Major Awards 2024

50" Deluxe Christmas Leg Lamp Plain Cardboard Box

 

It’s award season, and true to yearly form, our wits are sharpened, appetite is keen, and patience at an end. So buckle up, pilgrim…

Its Going To Be A Bumpy Ride GIFs | Tenor

Best Restaurant That’s Closest to My House: Le Thai 2

Best Restaurant That No One Goes To: Jamon Jamon Woodfired

Best Restaurant That’s So Crowded No One Goes There Anymore: Esther’s Kitchen

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Restaurant That Deserves to be More Famous Than It Is: Ada’s Food + Wine– Don’t call it a wine bar any more. Jackson Stamper, Kat Thomas and James Trees have turned this corner of Tivoli Village into our town’s most adventuresome gastropub. Surf and turf in-your-face concoctions like nowhere else. Witness the coconut broth mussels above. Paired with a fascinating wine list at prices that won’t have you reaching for a respirator.

Fucktard of the Year Award: Fountainebleu – because after we pointed out what a rip-off the wine lists were throughout the hotel (and got a bit of traction for it on social media), the p.r. folks (and executives) went into full hose job mode, assuring me the hotel really “cared about locals” and wanted its restaurants (and wine lists) to be accessible to a wide range of customers, not just high rollers and rich douchebags. Waited a month and went back. Nothing had changed. Waited another month. Nada. Poked around a few weeks ago….if anything prices have gotten worse. (Good luck finding a bottle for less than $100, anywhere in the hotel.) Then they took the excellent burger off the menu at Don’s Prime because, as one insider told me: “It was getting too popular and people were buying it instead of $100 steaks.” In other words, everything about the place now screams “We’re only here to rip-off people with more money than sense,” and encapsulates everything we hate about late-stage Las Vegas.

F**k the Fountainebleu with a rusty corkscrew.

Speaking of hotels….

grandpa simpson old man yells at cloud Blank Template - Imgflip

Hotel(s) Whose F & B programs We Don’t Give a Shit About Anymore: Basically all of them except Wynn/Encore and Venetian/Palazzo. The opposite of love isn’t hate; the opposite of love is indifference.

Only Steakhouse That Gets Us to the Strip Without Too Much Kvetching: Peter Luger

Told You So Award: Lotus of Siam’s ill-fated partnership with Red Rock Hotel-Casino (see further discussion below).

Runner-Up:  The Sundry Food Hall at Uncommons – because everything about this place (from the ghost kitchens to the QR codes) was stupid from the jump.

Best Smashburger: Stay Tuned Burger – Hard Hat Lounge ($12):

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Burger of the Year: the pop-up, $15 semi-smash burger at Featherblade Craft Butchery:

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Enough Already Award: Smashburgers

Enough Already GIFs | Tenor

 

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Croissant of the Year: 1228 MainHear all about these mille-feuille marvels on Eat. Talk. Repeat. here.

Image(Let’s taco about how good these are..)

Tacos of the Year: Carnitas y Tortas Asahogadas (above)

Pleasant Surprise Award: Brasserie B by Bobby Flay, 6666 Ranch Steakhouse, Spring by Chinamama, Caramá – our degree of skepticism was only matched by how impressed we were by the food at each of these. If this keeps up, we may start getting excited by the food in Strip hotels again.

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Pancake(s) of the Year: Chamana’s Cafe’s blueberry and Winnie & Ethel’s banana-pecan  beauties (above and above)

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Hot Dog of the Year: Windy City Beefs ‘n Dogs loaded Chicago Dog (above)

Image(The 70s called, they want their color scheme back)

Image(Ash Watkins, calling all Ottomans!)

Turkish Pimp Bordello Award: Palate (above)

Dat Sum Dim Sum Award: Palette Tea Lounge (Yes, we know, it gets confusing.)

Image(Muchas gracias, Julian!)

Game Changer/Riding Into the Sunset Award: Julian Serrano – who retires after a quarter century of excellence, knowing his enthusiasm, dedication and haute cuisine chops changed the face of Las Vegas. Read more about Serrano’s legacy in this month’s Desert Companion Restaurant Awards (some of which were written by someone you might recognize).

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Never Again Award: Marché Bacchus (above) – because what was once a passion restaurant has become a money restaurant. The above pic was from a recent visit, at peak brunch hour (1:00 pm) on a Saturday. As my dad used to say: “All the people who aren’t eating there are trying to tell you something.”

Runner-Up: Lotus of Siam Red Rock Hotel and Casino – which is as close to the edgy, in-your-face flavors and authenticity of the real LOS as Bangkok is to the Bellagio.

