El Cajon Pass, and ends at the beach cities along the Pacific Coast Highway. In between are almost 5,000 square miles of municipalities (88 in all), along with the biggest spaghetti bowl of freeways in America. Hidden among them are all sorts of good things to eat. Getting to them, however, will always be a challenge, in more ways than one.
If you're driving from Las Vegas, the gravitational pull of L.A. is palpable. Once you've crossed that mountain pass, it is downhill all the way until you hit the terminus of the Original Route 66 underneath the Santa Monica Pier. Driving is the only way to see LA, by the way, it having sold its soul to the cult of the car before anyone reading these words was even alive. (There are walk-able areas among its many towns, but they are laughably small, and you'd better know the territory before beginning any trek, unless you enjoy hobnobbing with the homeless.)
But up to the challenge we were, so drive there we did (courtesy of friends with sweet, oversized rides befitting the landscape), to check out the food scene. This time, though, we weren't in search of the best new places. This time we were big game hunting — bagging the ultimate elusive prey like Hemingway on a bender, led by a local food guide, and armed with credit cards instead of shotguns.
It was epic eating of a particular SoCal sort, punctuated by meals both highbrow and low, from the absurd to the sublime. We covered a lot of territory in four days…and here is the tale:
Polo Lounge
It doesn't get more old school than The Beverly Hills Hotel — perched on a hill above Sunset Boulevard, looming over swimming pools and movie stars like an edifice of pink excess. The BHH has been in more movies and dreams than one can count, and its Polo Lounge serves as a de facto commissary for big shots of the movie producer ilk. (These days, you're more likely to be rubbing shoulders with FOMO Instagrammers and bachelorette parties than Jerry Bruckheimer, but such is the century we live in.)
While it is still possible to be seduced by the prospect of running into B-list actors and eurotrash here, we came for the food…and maybe a little of the glamour that this place still wears like a faded fur on Norma Desmond.
What we found was a lot more spruced up than we remember from 20 years ago. Now a part of the Dorchester Collection, its mega-rich owners cannot be accused of letting it go to seed. Things were polished to a fare thee well; the bathroom fixtures are now more Louis Quinze than Louis B. Mayer, with carpet so plush you could sleep on it.
There is lots of obsequious head-bowing as you stroll through the joint (which must be the way hotshot Hollywood hottentots like it) and food calculated not to offend — artfully presented and tasty, but un-challenging to the palate (which is another way wealthy barbarians like their pablum). There's nothing particularly interesting on the card, just the standardized menu fare that gets hustled out of hotel kitchens from Long Beach to Louisville — here made with better groceries than most. You will eat well, but you won't be so distracted by the food that you can't spend most of your meal searching for someone famous. Which is, after all, the whole point of this place.
(Not included: lubricant)
Worthy menu items included a really good piece of California sea bass — a fish that never seems to find its way to Vegas, 240 miles up the road — a substantial steak, excellent steak tartare, mammoth double-decker club sandwich, and a not over-priced wine list. On the down side: prices are astronomic and service metronomic — for the privilege of paying $32 for a Cobb salad, and 42 bucks for fish tacos (above), you also get waiters who barely look at you.
The Damage:
Around $130/pp. The Food Gal® says: "Only my husband is dumb enough to pay forty-two dollars for fish tacos. Get a salad and hope Jennifer Aniston shows up to make it worth your while."
Chez Jay, Baby
We're spoiled, of course. You can pin a lot of negatives on Las Vegas restaurants, but bad service isn't one of them. From our haute cuisine palaces to pizza/pasta/sports pubs, the management and staffs both on Strip and off are always happy to see you.
The great thing about Chez Jay is, it never got the snooty L.A. memo. Here, the absence of attitude is as refreshing as the salty breeze coming off the Pacific. Even when you roll in slightly inebriated, late at night (Who? Me?!) with the kitchen about to close, it feels like you've staggered into an old friend who is happy to see you.
