John Curtas, Author at Being John Curtas

The Making of a Gourmet

March 31, 2023April 27, 2023

(France, 1998)

“To be a gourmet you must start early, as you must begin riding early to be a good horseman. You must live in France; your father must have been a gourmet. Nothing in life must interest you but your stomach. With hands trembling, you must approach the meal about which you have worried all day and risk dying of a stroke if it isn’t perfect.” – Ludwig Bemelmans, ‘La Bonne Table’ (1964)

“No man under forty can be dignified with the title of gourmet.” – Brillat-Savarin

“Tastes are made not born.” – Mark Twain

The plot of my life has been driven by gentle but nagging obsessions, mostly about food. Someone called me a “gourmet” recently and it took be aback. My mom and dad always called me a food snob and who was I to argue? To myself, I’ve always been a food obsessive — pondering every menu with the scrutability of a Talmudic rabbi parsing the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Some people think of food solely as fuel, but such a thought has never occurred to me. Most people think about eating when they’re hungry. By virtue of being mammals, we are compelled to eat once or twice a day, so nature basically forces these thoughts upon us. But my attitude has always been: since we have to do this thing (eat) all the time, why not make the most of it? Thus do I think about food (meals, recipes, restaurants past and future) multiple times an hour. I go to bed mentally digesting the last thing I ate, and wake up anticipating where next I will.

I’ve been thinking this way since I was 12.

But where did it all start? Was it my first taste of homemade, fresh-baked bread (slathered with apple butter) at my grandmother’s knee? The malty-sweet perfume was a revelation in freshness for a kid previously subsisting on Wonder Bread.

Or was it that first slurp of barbecue sauce? A consecrated marriage of ketchup, brown sugar and vinegar on my spoon-tender smoked pork — itself a wonder of melting meat I had never experienced — tastes so arresting I wanted to know right then and there why we didn’t eat it every day.

I’ve written many times before of my first trip to Antoine’s in 1964 and interrogating my mother (a classic 50’s convenience-at-all-costs cook), about why she didn’t cook this. (It was a sterling silver dish of lump Gulf crab meat, bubbling in sherry infused butter, that did the trick, in case you’ve forgotten.) Every food writer can point to a food epiphany in their youth, and those were mine.

There were multiple trips around the United States in my teens, business trips to New York, Atlanta, Miami, and Chicago with my dad — himself strictly a meat, pasta, and potatoes guy who nevertheless loved the theater of great restaurants and always took us to the best one in town.

College and law school put a crimp in my style, both for economic and social reasons: there was no currency in being a discriminating restaurant-goer back then, and the girls I was trying to bed couldn’t have been less interested in my views on fresh versus dried pasta. My first wife and I shopped and cooked the way most poor students do, while I dreamt of past feasts and future repasts.

Sometime in 1978 the bug bit hard. A divorce put me on my heels, but a steady paycheck (even at a Public Defender’s meager salary) allowed me to start cooking. A gift subscription to Bon Appétit from my big sis inspired me to use my kitchen skills to woo the fairer sex, and while I was still in my twenties, I was planning my days and weeks around what I would eat.

That women found this attractive, twenty years before anyone invented the word “foodie”, also had something to do with it.

Thus is my love of food, the way I taste and appreciate it, rooted in cooking not restaurant-going. My early restaurant epiphanies may have provided the spark, but it was working my way through magazines and cookbooks that ignited the flame which continues to burn.

These days, the word “gourmet” is seldom used, having fallen out of fashion in favor of the more egalitarian “foodie” –a word not without baggage of its own — as can be seen in the brilliant horror/satire “The Menu.” The film slices through the pretensions of modern foodie culture with the skill of sushi chef wielding a yangi-ba-bōchō: witness the scene in which the Nicolas Hoult character (a fanboy who purports to know everything about the chef and his restaurant) is asked to make some lamb chops and is exposed as a know-nothing fool.

(Bread without bread: the next big thing)

Slavishly following chefs and regurgitating modern foodspeak is no substitute for actual knowledge, much less wisdom, as he soon discovers to his detriment. The gory plot — bathed in more blood than a boudin noir — is propelled by the über-famous chef realizing his empire is based upon catering to these idiots, and he decides to do something about it. Hilarity ensues.