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Underappreciated Award: The Legends Oyster Bar & Grill – for the freshest seafood (and fabolous ‘ersters, above) you’ll find, 250 miles from the nearest ocean. Also, now with a second location in Henderson!

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Brunch It and They Will Come Award: Mi Barrio – which answered the question: Just how bad can Mexican food get and still pull a crowd? Exhibit One (above): what they called a “Milanese” torta, and what we called shoe leather burnt to an inedible crisp. The prosecution has five more exhibits but will rest with this one. We didn’t think anything could make Casa Don Juan look good, but this place manages to.

F**k Mi Barrio and it’s slack-jawed, endless margarita crowd with a stale tortilla.

As long as we’re trashing mediocre Mexicans…

Mexican Disappointment of the Year: Los Molcajetes – what was once a favorite is now straight outta Sysco – proving that Mexican food can be just as terrible in the barrio as it is in the ‘burbs.

Phoning It In Award: Eater Vegas – for continuing to live down to expectations with nonsense like this:

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…which begs all sorts of questions: Why are two of the five “best restaurant” awards going to bars (with a third being more about “hanging” than eating)? Also, were there no contenders for “Grooviest Playlist” or “Best Chef Tattoos”? Shame. And finally: How far up their collective rectum did the Eater writer(s) have to reach for these?

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Wine Bar of the Year: Wineaux – slick, comfy build-out, good vibes (are you listening Eater?), beautiful food. One of the few joints that can induce us to travel 15 miles for a bite.

Italian(s) of the Year (toss-up): Brezza, Caramá, Vetri, Cipriani, Ferraro’s, Matteo’s – Las Vegas is lousy with Italian, but these are six of the best.

Unsung Italian Award: Aromi– make that seven.

Image(When you get a hankerin’ for Hunanese)

Chinese Meal of the Year: Xiang Wei Xuan (above)

Vietnamese Meal of the Year: YEN Viet Kitchen

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Podcast of the Year: Eat. Talk. Repeat.– Are we biased? Does the Pope wear a beanie? Does the Navy have ships? Does a wild bear sh____you get the point. YOU BET we’re biased! But no one has more fun covering the Vegas restaurant scene that we do. (CAN YOU PROVE IT ISN’T TRUE?)

Runner-Up: City Cast Las Vegas – the newsy, trendy, gossipy, informative-yet-fun podcast you need to be listening to, daily.

Snoop Dogg Overexposure Award, Sponsored by Martha Stewart, produced and presented by Snoop Dogg, after a very special exclusive interview with Martha Stewart and Snoop Dogg: Caviar

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Foie Gras of the Year: Mae Daly’s– a more luscious piece(s) of duck liver (prepared two ways) you will not find anywhere in Vegas.

IHOP With Better Architecture Award: Norm’s

Chinese Hegemony Award: China MamaComing out of Covid, CM’s original location rebounded with a vengeance. Then it (literally) caught on fire. So they moved the operation to Shanghai Plaza, and opened a satellite take-out address on Rainbow. When they re-open the original location early next year, and a Palace Station outlet, this once-humble Shanghai noodle parlor will have seven locations across the Vegas Valley. Expansion this fast doesn’t happen unless major investor $$$s are involved. So far, quality-control at all the branches remains high. Hao Chī (right down the street from my ‘hood) and Spring by China Mama, have hit all their marks from the get-go. But experience tells us they’re going to have to simplify their approach when they open in the Palace Station, which has, for twenty years, been a graveyard where good eats go to die.

Japanese Meals of the Year (tie): ENDO, Raku, Izakaya Go, Kaiseki Yuzu, Sushi Hiro

ENDO has the most exquisite Japanese food in Las Vegas, with two seatings nightly (for only six lucky souls) — but it’ll cost you, bigly. Figure a grand a couple once some sake is folded in. As with ‘e’ by José Andrés, definitely an experience every budding gastronome owes themselves. Kaiseki Yuzu is slightly easier on the wallet, and a bit less precious. The other three are restaurants we could go to once a week and never tire of the food, or the (relatively) gentle tariffs.

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Drop Dead View of the Year: Vetri Cucina (above) and (below):

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Worst Meal of the Year: fingernail pizza at The Bootlegger (see it and weep):

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Regrettable Trend of the Year: the corporatization of local brands (cf. Bacchus, Marche, Siam, Lotus of), by restaurant groups who swoop in, with ice water in their veins and profits on the brain, to ruin what was once a good thing, all the while cynically calculating that the hoi polloi won’t notice. We noticed.

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Trend That Needs to Die a Sudden, Violent Death: Black food…especially black hamburger buns.

