(Thou. Shalt. Not. Manscape.)
Thou shall have no other gods before me
Ya gotta love Christian theology: they put the big one up front. Don’t even think of listening to anyone but me! I am the oracle. The master. The Obi–Wan/Yoda to your Luke Skywalker. No matter what the rest of them say, they’re wrong and I have all the answers.
Sounds about right. Come to think about it, I am a lot like Moses, albeit with better manscaping.
Admittedly, I am not as active as I once was, but Yoda was holed up in that shithole Dagobah for decades and could still wield his laser sword. And even if I’ve lost a little off my fastball, if you’re taking advice on restaurants from some paid influencer, or worse, some chesty chick with a big following, you’re barking up the wrong tits.
Thou shall not make unto thee any graven image of celebrity chefs
(Squeeze gently for ripeness)
“We’re coming to town, and my wife wants to eat in a Bobby Flay/Giada/Gordon Ramsay restaurant,” is a refrain I hear all the time. Fair enough. These brands didn’t get to where they are by putting out experiences which range from the ethereal (Guy Savoy, Bazaar Meat) to the service-ably mundane (anything by Gordon Ramsay). And when you hale from Bumfudge, Indiana, Vegas is one of the few cities in American where you can sample a gigantic range of cuisines, from franchises which have now spanned decades. But in Vegas, as elsewhere, the shine has dimmed on many of these stars, and the more interesting cooking is going on in places that aren’t the 15th incarnation of an idea that was hatched twenty years ago.
Instead of Gordon Ramsay Steak, try Mae Daly’s, Scotch 80 Prime, Harlo, Nicco’s.
Estiatorio Milos is great, but you won’t need a second mortgage to eat similar fare at Elia Authentic Greek Taverna or Naxos Taverna.
Instead of Amalfi by Bobby Flay (which I like), or Giada (which I don’t), give Balla (Sahara), Matteo’s (Venetian), Ferraro’s, Basilico, Milano, Aromi, Esther’s Kitchen, Al Solito Posto, or Cipriani (Wynn) a whirl for top-flight Italian which doesn’t break the bank.
Instead of limping through Bellagio, or getting lost in the maze of Caesars Palace’s infuriating hallways, go to Fountainebleau. You’ll still be gouged out the wazoo, but the decor, the service, and the concepts are much fresher than all those tired celeb warhorses — relics of the 90s and early aughts still going through the motions to please their corporate overlords.
Thou shall not take the name of Joël Robuchon in vain.
French cuisine elevated Las Vegas to status on the world’s gastronomic stage previously thought impossible. And despite it hardly flourishing here, we still sport four of the best French restaurants in the country in our backyard: Joël Robuchon, L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, Restaurant Guy Savoy, and Bouchon. Insider tip: Brasserie by Bobby Flay ain’t half bad, either. Although getting to it, inside Caesars, is a pain in the baguette.
Honor thy Sabbath Day, keep it holy, but forget about brunch.
Overwrought pancakes? Eggs nine ways? Bottomless mimosas? Brunch is just a way for a restaurant to clean out its larder and overcharge for omelets and shitty Prosecco. F**k brunch and go have a real meal (and better croissants) at:
Bouchon
Winnie’s and Ethel’s
Cafe Breizh
PublicUs
Daily Bread
1228 Main (Pictured above – Winner of the Croissant Crawl ’24 on Eat. Talk. Repeat.)
Burgundy French Bakery and Cafe
Le Cafe du Val/Le Cafe du Sud
The only thing worse than brunch is a jazz brunch.
Thou shall NOT honor they father and mother….
…unless they were good cooks. Or knew a thing or two about good restaurants. Otherwise, forget everything you learned at the family table and all the boring-ass food you were served there. Picky eaters are bred, not born. Kick your parents to the curb (culinary wise) and you’ll be happier for it.
Thou shall not kill…cooking and cuisines which have developed over hundreds, even thousands of years solely to bring you pleasure
You are not there to “have it your way.” You are there because the people serving you are better at choosing, seasoning and cooking food than you are. And for this, attention must be paid and respect given. You want special food which fits your specific dietary needs? Stay home and cook it yourself. There are entire continents (Europe, Asia…) where people who go out to eat simply order and eat what is put in front of them. Only in America does the “can’t eat something” culture flourish. And flourish it has. Restaurants from Tokyo to Rome now reflexively ask diners if they have “any dietary restriction,” as if your inability to eat shrimp is somehow their problem.
