Letter of the Year – The Meals of a Lifetime

Image result for Antoine's New Orleans

Bryan writes:

Indulge me for a minute. Thanks for your work. I think I was born with all the right inclinations for wonder and curiosity for all the good things the world has to offer. I stumbled onto your blog, via NPR, maybe as early as 2005, right after I got married. I really appreciate your “52 Essentials” book and still have my first edition!

I grew up in very religious home, and it wasn’t really until the summer of 2010 when I discovered wine at Steve Wynn’s place out at Shadow Creek. Before that, I didn’t know a Pomerol from a Pomeranian, but set myself to learning, at least from books, about these tiny areas and how the people and land have come together in such a meaningful expression of life.

I hadn’t ever even tasted alcohol until perhaps 2011, when I was 33. My then wife and I, along with our extremely bright Francophile 2 year old, went to France for a couple weeks in 2012 to see first hand what all the fuss was about. We went all around Normandy, and tried every stinky and homemade thing they wanted to expose us to (a cheese course? what is that?).

The kicker was when we visited a wine shop in their old town called Cave Voltaire, and I saw scores of different labels, all from right around the town! The shop owner described the wines, the patch of soil, and the guy who made it with so much love and reverence. I took home as many as would fit in my suitcase. And so cheap! People would visit at the tables outside the shop, late into the night and enjoy the local product. I just just couldn’t believe it.

 I just saw you post about your ‘meal of a lifetime’ at Lameloise, which got me thinking about this. I have had ‘lifetime’ meals I think, probably at a much simpler level, which really had so much to do with how I felt about everything around me in the moment. The most high-end experience I ever had was on your blog recommendation…. I took my wife to Alex at the Wynn, completely on a whim. That was a ton of money but it opened me up.

I never felt more cared for than when we went to Le Cirque for her birthday — though I still think that a $40 upcharge for truffle shavings on my risotto wasn’t worth it.

I mention this because this, as the ritziest of my experience, was not necessarily the best. I have never been to Burgundy, or Lyon, or the Alsace, or Italy even though I have a touch of Provencal/Piemonte ancestry. I felt bad when that ‘Bocuse’ fellow died because maybe I had missed the boat to see some heritage cooking.

SO….. I am stuck on the idea of “Meals of a Lifetime”. Where have your top 10 been found? How do you find them? How do you know them when you see them? I wouldn’t mind some guidance on how to find mine.

My response:

Dear Bryan,

Ahhh…the meals of a lifetime. How do I even begin to encompass a half-century of serious eating into a few short rules? Have there been only ten? Or perhaps many, many more?

I’ll start by listing them. with the caveat that, even as obsessive as I am about what goes into my mouth, I’ll probably miss a several memorable ones. Then we’ll explore how they came about — which, you’ll discover, runs the gamut from serendipity to meticulous planning, sometimes months in advance.

I like to break down my “Meals of a Lifetime” into three categories:  stepping up my game, the getting of wisdom, and reaping the rewards of a galloping gastronome.

The first category encompasses the epiphanies — those times in one’s early epicurean education when you sit up and take notice. When the clouds part and suddenly, with exquisite clarity, you understand something both elemental and ethereal has gone into what you are shoveling in your piehole.

 Upping My Game (1977-1991)

Image result for Four Seasons restaurant new york(The Pool Room of the Four Seasons)

Antoine’s – New Orleans 1965

Casa Grisanti – Louisville, Kentucky 1978

Pigalle’s – Cincinnati, Ohio 1979

The Mandarin – San Francisco – 1983

Le Français – Wheeling, Illinois 1983

Lutèce – New York 1986

Four Seasons – New York 1987

Lafayette – New York 1988

Your first step is acquiring information. Along with that comes the accumulation of experience. From there it’s a steady climb to knowledge, appreciation, and eventually, wisdom.

As with art, music, and other transcendent experiences, you have to be open to the educational process — needing both hunger and a thirst for knowledge based upon early exposures. If the bug doesn’t bite, you’re out of luck. A certain kind of person can tour the Louvre and say, “Those pictures shore were purty!” while another immerses herself in the history, philosophy, technique and imagination all around them.

If you look at a great restaurant as just another better-than-average re-fueling station, you will never enter the zone of curiosity, learning and refinement necessary to appreciate every nuance of a fabulous meal. It will be no more moving than a quick glance at a Vermeer or a momentary gaze at a Gentileschi.

Don’t make the mistake of thinking that quantity equals quality, i.e., simply amassing information makes you an expert. (Many Yelpers, “influencers,” and bloggers fall into the delusion of thinking that just because they’ve been somewhere, they know something.) Restaurant-hopping is as poor a way to learn about food as concert-going is to learn about music.