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Don’t Fill Up On Bread Award: the glazed, salty-doughy-sweet, drool-worthy Parker House rolls (above) at Scotch 80 Prime  which you’ll be tempted to make a meal in themselves.

Image(At half off, you can’t beat this meat)

Deal of the Year: the end-of-summer happy hour menu(s) at Scotch 80 Prime – which more than a few restaurants could learn a lesson from during the cash-strapped dog days of summer.

Cut Above Award (Steaks of the Year): Mae Daly’s, Nicco’s, Peter Luger

Image(Meat me at Mae Daly’s)

Something on The Strip To Look Forward To Award: Fabio Trabocchi bringing his exquisite Mediterranean seafood to the Wynn at Fiola Mare set to open early next year.

Image(Seafood risotto at La Rosetta, Roma)

Meal(s) of the Year:

Restaurant Guy Savoy (Las Vegas)

La Tour D’Argent (Paris, France not Texas)

L’Ambroisie (Paris, France not Kentucky)

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Gaya by Pierre Gagnaire (Paris, France not Illinois)

La Rosetta (Rome, Italy, not Georgia)

The Seafood Ristorante (St. Andrews, Scotland)

ENDO (Las Vegas, Nevada, not New Mexico)

Dish of the Year: Paella, hand-crafted by José Andrés at Jaleo– Bomba rice, spread a single kernel thick, in a paella pan the size of a manhole cover, over which he melted gossamer-thin Jamon Iberico De Bellota de pata negra, topped with premium Spanish oscetra caviar. All of it washed down with ‘o5 Dom Perignon. Proving that some of the greatest food experiences you will ever have are the unplanned ones, and Las Vegas (even without a world-famous chef at the stoves) can cook with the best of them.

Some days a guy just has to pinch himself.

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Cheers and Happy Holidays from us and our staff at Being John Curtas/Eating Las Vegas.

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The 10 Commandments of Dining…and then some

AI Illustration of Moses with the 10 Commandments Tablet. Source: Jim Vallee/Adobe Stock(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.

To not believe in me condemns you to a life in purgatory, or worse, eating substandard pasta.

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

full throttle saloon kitchen GIF (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.

Image(Risotto at Aromi)

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.

Image(Brunch? Non. Croissants? Oui!)

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

Chamana’s Café

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.

Episode 2 Brunch GIF by The Simpsons

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:

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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.

Truffled Caviar Bumps at Grant Achatz's NEXT Restaurant in ...(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:

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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

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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

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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!

Brunching GIFs | Tenor

Of Cabbages and Kings…and Pizzas and Pia Zadora

The Wisdom In Carroll's Nonsensical Poem, The Walrus And The Carpenter – The Wisdom Daily

‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,

‘To talk of many things:

Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax –

Of cabbages and kings

And why the sea is boiling hot –

And whether pigs have wings.’

The Walrus and the Carpenter, Lewis Carroll

Image(And all the little oysters stood, and waited in a row)

Oyster season is upon us. The days in Vegas aren’t quite so hot; and the nights are even a bit cool. Spirits brighten, paces quicken, appetites increase, and Las Vegans come out of their shells, as do bivalves…inasmuch as the latter involves being on the end of an oyster fork.

Summers you see, are for hibernating, both for certain shellfish, and people accustomed to enduring 108 degree heat for weeks on end. Oysters mate in the summer (and get watery and flabby in the process), while residents of the High Mojave do the same, at least as it involves staying in our air conditioned shells, or in a swimming pool, as much as possible.

Every year, almost like clockwork, we get hungrier on September 15th. Labor Day may be the unofficial end of Summer, but for us, the weather always seems to break about two weeks later. Sure, the hot days don’t disappear entirely until mid-October, but as soon as we feel a nip of cool in the morning, we start celebrating. And by celebrating we mean going out to eat like a starving man attacking a banquet.

Through happenstance as much as planning, this year we found ourselves overwhelmed by Italian, suffused with seafood, and awash in oysters. Below are some impressions of our more noteworthy meals…and by “noteworthy” I mean ones we either loved or hated.

Image(Never eat ‘ersters in any month without a paycheck in it)

Like the Walrus and the Carpenter, we eagerly await the arrival of plump, firm ‘ersters from both coasts, and the best and freshest collection in town can usually be found at the Water Grill. Unlike the Walrus, we feel little guilt in luring a couple of dozen of these eager little creatures into our greedy maw. Instead of poetry and persuasion, we use cash…in this case around $42/dozen. Stick with West Coast is our usual mantra: they have traveled less and have more of the mineral-rich salinity we look for. The WG may be part of a chain, but it’s a chain restaurant with sole…that knows it plaice, and hasn’t floundered since landing on the L.A. scene 30 years ago.