Watching endless reels or videos of food (either making or eating it) cannot compete with getting your kitchen dirty and taste buds challenged. I learned to cook French before I ever mastered the art of the French restaurant (Merci: Jacques Pepin, Julia Child, and Pierre Franey), and those early years of my gastronomic education were spent more with a whisk than a wine list in hand.

At the time we were living in Connecticut, about an hour north of mid-town Manhattan and I took full advantage. This was the 80’s when Larry Forgione, Barry Wine, Rick Moonen, Brendan Walsh and others were re-calibrating America’s palate. It’s really something to have a front row seat to a revolution, and I was lucky enough to have two of them: in NYC from 1985-1990, and then in Las Vegas where I had the best seat in the house for twenty years.

Does obsessive dining out turn you into an epicure? No more than going to a lot of concerts turns you into a music expert. Ditto with home cooking: you can be a brilliant home cook but your sample size will always be too small to give you the breadth of palate you need to savor multiple cuisines in their highest form.

My argument is you have to do both: master basic techniques and then immerse yourself in how the natives and the pros due it. It also helps to have an insatiable curiosity about food, from its most pristine state to the final product. But even with all of that: cooking, reading, and restaurant obsessing….you don’t earn your stripes until you travel to where it came from.

This travel can be as simple as fishing for rainbow trout, visiting an orchard, or exploring the caves of Roquefort. Whatever it is, your learning curve is fascinating and endless, and must engender endless fascination within you if you hope to conquer the pleasures of the table at the highest level.

But here’s the rub: you will never succeed. Because for all you know, there will always be more to learn. Food and wine in whatever form, are humbling. Whatever you absorb over years of tasting, traveling, cooking, and reading will simply be scratching the surface. There’s an old Scottish saying about golf: “You don’t win the game; you just play it.” Sure, you might be better than others on some days, but until someone figures out how to get 18 holes in one, the best you can do is improve yourself, day after day. As with golf, if you think you can “win” the gourmet game, you will fail miserably. And by “fail miserably” I mean “call yourself a ‘foodie'” — someone who thinks eating out a few times a week makes them a culinary Ferdinand Magellan.

People think gastronomes, epicures, and gourmets are arrogant (think Anton Ego in “Ratatouille”), but anyone in love with a subject (as a good critic should be) is as aware of everything they don’t know about it as what they do.

At the risk of sounding like an old man yelling at a cloud, the bottom line is: you have to earn your gastronomic stripes, and you won’t succeed by scrolling social media or gastonauting your way from one chef’s table to the next. Ultimately, you should be educating yourself for yourself. Know something about everything and everything about something, is how my mom put it — which is a good mantra to chant if you decide to get serious about the world of gastronomy. But it won’t be easy if you’re doing it right, and it will take a lifetime.

So, after a lifetime of alimentary obsessions, can I claim to be a gourmet? Well, I’ve never liked the term. Its dated, inherent priggishness puts me off as much as it does someone who puts ketchup on steak.

Gastronome is my preferred descriptor, but I’ll also accept “epicure”, or even that old chestnut “food snob” — which is as accurate now as it was fifty years ago when my mom expressed both wonder and disbelief she could have raised such a creature on a diet of Wonder Bread and Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks.

Can I tell you the basics of a few hundred recipes in the western food canon? Sure. Do I know how things should be seasoned and when they are “done” to their best effect? Absolutely. Can I tell within minutes (sometime seconds) whether a chef is a modernist, a classicist, or phoning it in? Probably as well or better than 99.9% of people on the planet.

But can I tell upon which leg a woodcock roosted before being roasted? Or detect in which direction my sashimi was swimming in the Sea of Japan? Hardly. Can I lovingly describe the taste of samphire? Or even know what the f**k it was until I just looked it up?

Every discipline has its limits and I certainly have mine. What a lifetime in food has shown me, however, is how to train my senses to a very fine point when I am experiencing the world of food in all of its glory. Because there’s nothing more satisfying than loving something and knowing exactly why you do.