This downmarket, laid back louche-ness has been drawing us to this lovable dive for thirty years. Only a stone's throw from the Santa Monica Pier, the place used to be filled with drunks and fisherman (not to mention drunk fishermen) and smelled like Coppertone mixed with bait. The smell is gone, but the boozers remain. This is a good thing. There is a quiet, scruffy alcoholism to Chez Jay that provides the perfect antidote to its upscale neighbors. "Every guy who ever played Tarzan used to hang out there," says writer/director James Orr, and you can still feel their presence every time some worn-out fellow with a weather-beaten tan and a floppy hat walks in.
(Sand dabs by the sand)
What you'll find at CJ is the opposite of hoity-toity: a smiling welcome (whether you're a has-been actor or not), strong, well-made cocktails, and an old-timey "steaks, seafood, chops" menu with some surprisingly tasty fare. Skip the so-so steaks and head for the garlic shrimp or sand dabs (above). And tip your sassy waitress well: she's honed the skill of reading people into a fine art.
If there's a better way to bring eating Los Angeles into sharp relief than lunch at the Polo Lounge and dinner at Chez Jay, we haven't found it.
Sadly, Denny Miller is no longer around.
Two entrees and a few stiff drinks will run about $50/pp. The Food Gal® says: "Chez Jay is old-school fun whether your spouse is sober or not when you arrive. Sadly though, Billy Bob Thornton, was nowhere to be found, either."
(Niki knows kaiseki)
n/naka
Then, shit got real. Scoring a res at n/naka takes the patience of Job and the perseverance of Sisyphus. The person typing these words has neither, but he does have friends with connections, so in we strolled to the toughest ticket in Los Angeles — a small house on a corner of a commercial street containing a 30 seat restaurant, a multi-course kaiseki meal, and a bill that would choke a horse.
Having appeared on the first season of Netflix's Chef's Table made a ticket to this meal harder to come by than a backstage pass at the Oscar's.
Fawning, persistent press has sealed its fate as one of those places that actually transcends the hype and has become a cultural touchstone. To eat here is to know what high-falutin' Californian food is about, but you no longer come to n/naka just to eat; you come to embrace it as a status symbol. As with the French Laundry up north, the food (good as it is) has become beside the point.
You're also up against drivel like this:
Though the effort to evolve the restaurant industry's bro culture has seen some progress, those toxic roots still run deep. Niki and Carole carved out a successful restaurant in a male-dominated industry while cooking a historically male-dominated cuisine, never compromising on their vision and values. "What is so interesting about the whole subject, about how kaiseki is this male-dominated form, is that it's a form that relies so deeply on nature, which seems to me to be inherently feminine," says Kleiman. "So I find that in a way Niki is this correction."
…so woe to the diner who wants to assess things through a prism of culinary objectivity rather than a "gendered lens" of alphabet soup sexual politics.
Because these things are so important to Los Angelenos, chefs (Carole Iida-Nakayama and Niki Nakayama) have found their perfect niche: a casual-yet-formal, California-inflected Japanese kaiseki restaurant that pushes all the right buttons. Here, you can enjoy the best seafood/sushi/produce Cali has to offer, and congratulate yourself for doing the right thing while paying for the privilege.
Of course, we're more interested in the dashi than gendered lenses, so our thoughts drifted to similar meals we've had in Tokyo, New York, and Las Vegas.
Nothing compares to Japan, where these multi-course, hyper-seasonal feasts are rigidly formal, with flavors so obscure they sometimes border on the invisible. Las Vegas has a kaiseki restaurant, and like n/naka, Kaiseki Yuzu is tiny, pristine, and all about impeccable technique. It can't compete with the Nakayamas when it comes to right-off-the-boat fish, or produce grown in their own back yard, but in terms of what I saw on the plate, I'd call it a push. (Our kaiseki is also $100/pp cheaper than their kaiseki.)
Where n/n excels is in unforced elegance. The restaurant itself is simple bordering on the austere, but look closer and you see exquisite details — in the plates, the table, the seating and the food. They don't miss any of their marks here. Service is as smooth as the inside of an oyster shell, and informative without being intrusive.
