ELV — the man, the lawyer, the critic, the overage party boy —  has never been a fan of Oscar Goodman — the man, the myth, the prevaricator, the drunk. It’s not like we have ever had any sort of feud or something. In fact, we barely knew each other until he ran for mayor over a decade ago. As a politician, Oscar was obliged to get to know everybody, and as a person who respects thoughtful, human dignity, we were obliged to avoid him as much as possible.

When we first arrived in Las Vegas in January, 1981, his reputation as a mouthpiece for the mob was already well established. Had it not been for his desire to grab even more of the spotlight for himself in his later years, we would’ve thought him a once-visible, highly successful criminal lawyer, and that would’ve been the end of it. Unfortunately, as that career was winding down, Goodman decided not to go quietly into that good night. Exhibitionist/egomaniacs being exhibitionist/egomaniacs,* he couldn’t resist another chance to be on stage, and thus was his political career launched in 1999.

To say he had a blast as a three-term Mayor of Las Vegas would be an understatement. To say he got away with enough guffaws, gaffs and gasps to sink a thousand political ships would also be overly modest. No one saw him smoking crack in a hotel room, or running over people in City Hall, but it’s a fair bet that his boozy, impolitic behavior would have had any other politician in America — from Drain Commissioners to Prothonotarians — thrown out on their ear. Not Oscar though. Acting the clown just made him more popular. And on some level, you’ve really got to hand it to someone that ugly who can convince a majority of the people to vote for him.

Politically, we are probably kindred souls. He’s a left of center Philadelphia Jew and ELV is a dyed-in-the wool back East liberal,** with a little Jimmy Carter Democrat thrown in for good measure. We share an appreciation of a certain, gin-based beverage — although we suspect he drinks more of them in one night than we do in a year — and both of us have a certain affinity for the female form in general, and his wife in particular. (His ability to persuade someone as beautiful and nice as Carolyn Goodman to sleep with him, even once, is something else worthy of your respect.)

No doubt Oscar Goodman could talk a tadpole out of a mud pond. What he can’t do is run a restaurant.

And he doesn’t even try to. Whatever licensing deal he has with The Plaza has nothing to do with his culinary skills or restaurant business acumen. He is unabashedly in it for the ego, the money (which he doesn’t need), and one more chance to enhance his big-shot, big swinging dick status among the pikers and rubes he used to sway on juries — the same yokels who got him elected as a novelty act. He probably also enjoys eating and drinking for free, and always getting a table with his name on it, but as one with a far less visible appendage can attest, it doesn’t take much in Vegas to accomplish that.

When we first heard of the gimmicky, exploitive concept for Oscar’s – Beef Booze & Broads, we were less than impressed and said so. We ate there, and, to be kind, were underwhelmed. About a year and half ago, we stopped by for a quick bite and noticed that the place had rounded into form — the staff and plates seeming somewhat sharper — but not enough to merit revising our earlier opinion. Now we’ve returned for fourth time, at the behest of people connected to the hotel, to see if it is, as they’ve told us, a much improved operation.

Our conclusion(s): It is, in some ways, better than it used to be. The strong points — the service, decor, bar — have only gotten stronger, and some menu weaknesses have been ironed out. The meat may not be Japanese A-5 grade, but it is B+ to A- American steer, and they know how to handle it on the grill. Where Oscar’s gets downgraded, though, is in the careless execution of the lesser dishes, and for something vague and inchoate that’s missing from the formula. It is a feeling, an emotional response to the food that is strangely absent. Before we address these, let’s look at some specifics.

Steakhouse fare is iconic American restaurant fare. America invented the steakhouse and we still do the best ones on earth. (If you want to see what the early ones looked like, plan a pilgrimage to Peter Luger’s (est.1887), where the 19th Century beer hall ambiance remains as untouched as a Grover Cleveland diet book. The best ones are in New York City — where the genre first took hold — and whether they are sleek and new or hallowed and ancient, they reek of beefy masculinity so strongly, you could cut the testosterone wafting about the room with a knife.

America’s second best steakhouse town is Las Vegas — don’t even try to argue the point Dallas and Chicago, you have a few great steakhouses, we have a dozen, plus a dozen more that would be the best steakhouse in town anywhere but you and the Big Apple. The great ones have a swagger about them that’s palpable — sorta like a certain gin-loving ex-mayor we know. Even the merely good ones elicit ohhs and ahhs from folks as the food is presented.  In Oscar’s case, as you can see, the food is not oh and ah worthy.

Take the crab cakes:

They are perfectly fine, plump with more backfin than lump meat, but lightly bound by a minimum of filler. They sit somewhat forlornly on a big white place, flanked by two schmears of sauce that lack in both volume and piquancy. There is nothing wrong with these crab cakes, but they won’t have anyone leaving the joint saying, “Damn, I can’t wait to come back for those crab cakes.”

The same could be said of the shrimp cocktail:

…big and juicy and plenty shrimpy…but also looking like they were thrown on the plate as an afterthought.

Truly terrible was the creamed spinach:

…it both looking and tasting like barely wilted greens swimming in milk.

The Caesar salad looks right but tastes as if lemon, anchovy and garlic have never made its acquaintance:

It’s not a bad salad; it’s just a bland salad.

On the plus side, the Alpine Village Famous Chicken Supreme Soup:

…makes up in flavor what it lacks in appearance. It also tastes exactly like the original (if our twenty five year old taste memory serves us well). All that’s missing is the behemoth bowl of raw veggie crudités (old timers will remember this well).

As you can see from this tasty snap:

…fancy plating is not a selling point here. But that mac n’ cheese is a cheesy delight, as were the au gratin potatoes.

And that veal chop is terrific…not Picasso terrific…but as good a $45 veal chop as you’re going to find in town, for about ten bucks less than charge on the Strip. That bone-rib eye is no slouch either, and a bargain compared with what you’ll pay two miles to the south. The same can be said of all steaks here. They’re so good, anyone who even thinks of ordering fish or chicken should have their head examined.

The wine list is short, but well-chosen, with plenty of bottles under a hundy — try finding that at the Wynncore.

Just about the time those delicious cuts were erasing all memories of the Caesar and spinach, the desserts showed up and laid an egg. There was an apple thing laden with globs of cornstarch and a tiramisu thing that looked like snowball cupcakes…and we should’ve quit while we were ahead.

So-so vittles or not, Oscar — the man, the restaurant, the boozy, spotlight hogging politician — is clearly ahead of the game. The popularity of all three incarnations remains high, and even on slow weekday nights this place will still be half full. Patrons from all over the country book tables in hopes of getting a glimpse (or basking in the aura) of the Tipsy Teflon (ex)Mayor. Maybe some of that charisma will rub off on them (they hope); maybe his steakhouse will be everything Goodman-the man is: outrageous, over-the-top, and one-0f-a-kind.

But that’s the problem with Oscar’s. For a steakhouse in a steakhouse town, named after a guy with chutzpah and personality to spare, it has none of one and very little of the other.

Oh, the irony.

OSCAR’S BEEF BOOZE & BROADS

In The Plaza Hotel and Casino

1 Main Street

Las Vegas, NV 89101

702.386.7227

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* It takes one to know one.

** Two of ELV’s ex-wives would dispute this. One thinks of him as a crypto-Nazi and the other calls him an elitist, misogynistic establishment toady. ELV thinks their coming of age in the 1960s may be partly to blame for these misconceptions.