How To Walk Into a Restaurant

March 17, 2023March 19, 2023

(Man-purse optional)

Entering a restaurant really is an art form in itself. The confidence, the charm, the way new arrivals move across the space — there’s a real elegance to someone who knows how to do it. – Edward Chisholm, “A Waiter in Paris”

Taking your table at a restaurant is probably something you take for granted. But by treating your entrance as just another trudge, you are losing a golden opportunity to advertise yourself as a customer who’s not to be trifled with. And in this era of non-stop narcissism, it is a way to show off in a manner that actually matters — the matter at hand being: your enjoyment of your meal.

Overstatement?

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Think of a restaurant like a woman. Sometimes all you want is some conversation. Sometimes, you seek the Full Monty. Either way, your approach makes all the difference in the world. Is this your first flirtation? Love at first sight? Or a one-night stand? Are you diffident? Confident? Cocky to a fault? Defensive? Insecure? Project any of these in the wrong way and disaster awaits. Knowing what moves to make is half the battle. And we’re here to help. (With restaurants, not with women — I gave up trying to understand them decades ago.)

My rules will be outlined at the end, but first, let’s get to some preliminaries. Attitude is everything, whether you’re sliding into a seat at a diner or strutting into a temple of haute cuisine.

Inviolable Eating Out Axiom #1: You are on display, whether you like it or not, so you might as well make the most of it.

Restaurant people are savants when it comes to sizing up customers. When your job depends on serving people, and spending anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours with them (and trying to make it a pleasant experience for all concerned), you have to be. The ideal is to treat everyone the same, but human nature dictates otherwise. How you present will determine how you are treated, and nowhere is this more important than in those first few minutes (literally) when you walk in and ask for a table. (For purpose of this discussion, I am assuming a table has already been booked, or they are available for walk-ins. The dynamics of impromptu negotiating for a seat in a packed house we will leave for another time.)

Dressing your best, or at least a highly presentable version of yourself helps too. You’ll be judged by your clothes (and footwear) far more in an expensive restaurant than a cheap one, but even in franchise-land, the person who greets and seats you will notice whether you respect yourself and your surroundings. And it…

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….that if you dress worse than the staff, your service will suffer.

The sociologist in me (yes, I majored in it) could easily go off on a dissection of the socioeconomic relationships between waitstaff and customers, but we’ll leave Marxist theory out of it for now. Suffice it to say some restaurants cater to a clientele barely above the social station of those working there, while at the higher end of the spectrum, some customers could probably buy the joint. And if you find yourself in a restaurant where the servers seem substantially better off than the diners, you’re probably in a soup kitchen, or an Asian buffet.

These days (especially in Vegas), they’ll seat you at a top-drawer emporium even if your backwards cap and cargo shorts are screaming “Rube from Paducah”– but dress like a slob and everyone from the hostesses to the busboy will notice, and be on-guard for the faux pas to come.

They may never come, of course — you may sit down looking like a refugee from a bowling league, and then surprise everyone by getting into a serious discussion with the waiter about malolactic fermentation. But experience has taught them that stereotypes save a lot of time, and people generally live down to the cliches they embody, so they will treat you accordingly until you prove yourself. So do yourself (and the restaurant) a favor and dress like you belong there. (Sexist aside: these days, women are invariably better dressed in restaurants than men.)

Inviolable Eating Out Axiom #2: Read the room!

As the saying goes: You only have one chance to make a first impression so make the most of it.

And the way to make the best impression is in your initial ambulation past the front door. “Walk in like you own the place,” is how my father put it. Easier said than done for most. Most of us sense instinctively that we are out of our element and playing by other’s rules the second we cross the threshold. But there’s a way to exude confidence even in the face of this loss of sovereignty. All you have to do is look the part of someone who knows their forks.

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Have a serious look on your face, but not too grim. Your look should say, “I take my meals seriously,” not “I’m here to give you my cash in order to eat and you better be worthy of it.” The first advertises maturity and experience; the second, a chip on your shoulder. The first look is sober, but always about to break into a smile; the second tells the staff you’re going to be a pain in the ass.