The sake and wine lists are short and superb and like the Polo Lounge, much softer in markups than what we're used to in Sin City. (Absurdly overpriced Vegas wine lists have inured us to sticker shock forever.)
The food is one eye-popping course after another, smoothly, almost effortlessly served with succinct explanations and instructions. There's an old joke about every waiter in L.A, being a wannabe actor, so the boss says, "Why don't you try acting like a good waiter for a change." No one's acting here; the service is as good as it gets.
The point of kaiseki is not as much to wow you with a single dish, but to soothe your soul with a parade of bite-sized, ultra-fresh delights, plucked at the peak of their deliciousness. It actually started out as a few small savory bites served to blunt the effects of strong green tea during a sadō – Japanese tea ceremony, but has morphed into its own thing. Both here and across the Pacific, "kaiseki" now denotes the height of Japanese epicureanism — a prix fixe, omakase, tasting menu (does anyone call them degustations anymore?) representing the pinnacle of a chef's skill — hyper-seasonal, and full of symbolism (both obvious and inscrutable), edible and otherwise.
Your twelve courses aim for each station on the kaiseki cross: Sakizuke, Zensai, Owan, Yakimono etc., and to a plate, there was something to rave about.
You begin with a Sakizuke of Hokkaido uni so fresh it practically sparkled. Sippery-slick, orangeish-tan and luminescent, it enveloped a carrot coconut ice and was topped with a dollop of trout eggs, every element announcing right out of the chute the chef's skill at combining disparate ingredients into a whole greater than the sum of its parts:
This is high-wire cooking without a net, and every bite has to be in perfect balance with what came before, which it was in the Zensai course (assortment of small bites), showcasing the chef's repertoire:
….and then on to "Modern Zukuri" course (raw fish from live seafood, usually served whole) of the kind of freshness you only find within a few miles of an ocean:
…and from there your meal proceeds through an Owan (soup course), with dashi so bracing we could've slurped it all night long.
One course leads seamlessly into another: after the Tai (sea bream) soup comes twin ribbons of sashimi, followed by grilled sea trout, and then the star of the show: a Mushimono of a peeled, poached tomato wrapped around lobster, floating atop fennel mochi croutons in a tomato broth:
Gorgeous, complex food somehow retaining its elemental simple dignity — the best evocation of summer on a plate we can remember.
A couple of things I didn't "get" on the menu: some weird jelly of cactus leaves, cukes and chia seeds as the Sunomono course — usually a tart, refreshing cucumber salad. This one could compete with okra in the slimy foods Olympics. Ending the meal with with Nigirizushi (after the A-5 Mizyazaki wagyu course) was likewise odd. "Must be a Cali thing," I thought to myself. It sure as shootin' ain't a Japanese one. The signature dish of spaghetti with abalone and Burgundy summer truffles (ugh) was also about as seasonal as ski boots on a surf board, but these were but tiny blips in an otherwise extraordinary experience.
I may have had it with western tasting menus, but you'd have to be one jaded palate to ever tire of a proper kaiseki dinner. There are only a handful of restaurants in America that can compete with n/naka in delivering a meal of such subtle refinement. I'm fairly certain there isn't a better one in Southern California when it comes to service.
Cost pp (including wine and sake but nothing too precious): $560. The Food Gal® says: "Loved it, but there's definitely a California bump in pricing which is ridiculous."
(Mizumono – ginger-poached plum, lavender ice cream, warabi mochi)
This is Part One of a two-part article.
HUGO'S CELLAR Dweller
If you really want to get deep in the philosophical weeds sometime, try thinking too much about what constitutes "good taste." Objectivity, subjectivity, professional norms, expert opinions, philosophical treatises*— they're all there to dazzle and confuse you.