Thou shall commit gastro-adultery…
…by being absolutely faithless to one form of cooking or eating. The world of Las Vegas restaurants (like the human body) is a playground to be taken advantage of — indulging with every whim or immediate gratification fantasy you’ve ever had (within reason, of course). Sticking to a fave restaurant, dish, or routine is like the Missionary position: functional but boring.
Thou shall not steal
From thyself or thy restaurant. Bargain hunting, 2-for-1s, early-bird specials, coupons, etc. is a fool’s paradise which cheats you and the people working hard to feed you.
John Ruskin said it best: There is hardly anything in the world that some man cannot make a little worse and sell a little cheaper, and the people who consider price only are this man’s lawful prey.
Do yourself a favor. Look for quality, the best you can afford, when it comes to things you put inside your mouth. Your body will thank you later.
Thou shall not bear false witness…of whatever “special needs” you claim to have.
See above. Face it: You only like to announce that you’re “allergic to _____” to call attention to yourself. Makes you feel special doesn’t it? To go out in public, gain a captive audience, and then tell the hapless waitron and your table mates how delicate your precious, vulnerable body is. The unbridled narcissism of the internet age has only magnified this solipsism. When someone tells me they “can’t eat something,” it invariably means: “I don’t like it.” So stop the bullshit or stay home.
Thou shall not covet:
– Thy restaurant steak(s) — which have become cripplingly expensive. Slavishly seeking overpriced slabs of steer muscle in a fancy steakhouse is more and more a game of diminishing returns. Yes, they get the best beef and cook it at temperatures which are hard to duplicate, but most industrial beef is a crime against earth, and the real, grass-fed, free-range stuff is out-of-reach for most mortals. These days it makes more sense to go to a good butcher and cook one at home. Peter Luger (above) gets a pass here because its dry-aged beef is nonpareil, and a $200 rib steak split four ways makes sense.
– Thy neighbor’s sushi — Overpriced, fancified, sushbag Japanese has become a cliche. You want a good sushi experience? Find a small, Japanese restaurant like Hiroyoshi on W. Charleston, or Sushi Hiro in Henderson, get to know a sushi chef, and trust him to slice you the best fish he can find. And leave influencer-style seafood and A-5 fetishization to the more-money-than-taste crowd.
– Thy cult wine — Wanna brand yourself as a world-class douchebag? Start bloviating about all the Cali cabs you drink. And don’t get me started about orange and “natural” wines tasting of kombucha steeped in dirty feet.
(Fish bumps)
– Caviar — A dumb, flash-in-the-fetish trend, which appears to have jumped the sturgeon.
– Truffles — Want to see my eyes narrow? Try shaving raw black truffles on anything, in July. Or Summer truffles, anytime. As with caviar, the faux poshification of restaurant food is an insult to the food and to customers, most of whom have no idea they’re being taken for an upcharge ride.
– Any restaurant you have to book more than a week in advance. Fueled by the food porn of Netflix’s Chef’s Table, and all the World’s 50 Best and Michelin Guide nonsense, the “we need to eat at ______ when we’re in _____” culture has attained unprecedented trendiness in the past decade — a slavish, FOMO tumescence, if you will, among the body politic of affluent restaurant goers — and the bullshit needs to stop. For every “must-have” or “bucket list” address on these sheeples’ radar, there are dozens, if not hundreds of similarly worthy meals awaiting at places not overrun by insecure show-offs.
THE REST OF MY (more secular) COMMANDMENTS:
Thou shall not wear thy cargo shorts….
…or thy t-shirt or thy flip-flops, or thy ball caps into nice, sit-down, restaurants. I realize I’ve lost this battle, as the Wal-mart-if-i-cation of America is pretty much complete, but bray I will until they pry my Ferragamos from my cold dead feet.
Thou shalt honor thy Sabbath Saturday by NOT dining out then.
Saturday night is to eating out what New Year’s Eve is to drinking — strictly for amateurs. Restaurant food tastes best Wednesday-Thursday-Friday. YOU COULD LOOK IT UP!