Inviolable Eating Out Axiom #3: Don’t be a pain in the ass, even if the hostess stand has a higher IQ than the hostess.

Gird your loins, paisan, because your biggest challenge is now before you: navigating the hostess stand. Take heart, I say! For stouter men than you have been brought low by vapid machinations taking place behind these innocent-looking podiums, and everyone from captains of industry to A-list celebrities are no match for glazed stares and alphabet-challenged babes manning these stations. But there you are, hungry and anxious, out of your element, with your fate being determined by someone whose only qualifications are are a smile and looking good in a tight dress. If you’re lucky (and you will be about half the time) a manager will be within earshot, eager to please, and with a stronger grasp of spelling, hospitality and arithmetic.

As you approach the young foundling, you should attempt to make eye contact with one of the hostesses (although being removed from their natural habitat, i.e., staring at screen or smartphone) they will feel a small sense of panic in having to engage, face-to-face with a fellow human. This is the tensest of all situations, akin to confronting a startled animal in the wild. Both of you recognizing instantly the other might have them at a disadvantage. Neither wanting to make a false move. But like all big game hunters it is incumbent upon you to impose your will on the native fauna, and reassert the dominance of your species.

Inviolable Eating Out Axiom #4: Always be firm but polite.

You: “Hello, I’m John Smith and I believe I have a reservation for 4 at 6:30 tonight?’

Her (after a furtive glance your way followed by a furrowed brow searching the print in front of her like a Talmudic scholar parsing the Dead Sea Scrolls): “Smith? Could you spell that please?”

You: “S.M….”

Her: “Here it is….For how many, and did you you say 6:00?”

If you’re lucky, a management-level person will be on hand to speed up the process. With them the stakes are higher but also the rewards. Generally they will be more accustomed to encounters with the herds of wildebeests descending upon their territory, and have a vested interest in managing the wildlife with the deft touch of a sympathetic game warden. They also go a long way in signaling to the waitstaff whether you are someone to be taken seriously. Thus, getting them on your side is imperative. (The only time waiters take hostesses seriously is when they’re trying to have sex with them.)

If the manager offers his/her hand, shake it gently but firmly. Thank them, get their name, and let them know you are there to enjoy yourself and expect them to do their part. This can be done with a nod, a smile, or even a “Boy, am I hungry!” If it’s my first time in a place, I let whoever is seating me know that I have been looking forward to eating there. If it’s my tenth time, I still let my optimism be known. Depending on the culture, you can bow, nod, or express your gratitude any number of ways to the person seating you. All of this takes place within 15-30 seconds at that podium and is way more important than you can imagine.

Inviolable Eating Out Axiom #5: Graciousness goes a long way.

But there is one more gauntlet to be run — the act of actually walking to your table — and this is what separates the punters from the pretenders. Obviously, you will be following someone into the room and to your table, but the last thing you should be doing is looking like you’re a follower…of anyone. Stand erect. Look casual but also like someone who’s been there before and is expecting to have a good time. Serious ebullience is what I call it. Look around. Not too fast. You belong there, remember. Survey the room with confidence. You are checking the layout, the customers, the lighting. You are willing to accept a good table, even a mediocre one, but not a bad one. If you have projected the right kind of self-assured bonhomie at the entrance, a manager wouldn’t think of sitting you next to the kitchen. (Counterintuitive insight: most restaurant pros and food writers don’t mind kitchen proximity. You get a better view of the food and service that way.)

Smile at some of the other diners if they look your way. Walk slowly, slower than the person seating you. They are working but you are not. Glance at the other tables. Are they enjoying themselves? Is the staff operating harmoniously or more frenzied than all-you-can-eat rib night at the Elk’s Lodge? Check out the food hitting the tables with a quick glance. Notice the bus boys — do they move with alacrity or like they have lead weights in their shoes? Is the management actually managing or simply looking good in a $1,000 suit?

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Some of this is hard to catch in a 20 second walk, but with practice, you get good at it.

The table (even a bar stool at a New Jersey diner) is the location from which yourself, and the act of taking one’s seat should be approached with the same, good-natured authority one would assume at taking the helm of a racing yacht.