Related image(Antoine’s now, just the way it looked then)

With me, the epiphanies started as a pre-teen when a small, gleaming silver tureen of lump crab meat bubbling in a butter-sherry sauce was placed before me at Antoine’s in 1965. I can still see the bright-tiled dining room and starched white shirts and just-so tuxedos of the waiters as they took the order from our table of six (Mom, Dad and four children).

Then and now, Antoine’s is a 19th Century throwback, and from the moment we sat down we knew we were in for something both historical and special. A great restaurant does that to you — makes you feel like a bond has been formed between you and it from the moment you take your seat. When you can still remember a meal 50 years later, it was a meal of a lifetime.

Most of my culinary education in my 20s and 30s took place in world-famous French-American restaurants. Before I got to them, however, I remember a pasta-tasting menu at Casa Grisanti in Louisville when I was a newbie lawyer. It was the first time the glories of northern Italian pasta were laid before me, and it was a revelation. Cream sauces instead of tomato! Light dustings of cheeses, rather than a mountain of melted mozz. Ravioli stuffed with real meat! And what is this stuff they call risotto? These were unknown to me and many Americans in the 1970s.

With Kentucky being to Italian food what Rome is to fried chicken, this might not seem like much now, but forty years ago, Casa Grisanti was the shit in Louisville (where I went to law school), and they treated a wet-behind-the-ears budding gourmand (who was just learning to be a grownup) with respect, and I’ll never forget it.

From there it was all about research. Decades before the internet, you learned about the best restaurants from newspapers and magazines and that was it. In the early 1980s, Playboy magazine published “The 25 Best Restaurants in America” by John Mariani, and I scoured the article (Yes, I got Playboy SOLELY for the articles!) for places to conquer. It was my road map for several years and led me and the second Mrs. Curtas to San Francisco’s The Mandarin — Celia Chang’s seminal Chinese restaurant — the first time we (and most Americans) discovered there was more to Chinese food than sweet and sour pork, egg foo yung, and General Tso’s chicken.

Image result for le francais wheeling

We were novices and we knew it, but so was everyone else. The restaurants (heady with success, but still humble) treated everyone like a king. The only thing you were there for was the satisfaction of eating the best food money could buy. There were no pictures; there were no bragging rights. Because there was no one to brag to. I could’ve told everyone I knew in the early 80s that I had “bagged” these trophy restaurants and no one would’ve known what I was talking about.

What is so easy now took a lot of work forty years ago. You had to subscribe to the New Yorker to read Calvin Trillin, and New York magazine to read Seymour Britchky, and get Gourmet and Bon Appetit once a month to have even an inkling about what was going on on the national food/restaurant scene.

You’d watch Julia Child on PBS and when Jay Jacobs wrote a book (or James Villas wrote anything), you bought it. But mostly, you had to learn to cook (from cookbooks!) to learn about food.

Burying my head in the works of Pierre Franey, Craig Claiborne, James Beard, and Jacques Pepin gave me a foundation of knowledge of food that has paid dividends for decades.

And I haven’t even mentioned the ten years I spent immersed in Chinese cooking. (Another failing of the Instagram generation: precious few people under forty – even some notable food writers – know anything about actual cooking. All they know is gleaned from the insta-information the internet provides. This creates is a food culture where everyone’s knowledge is a mile wide and an inch deep. Welcome to 2018.)

 The Getting of Wisdom (1992-2003)

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Le Grand Véfour (above)

L’Auberge d’Lill

L’Ambroisie

Georges Blanc

Troisgros

Dal Bolognese

Spago Los Angeles

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Trattoria Milanese (above)

Lameloise

Norman’s Coral Gables (closed)

Pierre Gagnaire

Le Cirque New York

After fifteen years of honing the fundamentals and calibrating my palate, it was time to get serious. You don’t realize it at the time, but what you’re doing (when you are constantly cooking, reading, traveling and tasting) is creating a mental Rolodex of flavors and sensations to call upon every time you try something new. I know many poor souls who are content eating the same pizza, from the same pizzeria every week for most of their lives. They have their favorite taco truck and steakhouse and Italian food and couldn’t be less interested in driving across town to sample something new.

But when you do, what you’re creating is a data bank — information you can draw upon to compare and contrast what you’re eating now with everything that’s come before.

And what I did in the 1990s was cram a fuckload of food data into my maw and brain. Two things always assisted me: an insatiable curiosity and endless appetite. (It also helped to live near New York City in the late 80s-early 90s, and have a job that flew me around the country.)

How did I find these life-changing meals? Again, through a lot of reading and research. Zagat guides were popular then and they helped, but it cannot be overstated that ethereal restaurant experiences are also the product of volume. For every jaw-dropping moment of epicurean bliss, there were dozens (nay hundreds) of comme çi comme ça meals.