There is no accounting for taste, the saying goes, and trying to impose your ideas of such on another is a losing proposition. Some people love Mozart; others favor the banjo. You may be anosmic, your wife may be a super-taster. Many upwardly-mobile types crave the furnishings they see in design magazines, while an Italian countess would scoff at such monochromatic dreariness.
Of course, the best tasting things generally could be said to be in good taste, but the converse might not be true. (See, I'm already confusing you.) You might find the sour, aged pungency of classic Roquefort cheese to be exquisite, and ordering it might be thought of as being in the best of "taste," but it is easy to imagine that others might find such bracing, cultured gaminess repellent — to their palate if not their less-sensory sensibilities.
I could argue that people like big, jammy California wines because they haven't learned to appreciate the nuances of Pinot Noir (in the same way a music teacher disdains rock and roll in favor of Miles Davis), but to many, the former taste good and the latter do not. Does this mean I have better taste than they do? I would argue yes, but they could argue just the opposite and they would not be wrong.
Good taste is accumulative. Good taste is experiential and highly personal, and at the end of the day, it is not worth the contentiousness to argue otherwise. Which is why one can view the enduring popularity of Hugo's Cellar only through the lens of those who love it.
(Let's do the Time Warp!)
To love Hugo's you have to enjoy getting there. And to get there, you have to negotiate the casino floor of the Four Queens — a joint that's been around since 1966 and has the decor to prove it.
Saying the Four Queens has seen better days is like saying Rudy Giuliani might have a bit of an image problem.
Many have trod here over the decades — locals and tourists alike — strolling to the short stairwell in the middle of the casino which descends to the "cellar" (top of the page).
What they seek when they enter is not "good taste" but, to their minds, something that simply tastes good. To many, this is what Hugo's is and always has been: a trip down memory lane. This is what "gourmet" was back in the 80s and this is still how it ought to be, right down to the two sides on every plate. Hugo's revels in its homage to the Seventies — a glorious ode to the kitschy dining of yore. And it does so without apology and with blissful ignorance of how restaurants have evolved.
Almost as fair warning, the menu is posted at the top of the stairs. Being both very long and difficult to read, it serves as a cautionary tale to anyone who thinks there will be cartwheels done in this kitchen. Along the staircase walls you'll find the awards, most of which are for a wine list that would've been pretty impressive in 1992.
At the bottom of the stairs you'll find a fake fireplace and the kind of brick paneling that was last in fashion when triple-knit leisure suits were all the rage. There is "art" on the walls too (having nothing to do with food), which provides an ersatz sense of hominess. and a low ceiling (and carpet) to enhance the coziness — the whole effect being to remind you of grandma's rumpus room, circa 1969.
Thankfully, the carpet isn't shag, although it really should be.
(An LBGTQ conundrum: who gets the rose?)
"Always a Touch of Class" is the tag line for the restaurant, and the promo materials offer "romantic and elegant dining with exquisite service in a casual setting." We'll leave it to less generous folks to parse the veracity of these assertions, but be forewarned: there is nothing casual going on when it comes to prices.
When it comes to the cooking, there is not a modern thought on the menu. No tweezer food here, no siree! This is protein, starch and veggie territory, gussied up just enough to justify the tariffs.
Here you will find such stalwarts as a table-side salad carte ($22); Fire-Grilled Chicken ($47); a very good Beef Wellington ($69); and a Chateaubriand for Two ($175). By comparison, the crab cakes ($22) and escargot ($19) seem like relative bargains. By design, the menu lists all pricing in script (as in "Forty-six dollars" for vegetarian, ricotta-Stuffed Jumbo Shells), presumably to soften (or disguise) the sticker shock.
Appetizers arrive without fanfare and without finesse. Calling the crab meat "lump" is a stretch, but it's is cooked and seasoned well, with a piquant citrus aioli to spice things up. Those nineteen dollars escargot are topped with a little puff pastry hat, no doubt plopped thereon to convey fanciness. After these, the salad carte arrives (beware any noun with a superfluous "e" attached) and things begin to nosedive.
(Hail sodden Caesar!)