Inviolable Eating Out Axiom #6: Exude confidence by relinquishing control.

Think of it this way: Dining out is all about control and losing it. We sacrifice a good deal of control when we place ourselves in someone else’s hands and ask them to feed us. But we are paying them a fair amount to do so and the contract (both social and economic) is significant to both parties. The restaurant may reign over the food, but you have jurisdiction over your own happiness. Self-assurance signals the restaurant you are no piker; letting them do their jobs conveys respect that allows both of you to enjoy yourselves.

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Final Thoughts

My best guess is I’ve sauntered into at least 15,000 establishments (400/yr for over 40 years – do the math). I stroll in not like I own them, but keenly aware that I own my own space within theirs. And since I was a kid, I always go in expecting a good time.

One can’t be a restaurant obsessive like I am with approaching every doorway, every table and every menu with a childlike eagerness to see what wonders the kitchen will perform. Perhaps this came from my mother not being much of a cook, or maybe it stemmed from my father’s love of the theater of restaurants in all their syncopated, savory and sweet glory. He wasn’t much of a gourmand, but he knew how to get both attention and the best service a joint had to offer.

I want my next meal, no matter where it comes from, to be the best of its kind I’ve ever had, and I carry that unbridled enthusiasm with me into every threshold I’ve ever crossed. It helps to be in love with your subject, but even if you aren’t (and only eat out occasionally) you can ensure your own enjoyment by setting the stage from your first step. If I learned another thing from my dad it was that respect must be earned, but when it comes to restaurants it is something you can command.

MAKING AN ENTRANCE

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1. Dress for success

2. Walk and talk slowly. Spine erect. Shoulders back. Head held high.

3.. Survey the landscape.

4. Smile. A lot.

5. Say please and thank you. A lot.

6. Eye contact is key.

7. Act like you’ve been there before.

8. Acknowledge the bus boys, bar backs, and servers.

9. Act like you own the joint…at least when you’re walking in and to your table. Then act like you’re there to have a good time.

10. Two words: Ebullient solemnity.

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The List – February 2023

February 16, 2023June 21, 2023

(When influencers attack!)

If you have an appetite for life, stay hungry.

Such has been my mantra for 50 years. Half a century of searching for the best things to shove down the ole pie hole.

And apparently, I’m not done yet. Our new podcast — Eat. Talk. Repeat. (w/ Sam Mirejovsky and Ashley Watkins) — is keeping me busy most weeks, searching for good meals and food topics of interest. As long as someone is listening, I’ll still be flapping my gums.

Who am I kidding? I’d still be gasbagging away even if no one was around to hear me. At this point, I’m having fun eating what I want where I want when I want, and not being controlled by the dictates of putting out a guidebook (although that was a blast while it lasted), or paid-for writing gigs. Being on podcasts and not having to actually produce one is more fun than shooting monkeys in a barrel. Color me happy as a clam in linguine.

Along the same lines, I am determined to champion the great food of our Chinatown as long as I can pick up a chopstick. To that end, I’ve started an Asian Lunch Bunch with a few writers, influencers, and other Asian aficionados to figure out ways to help the best places along and around Spring Mountain Road, many of which do not have the savvy or wherewithal to do much marketing on their own. Suffice to say, when we invade, the food photogs are out in force (see pic at top of page).

It’s been nine years since I did a survey of every place along SMR. In 2014, there were 112 eateries up and down the three miles between Valley View and Rainbow. I’d venture the number has almost doubled since then. Shanghai Plaza alone has almost twenty restaurants in it, and several other strip malls have popped up in the past few years — each studded with eateries from all over the Pacific Rim.

If there’s a food scene for which Las Vegas should be famous in the 2020’s, it should be this one. The Strip (with a few exceptions) has become more boring than a Donny and Marie concert. It’ll be interesting to see what Fontainbleau brings to the party, but when Martha Stewart, Peter Luger (a 136 year old brand) and the Voltaggio Brothers (whoever they are) are the best you can do, you’re just milking the old cows for all they’re worth. And as much as we love Vetri Cucina, Balla, Cipriani, and Brezza (and have had nice experiences at Amalfi by Bobby Flay and RPM), if one more Italian opens to a bunch of forced fanfare, I’m gonna commit seppuku with a splintered chopstick.