After gorging ourselves on Fanny Bays and Indigos, we next found ourselves inundated with Italians. (In case you haven’t noticed, Vegas is lousy with Italians these days.)

An old friend met us at Piero’s for a birthday party (and we stayed for a bite); another epicurean acquaintance lured us back to Lago; everyone said Amalfi was amazing, so we had to see for ourselves. Then RPM opened for lunch, and of course we had to go. In between all these, we also squeezed in multiple lunches at Cipriani, a lunch at Esther’s Kitchen, and dinners at Milano and Rosa Ristorante. Between the eight of them, we noshed on enough noodles to numb a Neapolitan.

But you do not come here to hear about our digestion, dear readers, you come for the piquancy of our opinions. So let us get straight to the nitty Pecorino.

SHIPWRECK

Image(All show no dough)

Lago has always suffered from unfortunate nautical design that puts one in mind of a cruise ship. Which is fine if you like dining with people whose idea of culinary adventure is a carving station with a salad bar. There is truth in advertising, though, because the food here lives down to the decor.

The cheesy design also commits the sin of raising expectations. “You’d think with a contraption that impressive, they’d turn out something less crappy,” one of our companions  observed after being confronted with a pizza oven that had to cost more than a Ferrari, and is the size of a walk-in closet (above). Another dining companion (let’s call him the Restaurant Pro) said: “If they were serving this stuff in a neighborhood Eye-talian joint, you could forgive it.” What he referred to was a meal of seven different items, each more sloppy and less worth it than the first

What is unforgivable is a mini “pizzette” tasting as if the Pillsbury Dough Boy poured a thimble of so-so sauce on a saltine:

Image(Fuggidabadit)

….followed by gloppy, overpriced pasta, pedestrian, puny panzanella (bread salad), and pathetic chicken parm (see below) — the whole tourist-trapping shebang aimed at separating the credulous from their cash.

Lest you forget, Lago is located smack dab in the center of the Bellagio — a hotel which once had the greatest assortment of restaurants in Las Vegas, and maybe the world. It replaced Circo, a gastronomic gem of design, wine, solicitous service and Tuscan excellence. All Lago is servicing is the bottom line.

Sirio Maccioni must be rolling over in his grave.

Image(Somewhere, Vital Vegas is salivating)

If you’re interested (and you shouldn’t be), lunch for five, with tip and a single, modest bottle, set us back a cool $411. This included seven tubes of rigatoni for $32 which in quantity and taste would’ve been a perfect meal for a three-year old.

LET’S GO FISH

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Amalfi by Bobby Flay was a pleasant surprise, and RPM blew us away so much we can’t wait to return for dinner. Both feature by-the-numbers fare, with nothing to scare, tweaked here and there to give the place some flair.

Poetry GIFs | Tenor

The whole point of Amalfi is pesce, and it takes its template from Milos by pricing fish by the pound and letting you choose it from a display at the back of the restaurant:

Image(Bobby’s wet dream)

As with Milos, the fish is impeccably fresh and eyebrow raising-ly expensive (although we noticed a couple of species priced a buck or two/lb. less than at Milos). Appetizers toggled between ordinary (tuna tartare) to interesting (lemon-oregano prawns) to impressive (soft scrambled eggs with bottarga and tomato toast). Pastas were surprisingly astonishing, with a spaghetti limone that was loaded with Dungeness crab, and pasta “rags” (below) that showed spice, brightness, and restraint.

Image(From rags to richness)

These pastas prey among the pecunious, though, as they’re priced from $28-$38.

As splendid as the food was, the crowd was even more inspiring, because 1) there was one (it was packed on a hot, Tuesday night); and 2) everyone looked their best, rather than the cargo shortswearing/hat-backwards/flip-flopping/t-shirt sporting/mouthbreathers who usually infest this hotel in summer.

Image(Missing: wife-beaters and Bud Lite)

 

Image(“This guy Curtas says we should get the turbot…”)

If Bobby Flay can motivate people to dress for dinner (and by “dress for dinner” we mean put on a collared shirt), maybe there’s hope for humanity yet.