What may have seemed charming forty years ago, now appears formulaic and metronomic, as the staff** goes through the motions with all the enthusiasm of a mortician embalming his 5,000th body.
At their first "performance" (after bored menu recitations and silverware dropped (literally) on the table), you notice the too-cold lettuce drenched with pre-made dressing (above). Then comes the accoutrements showmanship comprised of the following: "You want anchovies?" Mr. Personality inquires. "Yes, please," and in they go with all the panache of a cop writing a traffic ticket — all of it to no great effect, other than the oohs and ahhs of other tables. You're basically at a by-the-numbers salad bar with your own, sullen salad-tosser.
(Consider yourself cleansed. Photo courtesy of @VegasSkinny)
At some point a "palate cleanser" shows up in the form of a small scoop of sorbet sitting in one of those sugar cones boasting the structural integrity (and taste) of balsa wood. About the same time, a second bread basket replaces the first and is just as stale.
(Meat and 3)
Then, your sixty-nine dollar Wellington arrives (above) and the head-scratching begins. "Who is buying this stuff?" you ask yourself. Are the tables of cargo shorts enamored of sixty dollar steaks? Are the nice, 70-something gray-hairs behind you wowed by fifty buck Raspberry Chicken? Perusing the wine list, you see pages of bottles costing hundreds of dollars, and you'd bet your last Bonnes Mares Burgundy there hasn't been a three-hundred dollar bottle of Bordeaux sold here in this century.
But the crowds come, oh yes they do. All I had to to was put some pics of Hugo's on my social media platforms and dozens of "I love that place," and "so romantic" comments came pouring forth.
What do they love, exactly? And in what "good taste" do they trust? This is where you have to get philosophical. What Hugo's is selling is familiarity. And memories. And consistency in the service of 1970s banality. The very things a food snob might criticize is what keeps the customers coming back.
(Sea bass "Béarnaise" + ubiquitous Brussels)
Sure, the twenty-one dollar prosciutto-wrapped shrimp is way too salty. Of course the fifty-five dollar Maple Bourbon Duck is a bit overcooked and none too crispy. But who cares if the seventy-one dollar sea bass is dappled with a sorry excuse for Béarnaise? Nobody here wants to be challenged or dazzled by their food, they just want to be filled up by stuff they wouldn't cook at home.
And at that level, Hugo's fills the bill — this kitchen has churned out these dishes this way for so long, they meet the customers' expectations like an episode of "Murder, She Wrote."
If dessert you must, then the nineteen dollars Bananas Foster are flamed table-side for your amazement. The seven dollar Dessert Cart (no "e" necessary when you're charging less than a sawbuck), looks to be straight from 1983, the first time I ever entered this time warp. They also give every female a long-stemmed red rose upon entering, which apparently also amazes the minions. (Pity the poor hostess who has to handle this transaction with the transgender crowd.)
Is any of this in "good taste" by 21st Century restaurant standards?
Absolutely not, and that's exactly the point.
Dinner for three (three apps, three entrees, with a split dessert) came to $100/pp.)
HUGO'S CELLAR
Four Queens Casino Hotel
202 East Fremont Street
>>>>>>><<<<<<<<
*"Subjective universal judgments," is how Immanuel Kant put it. In Kant's world (the world of an 18th Century German philosopher – a world without black velvet Elvis "art"), the judgment that something is beautiful or sublime is made with the thought that other people ought to agree with this judgment — a sensus communis if you will — a community of taste, agreed to by a consensus of society. All of which sounds plausible until Slim Jims and Celine Dion are brought into the mix.
**to be fair, our sommelier was charming and helpful. The rest of the staff, when they spoke, acted like they were reciting the Pledge of Allegiance at gunpoint.
Where I'll Dine in 2018 – Part One
"Crass!" "Vulgar!" "Boring!" "I'm done reading you!"
"Time for you to bow out."
"Quit angling your way into restaurants so you can ogle hostesses and drink for free."
Thus came the comments after my last post.