As usual, every place listed has been visited by me recently (and by recently I mean the last six weeks), and all places come highly recommended unless otherwise noted.

THE LIST

Vetri Cucina –

Best Italian in town. Don’t even think about arguing with me about this.

Need proof? Here ya go:

Osteria Fiorella –

(Pistachio > pineapple on pizza)

Sorta like Vetri-lite, but still damn tasty at a friendlier price point, with outdoor seating and the same great cocktails and wine. The weird-looking pizza above (mortadella/capicola with pistachios) raised an eyebrow when ordered but then sent a shiver down our spine when we tasted it. Marc Vetri’s food will do that to you.

Sparrow + Wolf –

(Don’t try this at home)

Brian Howard’s food can astonish, and it can confuse, but it’s always damn tasty, vividly composed and never boring. Witness the gnocchi with sweetbreads above — garnished and sauced to a fare thee well.

The Daily Bread –

(You dough’nt want to miss this)

Go early. go often, for the best artisanal baked goods you’ll ever taste next to a fake lake.

Chengdu Taste –

(Not-as-innocent-as-they-look lamb skewers)

The best of Szechuan, tucked away behind Spring Mountain Road and impossible to get into at dinner. Pro tip: Go early for lunch — like around 11:30.

Pro tip #2: Bring a crowd. This food is best enjoyed family-style with 3-6 folks at a table.

Pro tip #3: Bring a firehose (see below).

(Asbestos-lined palate required)

Sen of Japan –

(Oh, the salad days of ‘o7)

(Uni’d to try this omakase)

A granddaddy among our sushi mainstays. Still brings the goods and always comforting, always welcoming, even if it doesn’t compete (or try to match) the higher end Japanese joints opening up everywhere these days. The $100 omakase is a steal.

Marché Bacchus –

(Bradley O. has his work cut out for him)

Bradley Ogden has taken the helm of one of the toughest gigs in town. He’s not ready to retire and has a kitchen expansion (sorely needed) and menu upgrade in mind. Restaurants are like sharks: they have to constantly move forward or die. If Ogden can pull it off, he’ll have a Great White on his hands.

PublicUs –

(Salmon-chanted breakfast toast)

First-class coffee; house-baked savories and sweets; incredible bread; never a misstep for nine straight years. And me and The Food Gal® come here, all. the. time. PublicUs is a downtown phenomenon: a major success in a location that defines the term “challenging.” But its customers know quality when they taste it and this place never fails to deliver the goods.

Pro tip: Breakfast is faster than lunch, but both can be maddeningly slow at peak times (they make everything to order and slowness is the price you pay). Go early or go elsewhere if you’re in a hurry. Or show up Sunday mornings at 7:00 am like we do and be the first in line.

ShangHai Taste –

(Las Vegas Fill-ing up)

We don’t get into “Who has the best xiao long bao?” debates. Soup dumplings are like sex: the worst we ever had was still pretty good. (Funny how women never agree with this statement.) That said, these are the best, and Jimmy and Jeng Li are two of Chinatown’s treasures.

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We temporarily interrupt this food blog bloviation for a….Nusr-Et v. Yukon Pizza BURGER THROWDOWN!

How do you take your burgers? Thick and juicy and dripping with onion jam:

(Be my burger bae?)

….or are you more of a griddled, smashburger kinda person?

(Smashing)

However you grind it, these two beauts will take your breath away. Nusr-et’s at $32 is a wonder of barely-held-together, fatty wagyu, slicked with fat and dripping with beefy intensity. Yukon’s double-burger ($14) took me straight back the Steak ‘N Shake steakburgers of my youth, and with its house-made pickles, American cheese, grilled onions and sweet/tangy sauce is the last word in ground Maillard-reactive meat umami.