ENDLESS PASTABILITIES

Image(Classic cheese and pepper)

RPM is the latest Italian upgrade on the Strip, and like its competition, it plows no new ground, preferring to concentrate on quality cooking over cartwheels. One lunch for two people does not a good sample size make, but we found our charred pepperoni pizzette to be almost perfect — a slightly spongy charred crust supporting a thick layer of strong, melted cheese and good sausages:

Image(Cheesy does it)

Look closely (above) and you’ll see dough, properly proofed and baked with just the right amount of a tomato sauce  — smothered in an amalgam of nutty, serious cheese — so vibrant and umami-rich it practically explodes in your mouth. Finding a better mini-pizza in Vegas will not be easy. The cacio e pepe (above) and carpaccio were also first rate, as was the torta meringata, which roughly translates as “baked Alaska.”

Image(Don’t think Alaska the Food Gal to share)

I’d rate the pastas at RPM (carbonara, pappardelle, pomodoro...) as a little more basic than the seafood-forward ones at Amalfi (scialatielli, squid ink fettucine, gnocchi, agnolotti, and the like), as well as being slightly lower in price ($17-$42). Both show real commitment to careful cooking of Italian classics, which is a lot rarer than you’d think in this genre — it being painfully easy to throw any slop on a noodle and have Americans beat a path to your door.

A final bonus: RPM may have the best Italian wine list of any place in town that isn’t named Ferraro’s. Organized by region, it is full of interesting, off-beat bottles at acceptable markups. Only time will tell if they stick with such an ambitious wine program — Vegas is littered with the remains of interesting lists which regress to the mean once the original hoopla dies down, and the incessant demands of satisfying the less adventuresome grabs the bottom line.

Until that happens, you’ll find us scouring it for Sagrantino, Aglianico, Primitivo and all sorts of bottles you won’t find elsewhere:

TIME FOR YOUR PIA ZADORA BREAK…

Pia Zadora Photos (4 of 9) | Last.fm(Pia’s not Fonda Jane )

Why Pia, you ask?

Because Pia Zadora, like Piero’s is a pleasant reminder of days gone by — when men were men, women had big hair, and Vegas wasn’t run by a bunch of bean counters. A time when a young man could make his way in Las Vegas by sheer chutzpah, shameless womanizing, and a tolerance for substance abuse that would make Keith Richards blush.

Or so I’ve heard.

For the uninitiated, Piero’s is a Las Vegas institution I have loved to hate since 1985. Perhaps I am softening in my old age, or maybe the time has come for a reassessment, or maybe I was wearing rosé colored glasses on the night we dined. Whatever it was, it has to be on me, since the restaurant hasn’t changed a thing about itself in decades.

You still valet your car in the port cochere; enter a short hallway leading to the hostess stand; admire the giant chimps adorning the walls; and then find one of two large bars which flank a warren of dining rooms (some cozy, some huge), which are packed with a crowd who thinks nothing of slugging down a few martinis with their marinara.

Film Scene: Mad Max and Pia Zadora bring Savannah film magic(Cheers to you, Pia!)

The pint-sized chanteuse now entertains the conventioneers at “Pia’s Place” inside Piero’s on weekends, and as if on cue, we bumped into her on our way in. She’s starting to shrivel at bit (like all of us), but it’s nothing that muted lighting, pancake makeup, and an appreciative crowd can’t fix. Since sunlight and Piero’s are strangers, everyone can watch her show, and tuck into their (decent) osso buco, and (very good) linguine with clams with the confidence they look twenty years younger in these subdued rooms.

I”m not saying this place is a time warp, but if Dan Tanna walked in sporting poly-quad, triple knit bell bottoms and ordered a Harvey Wallbanger, no one would bat an eye.

Pia’s still belting them out like it’s 1982. Like all of us, she is fighting the ravages of time they only way she knows how: by sticking with what works. Piero’s works, both as a memory and institution. The food won’t win any awards but there’s plenty of it and it fits its clientele like a Tommy Bahama trunk show. The drinks are huge (and well-made) and the servers are always on it like a bonnet. When it and Pia depart this mortal vale, Las Vegas will be a poorer place.

DEEP POCKET DIVING

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Speaking of being poorer for it, if deep sea diving (into your wallet), is how you cast about, then snorkel on down to Estiatorio Milos, where dropping 400 sand dollars on a 5 lb. fagri (red porgy, below) is a delicious way to get soaked.

Image(Porgy is the best)

On the plus side, this beauty easily feeds six. But do the math: any way you sashimi it, you’re still dropping a lotta clams. Milos does a wonderful job of casting for (and landing) those angling for trophy-sized seafood, as well as others bobbing for much smaller fry. The latter usually can be found taking the bait at lunch — where the $30 special is still a steal, which allows you to drink like a….to drink a lot.

Image(Gone fishing…at Milos)

Take us home, Lewis:

“O Oysters,’ said the Carpenter,
      You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
      But answer came there none —
And this was scarcely odd, because
      They’d eaten every one.”