Thou shalt eschew AYCE everything
“Premium All-You-Can-Eat” is an oxymoron. Like jumbo shrimp and plastic silverware. There has never been, in the history of the world, an unlimited, eat-all-you-can table which was slinging anything but under-priced cattle fodder to the slope-shouldered, mouth-breathing sheep who flock there like moths to a cattle trough. (Mix. That. Metaphor!)
Thou shall not covet thy hostess, thy bartender, or thy waitron.
I know, I know, They’re young and sexy and oh-so friendly. And you just know they’re dying to meet you later for a drink. But trust me, muchacho, you’re just a number to them. And unless you are either devastatingly sexy, very rich, or somewhat famous, that friendliness is part of their job, not a come-on.
Thou shalt always order the specials
Every restaurant tells you right up front what they are good at. Sometimes it’s on a chalkboard, sometimes it is highlighted in a letter box. (Like the barbacoa lamb grilled cheese at Chamana’s pictured above.) Often the waitron will tell you what’s special that day. Occasionally, it is in the name of the restaurant. They’re making it easy for you, dummy, so pay attention. If you order the steamed fish at Xiao Long Dumplings, you have only yourself to blame.
Speaking of fish…
Thou shalt never mix fajitas with fish
I knew a woman once who loved Italian food. (Who doesn’t?) But she took her gastronomic myopia to ludicrous levels by always looking for pasta in the most absurd places. Thus did I witness her disappointment in her lasagna from a Lebanese joint, and the spaghetti served at a Connecticut fish shack. She also insisted upon ordering margaritas everywhere from beer halls to wine bars. These choices never ended well. Neither did the marriage.
Thou shalt tip like a potentate
Everyone knows I hate tipping. It is backwards, insulting, racist, sexist, and demeaning to both parties. But until America grows up and starts paying its restaurant servers a living wage, these “gratuities” are the only way many at the lower end of the socioeconomic spectrum can make their rent. The only people who like tipping are restaurant owners and the microscopically few waitrons fortunate enough to work in high-end (read: $100/cover minimum) restaurants. I say: F**k tipping with a dirty fork. But then leave 20% minimum, and be thankful they are serving you and not the other way around.
Thou shalt disdain Strip wine lists.
Big Hotel has officially ruined wine drinking in many of our mega-resorts. (This does not hold true for certain restaurants (Guy Savoy, Peter Luger) and the Venetian-Palazzo lineup (where the tenants have the freedom to set their own boundaries). Bring your own and pay the corkage, or stick to by-the-glass.
Honor thy establishment by not overstaying thy welcome.
Read the room, nimrod. Don’t stay past the end of your meal chatting up your table when a line is snaking out the door — not just as respect for the customer, but for the owner of your favorite hang out. If the place is emptying out, however, feel free to stay until you hear a vacuum cleaner. Then leave a huge tip. (See above.)
Thou shalt not order oysters in a month without an “r” in it.
And with global warming, perhaps it’s best to keep your bivalve lust to between Halloween and Easter.
Thou shalt avoid (most) vintage Vegas restaurants like the plague
From the antediluvian Bootlegger to the indefensible Michael’s, Vegas’s old restaurants hang on to their hoary clientele with prehistoric menus, somnambulant service and decor more dated than a Steve & Eydie duet. Like the person typing these words, they were cool once, but have hung on way past their expiration date. Unlike this person, they exist in a bubble that ignores the last forty years of America’s food revolution.
FINALLY…
Thou shalt never:
- Order the fish on Mondays
- Take more than five minutes to peruse a menu
- Ask for wine in a cocktail bar
- Try to impress a sommelier with your wine knowledge
- Ask to speak with the chef
- Eat any food pretending to be something else (vegan “cheese,” froyo, tofurkey, etc.)
- Arrive drunk at a restaurant
- Drink cocktails with dinner
- Lick your fingers at the table (unless the barbecue easement is invoked)
- Speak of anything gross, bathroom-related, or appetite-inhibiting at the table
- Expect the service at most small Asian restaurants to be anything but functional
- Expect the wine selection at most Asian restaurants to be anything but horrible
- Use your knife and fork as if you were hacking a vicious animal to death (Here’s tutorial if you need one.)
- Season your food before tasting it
- Assume “the customer is always right” because the exact opposite is usually true
- Go to any party restaurant (Tao, STK, Papi Steak, et al) for the food
- Eat in a place called Mom’s, play cards with a man named Doc, or sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.
But enough about me.
Cheers!
(Man-purse optional)