We’ve pitted these two meat patties against each other in our head for weeks, and can’t decide on a winner. Nusr-et is open for lunch and is always empty, so your burger will get special attention if you’re the only one in the joint. Yukon is open for service continu (as the Frogs say) every day but Monday and Tuesday, and has been a hit from the jump, so you’ll have to either call ahead or elbow your way in. Good luck solving this delicious connundrum.

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Yukon Pizza –

(A crust above)

Best dim sum? Top burger? Pizza wars? Who cares? The only thing that counts is quality, and Yukon has it in spades. The tiny space (seating about a dozen, tops) has been crowded every moment since it opened with pizza hounds who know a properly blistered and charred cornicione when they taste one. Between the pies and the burger, I’m going to have trouble keeping The Food Gal® away from this place.

Those Guys Pies –

Come for the pizza; stay for the cheesesteak. Actually, there’s no staying at The Lakes location — it’s take-out only.

Consumer warning: the “Pizza Margherita” should renamed Pizza Garlicrita — best eaten alone or far away from any sentient human beings.

Manizza’s Pizza –

Ash Watkins said this pizza ranked 37th in the United States on Yelp’s list of “Best Pizzas in America” (#eyeroll), so we had to trek out to the southwest to taste for ourselves. Yelp rankings always smack of paid-for advertising, and this joint is obviously playing the game. It’s a decent facsimile of a deck oven New York slice and that’s about it. (#Yelpsucks)

Prime Steakhouse –

What doesn’t suck is this grand dame — still, after 25 years, the prettiest steakhouse in America. The menu’s barely changed in that time, and the tuna tartare is way too cold and the mixed “Greek” salad not that great and the crab cake too deep fried…but we still hold it dear to our hearts…mainly because the steaks and the sauces (and the Parmesan-crusted chicken) still tickle our fancy:

Jamon Jamon Tapas –

We’re sad about Chef Rafael moving his hard-to-find ode to Spanish cuisine all the way to Henderson, but we’ll be happy for him if he finds a more appreciative audience out there. His food is an exquisite rendering of the best of Spain, with paellas like you won’t find anywhere not named Jaleo. He plans on moving at the end of April, so get your jamon Iberico fix in now before he disappears into the wilds of Boulder Highway.

Weera Thai (3 locations) –

The new one on south Rainbow is stunning (above). The slightly older one in Chinatown is a smaller version and the perfect venue to tuck into some roast duck pad Thai or pumpkin red curry. The original on west Sahara is no less popular, and between the three of them, you’re never too far from some incendiary Khua Kling, bone broth soup, or a ginormous pork shank:

Balla –

If Vetri Cucina tops them all these days, Shawn McClain’s Balla is running a close second. It’s menu isn’t quite as adventurous and the setting is not as dramatic, but it’s easier to get to, the short wine list is a knockout, and everything from the artichokes to the bomboloni (above) tastes like they were imported from Rome. The wood-fired veal Milanese and lamb tartare are not to be missed. This old beet hater even found something to like for McClain’s beets — dripping with agrodolce (a sweet/sour dressing) and festooned with mint and hazelnuts.

After two visits, we can’t wait for a third.

Main Street Provisions –

Patrick Munster is killing it with a gutsy menu that fits downtown like a hipster’s fedora.

Toscana Ristorante & Bar –

(Come to Pappa al pomodoro)

There are so many great Italians in town right now, hauling one’s ass to the far reaches of whatever they’re calling the Monte Carlo these days to eat makes about as much sense as putting your paycheck on double-aughts at roulette. Regardless, haul our sizeable arse we did to Eataly for a San Marzano tomato tasting that confirmed why I stopped going to press events ten years ago.

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For the record: the tomatoes were great (see the pappa al pomodoro above) and the restaurant perfectly fine, but putting out 100+ plates of the same, tepid food at the same time is no way to deliver pasta…or rice. Risotto waits for no one, and is almost impossible to serve at volume. Most of the crowd didn’t notice the gumminess though — they were just happy to be eating for free.