Along the way, though, you will find many disappointments and travel up many a blind alley — in the restaurant world, coasting on reputation and phoning it in are time-honored traditions. And just because “everyone says it’s great” doesn’t mean it is. I’ve been let down by everyone from Thomas Keller to Charlie Trotter to Alain Ducasse, mainly because their restaurants seemed more impressed with themselves than trying to impress me. It is for this reason I seek out one and two Michelin-starred restaurants when I’m in France and Germany — like Avis, they usually try harder.

Explorers never start at the summit. Forty years ago, when it came to restaurants, it was impossible to start at the top. You didn’t even know where the top was. You had to work your way up — starting in your own humble kitchen, through less expensive restaurants of a genre, then, when the opportunity presented, to bigger and bigger game.

I’ve said it a thousand times: to get the most out of restaurants you have to eat out a lot, travel a lot, cook a lot and read a lot.

And that’s what I did in the 1980s and 1990s.

Reaping the Rewards (2002-present)

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Dal Pescatore (above)

Daniel

Cello (closed)

Le Bernadin

Bartolotta Ristorante di Mare (closed)

Schwarzwaldstube

Le Cirque (New York and Las Vegas)

Restaurant Guy Savoy (Paris)

Joël Robuchon

Narisawa

Pierre Gagnaire (again)

Image result for Checchino dal 1887(Rigatoni pajata testaccio)

Cecchino dal 1887 (above)

Cracco Peck

L’Auberge d’Lill (again)

Le Calandre Alajmo

La Bouitte

Edulis

Lameloise (again)

The Inn at Little Washington

Once you’ve put in the leg work, finding exquisite meals becomes easier. You’ve become a big game hunter who knows exactly where to look for your prey. Just as important, you develop a sixth sense about what to avoid. You’ve learned to skip the hottest places (always too stressed to serve you a memorable meal), and look for sustenance where your fellow diners are as serious about their dining as you are. (It will be a cold day in hell before I compete for some treasured on-line reservation at some mega-hot venue. Trendiness and transcendental dining go together like oysters and chocolate.)

Of course, being a restaurant writer, I’m privy to more tips and invites than most people. Being located in Las Vegas has been YUGE as well. The bar here may be set pretty low (being the the best known food writer in Vegas in like being the best violinist in Vermont), but the strength of our restaurant scene has allowed me to punch way above my weight.

This why I’ve been privileged to have had the great French chefs of our time (Savoy, Robuchon, Gagnaire, Boulud) personally serve me, and why other chefs and food writers provide an infrastructure of information I can call upon whenever I travel. Which is is how I found the beyond-gorgeous La Bouitte in the French Alps (a local chef – John Courtney had staged there years ago), and how the lovely Edulis came up on my radar (Toronto food critic Chris Nuttall-Smith said I “had to go there” and he was right — it was one of the finest, simplest, most perfect two hours of eating I’ve ever had.)

Many times, though, I’m just like anyone else, plowing through endless info on the internet, trying to find a good place to reserve a table when I’m out of town. As the Food Gal® says, in many ways we’ve come full circle. Where forty years ago you had to scrape and claw for scraps of information about where to eat when you traveled, now, the blizzard of white noise makes finding quality information just as difficult.

But research is just as essential today as it was in 1977. Google is essential but the first page is almost always worthless — that’s where all the paid TripAdvisor, Booking.com, and Yelp stuff is. Dig a little deeper, go to pages 2-4 of a google search to find independent articles/reviews/websites about where you’re headed. Go to bookstores (or Amazon) and buy books! People still publish interesting/informative guidebooks to eating in certain cities and they can help immensely to steer you to hidden gems.

Image result for l'auberge pot d'etain

And don’t forget wine writers and wine websites — great food and wine go hand in hand, and wine writers know a thing or two about out-of-the-way jewels known only to the industry. That’s how I found Auberge du Pot d’Étain (above) when I was in Burgundy a year ago. It will never make anyone’s “50 Best” list, but Burghounds the world over know about it, and the wine list alone is worth a flight across the pond.

Finally, remember that nothing worthwhile comes easily. Many of the world’s greatest restaurants are hard to find, hard to book (they can be quite small), and even harder to get to. Le Calandre (my most recent MOAL) is in a forgettable suburb of a small Italian city, and takes four distinct rides  (plane, train, rental car and taxi) before you arrive at the front door. Our cab driver in Tokyo is still looking for the entrance to Narisawa.

Alsace, Chablis, Beaune, L’Auberge d’Lill, Troisgros, Dal Pescatore, and the Black Forest are all pains in the ass, location-wise, but once you get there, something magical happens.