Someone even bent their logic so they could criticize me for my supposed insufficient support of the #metoo movement. Ahhh, the internet.
This was to be expected. The provocative title ensured offense to at least some readers, and the clickbait picture was (literally) the icing on my cake of bad taste.
But if you read the article (and you have half a brain in your head), perhaps you sensed the tone as jaded and wistful, not crude and disgusted. I wasn't so much condemning the restaurants of Las Vegas as I was mourning days gone by, when my ardor was keen and my pulse quickened at the thought of new restaurant mountains to climb.
Yes, I analogized new eating experiences with sexual adventures (and bemoaned how enthusiasm for both can wane as one ages), but the disappointments mostly come from within. I am bored with the restaurants of Las Vegas because I've eaten in everyone of them dozens of times. No one else on earth can make this claim, so pardon me if all my experiences have caused me to look at the Las Vegas Strip the way a sultan does when he's (a bit) tired of his harem. It doesn't mean I don't love or admire them anymore, but neither do my loins quiver at the mere thought of approaching their supple charms.
Does this mean I'm going to stop restaurant-hopping? Of course not. I've stopped eating out as much as I used to, but I still hit 3-4 eateries a week. (At my peak, around 2005-2007, it was 10-12 restaurant meals a week. No brag, just fact.)
With these thoughts in mind, I thought a "Where I'll Dine in 2018" post was in order. Note the solipsistic title. This post is going to be about where you'll find me in 2018, not where I think you should go. There are dozens of places all over town I highly recommend (e.g. Michael Mina, Jaleo, Julian Serrano, Delmonico, CUT, just to name a few) but that I've been to so many times I'm not sure I ever need to go back.
(If you want to read about every restaurant I recommend, you can buy the 2018 edition of EATING LAS VEGAS – The 52 Essential Restaurants by clicking here.)
But no longer am I going to scour the town, looking for every new discovery, or trying to beat out other writers with restaurant scoops and scores. I am through eating at places because I think (or an editor thinks) I should review them because they're new, or hot or popular. That doesn't mean I won't review new or hot or popular places, but I'm only going to comment on them if I think they're worth my time and calories. Nothing Gordon Ramsay does interests me (except his steakhouse), and Giada could invite me to dine in the nude with her and I'd take a pass. (Fooling myself? YOU BET!)
But there are places that don't bore me, that still cause a tingle in my nethers, and that I still look forward to going to, even for the 15th time. So here they are:
Downtown is my hood. I live and work there. Have for decades now. I used to say that downtown was seven taco parlors in search of an audience, but things have changed. I still love Irma Aquirre's al pastor and frijoles at El Sombrero, and am long overdue for a return visit. But the news downtown these days is how the gastro-pubs have taken off. A year ago I thought nothing could challenge Carson Kitchen for elevated bar grub hegemony, but the stuff being put out by Gregg Fortunato at 7th & Carson goes roasted beet to roasted beet with anything CK is slinging. Right there with them is Justin Kingsley Hall's new menu at The Kitchen at Atomic. He's making everything from barley with blood sausage to crispy rabbit sing at this hipster haunt on East Fremont, and after only a couple of months at the stoves has made this a must-stop on any foodie tour. It's kind of weird to us how this restaurant can attract such a different crowd from the hipster booze hounds next door at Atomic Liquors, but attract it has, and expect to read a lot more about the splash Hall's cooking is making in the coming months.
Speaking of splashes, no place has ever made bigger waves from the get-go than Esther's Kitchen. James Trees is doing everything but grinding his own flour at this ode to Italy, and his bread and pastas and pizzas are not to be missed. (The salads are also amazing as well.) Put it all together with a stylish bar, and an interesting wine list, and you have a game-changer on south Main Street.
When I'm not in a gastro-pubby mood, you can always find me enjoying a carnitas por dos at Casa Don Juan, or a gut-busting pasty at Cornish Pasty Co.. I don't drink as much beer as I used to, but the selection at Cornish is top notch.