Raku –

(Spring Mountain superstars)

For my money, Raku is Las Vegas’s greatest restaurant — a chopstick-dropping combination of precise cooking, authentic recipes, pristine ingredients, and unwavering consistency…for fifteen years. Strictly for Japanese fanatics, though. Raku is not the place to ooh and aah over enormous slabs of A-5, or tuna the size of a canoe. Everything is about subtlety and precision here. If you don’t like your fish with eyeballs, look elsewhere. I’ve never had a bad meal at Raku; I’ve never even had a bad bite. If there is such a thing as an exquisite izakaya, this is it.

We broke the story on social media a couple of weeks ago about Mitsuo Endo taking over the convenience store fifty feet away from Raku’s front door, and turning it into a “members only” omakase restaurant with only eight seats. We intend to be a member.

Serrano’s Mexican Food –

Everyone should have a default Mexican hole-in-the-wall and this one is ours. Nothing super special, just solid renditions of chilaquiles and a nice Mexican pizza (above).

Mg Patisserie –

…where Michael Gillet runs the cutest little French pastry shop in all of Vegas — hand-crafting the best of France all by his lonesome in a spot which is too good for its location.

Yen Viet Kitchen –

Vietnamese food tastes maddeningly the same to us, no matter what the restaurant. Or so we thought, until we took one sip of the cleanest, clearest, most intensely rich broth in our Bún Bò Hué (above) we’ve encountered up and down SMR. Shockingly good, and the perfect antidote to the same old same old pho parlor. P.S. the Banh xeo (a huge crispy turmeric rice flour pancake) was a show-stopper as well. As are the soups. All of them.

Carson Kitchen

We hit CK at the very end of last year to give its new menu a spin. There wasn’t a clinker in the bunch as we plowed through grilled oysters (above), roasted cauliflower, wild boar tacos, and a crispy, deeply succulent sandwich most foul which we called “Kentucky Fried Duck.” A new expansion has opened an outdoor patio in the back of the restaurant, but we think a seat at the six-person bar is still the way to go. CK has always been too industrial (and too loud) for our tastes, but there’s no denying the talent in the kitchen. This new menu reminds us of why it was love at first bite, almost nine years ago.

Esther’s Kitchen –

(Our usual at EK)

“That place is so crowded no one goes there anymore,” is our favorite saying about this place. Can you believe it’s been five years since James Trees started the Arts District culinary revolution? People who says it’s lost its fastball don’t know what they’re talking about. The can get slammed, putting both the kitchen and bar in the weeds, but when the drinks and dishes show up, all is forgiven.

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And now for something completely different. | Monty Python | Know Your Meme

For the umpteenth time in the past four decades, I tried to find something to like about Filipino food. Hungry as hell one day last month, I scurried over to some rando roach coach near City Hall and walked away with this pork belly sisig:

…hoping against hope to find some appealingly porky rice with which to sate my hunger. What I found was some sour, off-tasting melange of chopped veg and protein bits which seriously detracted from a fine slice of crisp, fatty belly. The thick, dull lumpia didn’t help the cause, nor did waiting almost 20 minutes for my order…when I was the only one in line. At this point, I’ve concluded most food found in the Philippines was conceived on a dare, and the reason Filipinos are so skinny is they never overeat, for good reason. Or maybe to get the good stuff you have to go to someone’s home. Either way, include me out.

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Let’s end on a high note, shall we? Rather than dwell on Filipino food fails, let us celebrate the best service staff in Las Vegas, and some squid:

Cipriani –

(The Dream Team)

Everyone knows the service at Cipriani is the tits….but we wouldn’t be there multiple times a month if it weren’t for dishes like this:

https://twitter.com/eatinglasvegas/status/1620236917131587590?s=20&t=bl5sbwFOZ7WH3Cafm1U65A

Squid ink risotto (Risotto al Nero di Seppia), may not be everyone’s cup of cephalopod, but it’s as faithful to the flavors of Venice as a gondola.

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Regardless of mixed metaphors, the fact remains that the Big C puts out the best lunch in Vegas. You find me a better one and I’ll come to your restaurant three times a month, too.

At my age, I’m too old to eat in mediocre restaurants anymore, and at my age, can you blame me?

Cheers!

(Luxury looks good on me, even if I can’t afford it)

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