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If someone had dropped a bomb on Restaurant Guy Savoy last night between the hours of 6-8 pm, it would’ve set Las Vegas’ culinary destiny back twenty years. Such was the assemblage of top toques from across the valley (and from beyond the pond as well), who came to kibbitz and consume incomparable comestibles (jamon iberico de bellotta de pata negra, pumpkin soup with white truffles, oysters en gelée, Paris-Brest pastries, and two croquembouche towers of nonpareil profiteroles) and champagne in the consummate style the French do better than anyone.

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