And then, of course, there are the old reliables: Oscar's Beef Booze and Broads for steaks and a killer happy hour, La Comida for flights of tequila fancy, Le Pho for pho-nomenal Vietnamese, Ocha Thai for terrific, rustic Thai, and the newly launched outpost of Flock & Fowl when the craving for Hainanese chicken rice hits.
Ah the 'burbs. Bucking the tide, swimming upstream, and fighting the current of Las Vegas's constant race to the bottom of the restaurant pond. Between greedy and clueless landlords, an indifferent public, and economic realities of the restaurant business, it's a wonder we have anything but Cheesecake Factories to feed us in the neighborhoods.
God bless those chefs who take the plunge into this stacked deck (how's that for a mixed metaphor!), because without them, I'd probably move to Albuquerque. And god bless my favorite wine hangout, because on any weekend, you're likely to find me on the patio at Marche Bacchus, sipping Burgundy and trying to figure out a way to piss off the idiots who rely on Thrillist for their food recommendations.
When I'm in the mood for superior (and healthy) French, EATT always fills the bill. More and more I'm less and less impressed with Green Valley (pretty amazing, I know, since I've held it in the lowest esteem since…..1984), and its addiction to franchised food shows no sign of abating. If I find myself hungry in that neck of the woods, there's now only two places I will even consider are Boteco for it's cool, Spain-meets-America wine bar vibe, and Prosecco Italian Kitchen for its classic, whole Dover sole. That, or I head over to Valley Cheese & Wine and throw myself upon the mercy of Bob and Kristin Howald for a slice of prosciutto.
The Southwest part of town seems to be where the action's at these days, and Elia Authentic Greek Taverna is everything its name says. A bit farther down the road (and a pain-in-the-ass to get to from my house) is Andre's Bistro & Bar — where the bistro fare is always solid. Equally inconvenient is Japaneiro, but Kevin Chong's boffo beef and inspired uni will inspire a road trip at least once in the next twelve months.
Breakfast gets its own category because breakfast in Las Vegas is almost, across the board atrocious. (I'm talking about the 'burbs here. ) Unless you love the straight-from-a-freezer bag slop served up by the Hash House A Go-Gos of the world, you are pretty much consigned to the bad eggs pun entrants like Egg & I, Crepe Expectations and the like — none of whom cook anything from scratch except the GMO eggs they break.
Downtown weighs in against this morass of mediocrity with EAT (also in Summerlin) where the food is fresh and the cooks care about what they're feeding you. On the Strip, Bouchon remains a favorite, as does Morel's French Steakhouse & Bistro. Bouchon's nonpareil baked goods are more than worth the aggravation it takes to get to them, and the Dungeness crab Benedict and turkey hash at Morel's will blow the socks off of any breakfast snob you take there.
But as we're always fond of saying, "Breakfast is good for only one thing: thinking about lunch." We are foursquare against a big, hearty breakfast because it always interferes with our lunch plans. That's why we love eating early the French way, and in Las Vegas, it doesn't get anymore French than, Cafe Breizh and Delices Gourmands French Bakery. One is close to the regal confines of the Curtas manse, while the other is too friggin' far for us to frequent, but both put out the best pastries and breads in town, bar none.
On the rare occasions when we want to go big before going home, there's only one option: Jewish food. Canter's Deli Jewish food, to be precise. As a certifiable, actually circumcised, almost Jew, I can attest to the primacy of its pastrami and the copiousness of its corned beef. The bagels and cream cheese taste straight from Fairfax Avenue, too. And if you don't get that reference, it's time to turn in your yarmulke.
Other than that, you're on your own when it comes to breaking your fast. Other towns like Portland and Austin have vibrant breakfast scenes — early bird joints where chefs love to strut their stuff with various egg, meat and pastry dishes. In Vegas, there's a line out the door at Claim Jumper (in the most affluent part of town) every morning. Go figure.
In Part Two of Where I'll Dine in 2018, we'll explore our favorite Chinatown haunts, and take a mournful look at the Strip.
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