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North Main Street, about a quarter of a mile north of the Main Street Station Hotel and Casino, is not an area where most gringos often tread….especially after dark.

Truth be told, we’re not sure anyone travels this forlorn strip of road — populated as it is by a few flea bag motels, and used auto parts shops. The only time we usually get up this way is when someone we know dies, and we’re forced to find a parking spot somewhere in the vicinity of the Palm Mortuary.

But every so often, we get a hankerin’ for some Salvadorean (or is it Salvadoran?) pupusas — those stuffed, cornmeal pancakes — and when we do, the Salvadoreno – right in the middle of this desolate stretch of street — is where we head.

It’s a big, open friendly place, where there’s always a soccer match on the telly, and lots of Salvadoran (or is it Salvadorian?) families chowing down on the food of their homeland.

When we walk in, it’s usually like one of those western movie scenes where a gringo walks into the cantina and the whole place comes to a halt while everyone thinks to themselves: “What’s HE doing in here?”

Regardless, the proprietress couldn’t be friendlier, and the pupusas couldn’t be more pulchritudinous — thick, meaty cornmeal stuffed with cheese, chicken, beans, jalapenos or pork (or a combo thereof). We’re also partial to their slightly sweet and tangy curtido (coleslaw), and that thick-but-still-a-little-runny Salvadorian (or is it Salvadorean?) crema — a whiter and tangier sour cream than you get in Mexico. ELV ain’t no expert, but he knows that many a difference exists between the sour creams of many a Central American country.

We like the El Salvador* (or is it Salvadorian?) variety for just those reasons, and find ourselves addictive-ly dipping our eggs and pupusas in it. We even find it makes the re-fried beans more palatable. In fact, it makes those frijoles tastier here than in any mediocre Mexican joint we can think of. It almost makes us like the little, soupy re-fried critters….but not quite.

The above lunch for one, with a couple of huge glasses of tamarindo, came to $20 – $16+$4 tip, and is worth every penny for this handmade, Central American succulent sustenance.

SALVADORENO RESTAURANT

720 North Main Street

Las Vegas, NV 89101-1914

702.385.3600

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* Isn’t saying “the El Salvador” like saying the The Salvador? Just as referring to the Los Angeles Angels is like saying: the The Angels Angels? Of such things does ELV lie awake at night and ponder.

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Did you know there are 9, count ‘em NINE steps to properly pouring a Stella Artois? ELV didn’t, but we got a quick lesson in the finer points as we prepared to judge the Stella Artois Draught Masters Contest held at the Hard Rock Hotel last week.

Here are those nine steps….

…which are not as easy to execute as you might think….especially with a crowd cheering and pesky, nitpicking judges looking over your every move.

FYI: the regional competition was won by Scott Ast of Henderson, with a wild card entry: Sarah Arnold coming in second. Both will be traveling to Boston (Massachusetts, not Indiana), for the US Nationals on Sept. 17th.

In ‘o8, Las Vegas’ own Anthony Alba won the National competition and represented the U.S.of A. in the international finals held in Leuven, Belgium.

Alba helped ELV with the judging duties, and taught us all there is sooo much more to pouring a brewski, than making sure there isn’t a lipstick mark on the glass.

Good luck to Scott and Sarah…we at ELV hope to be there in Boston cheering them on!

ELV regrets the libelous language in this letter aimed towards persons not connected to this website. Other than editing out the name of that person, Eating Las Vegas now posts this letter in its unedited entirety — for your delectation and perusal. ELV’s response follows at the end of the ….um….er…correspondence.

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Memphis Championship Barbecue

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ELV is on his way up to Mesquite (Nevada, not France) this afternoon to judge the Smokin’ In Mesquite championship barbecue cook-off being held there this weekend.

Barbecue, as you know, is one of the four essential food groups — along with French, Chinese and Italian food — so an event of this magnitude cannot go unnoticed, or partaken in, by Eating Las Vegas.

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Capital Grille cheeseburger

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This Capital Grille cheeseburger wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t that good either.

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We love Eric Klein. Don’t get all nervous on us now. We speak not of the love that dare not speak its name…but more about a chef/customer bromance of the highest order.

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The point of this post is not to review the food of a recent over-the-top meal at ALEX. The reason behind the posting of these tasty snaps has nothing to do with recipe or technique analysis. There will be no vivisection of the vittles, nor any probing of the food/wine pairings.

No, the point of this post is to make you jealous.

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Dear ELV,

My two addictions in life include 1) yoga and 2) reading your blog. A friend introduced to www.eatinglv.com only a few months ago and I am hooked. I am constantly checking the site for new updates to see what words of wisdom and tasty photos have been posted. Read the rest of this entry →

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In kase you haven’t noticed, the American cheese revolution is in full swing, an established fact, and now as much a part of our culinary landscape as heirloom tomatoes and California cabernets. In less than three decades — roughly the time since ELV grad-jee-ATED from learnin’ legal stuff gooder in law school, the selections of cheeses in the hinterlands of America has gone from Kraft Parmesan dust in a cardboard can and rubbery mozzarella to all sorts of mass-produced-but-still-very-good varieties to scores of artisanal products from maniac cheese makers that turn out products approaching the best Europe has to offer. (And when ELV says “maniac” he means it. God bless cheese makers, especially the perfectionists that make the ethereal stuff, but most of them are weirder than a curling match.)

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ELV, accompanied by his staff, dropped into Aureole the other night to check out its snazzy new wine lounge/patio (and to make sure Master Sommelier/Wine Director William (call me Willi) Sherer stills knows his albarinos from his amontillados.

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