Thank you, Bryan, for indulging me on my trip down memory lane. I’ve given you a very long answer to a very short question, but I hope I’ve also imparted some useful information.

In the end, though, the best answer is always the shortest: How have I found my meals of a lifetime? By always looking for one….and never forgetting that climbing a mountain is so much more rewarding than being helicoptered to the top.

Best and bon appetit,

John

Chef of the Year – Brian Howard

Until Brian Howard had the foresight to place an American gastropub on Spring Mountain Road, this three-mile stretch of “Chinatown” was the exclusive province of all things Asian. Now, it’s where gastronauts go for boutique lettuce salads, beet and green apple tartare, and giant steaks served with a dozen side dishes.

Those sides are an homage to the Korean banchan available up and down the avenue, and give a strong hint about how Howard loves to mix and match his meal metaphors. While one table is fighting over an Hamachi collar, another may be torn between the lamb neck with herb crêpes, scallop robata, or Chinatown Clams Casino.

By making Sparrow + Wolf our most interesting restaurant, Howard did more than just fuse a number of cuisines. He bridged a great divide between our various gastronomic cultures, inspired others (Partage, Mordeo Boutique Wine Bar, EDO Gastro Tapas & Wine) to follow suit, and turned this neighborhood into our number one dining destination.

SPARROW + WOLF

4480 Spring Mountain Road

Las Vegas, NV 89102

702.790.2147

CIPRIANI

I liked the location at once because it was at the end of a dead-end street….This meant that the customers would have to come there on purpose and couldn’t just stop in as they were passing by. That is the way I wanted it. To this day people have to come to Harry’s Bar on purpose. – Giuseppe Cipriani (1900-1980)

You go to Cipriani on purpose. You don’t go because there’s some hot new chef at the stoves. You aren’t there for pirouettes on the plate or cartwheels in the kitchen. You didn’t just stumble by the place on your way to somewhere else (the pool, a nightclub, blackjack, etc.), and cutting-edge is not in your cuisine vocabulary. The reasons you walk through the door say more about you than the restaurant. You are there because you can’t find this experience anywhere else but here or in Italy. (Venetian cuisine being perhaps the least-traveled of all regional Italian foods.)

The restaurant is there to serve you, but it has nothing to prove. It knows itself like a high soprano knows the aria from Madame Butterfly. It’s been doing the same thing, in the same way, successfully since 1931. There is no need for it to change. All that is left is for you to submit to its charms and history, and discover that, through decades of refinement, it serves a menu of subtle perfection like you’ve probably never tasted before.

If you resist this submission you will be disappointed. If your idea of Italian food is Tuscan meatiness, Neapolitan flamboyance, Calabrian heat or Emilia-Romagna-Sicilian-Roman largesse, you may look at your plate and wonder what all the shouting is about. But if you’re open to experiencing the deceptively simple yet hyper-delicious food of the Veneto —  — you will be transported to a cuisine both rustic and refined.

Image result for Ernest Hemingway at Harry's Bar(Ernest Hemingway and Giuseppe Cipriani prepare for their hangovers, Venice, 1950)

Before we get to that food, a little history is in order. Cipriani Las Vegas (pronounced chip-ree-AH-NEE LAS VAY-gus) is the latest in a chain of Italian restaurants that trace their lineage to Harry’s Bar in Venice (Italy, not California). Harry’s Bar was founded in 1931 by Giuseppe Cipriani — the grandfather of the founding family — and became famous as a watering hole/restaurant for European nobility, the carriage trade, celebs and American literati in the 1940s and 50s. (Sinclair Lewis and Ernest Hemingway were constant habitués, even though they hated each other, and once almost came to blows in the place. Orson Welles and Truman Capote were also regulars, and also hated each other, but the only punches they landed had rum in them.)

Being something of a louche, café society lover myself, I consider it my home away from home whenever I’m in Venice. (Unlike Hemingway, however, I find myself constitutionally incapable of parking six bottles of Amarone in my liver (as he did) every night before bedtime.)

Nevertheless, hanging out at Harry’s Bar has been de rigueur when I’m in town, perhaps in hopes of absorbing a bit of Ernest’s mojo. (In case you’re ever there, the first seat at the bar, by the cash register, is the one with my name on it.) So far, it hasn’t worked — I am also constitutionally incapable of writing short, declarative sentences —  but it’s made me more than a little acquainted with the bottom of a Bellini glass, and what constitutes a definitive seppie in tecia (cuttlefish served in its own ink).

When Arrigo Cipriani (Giuseppe’s son) answered the siren song of expanding and branding Harry’s Bar to other locales in 1989, he chose New York City  – specifically a space on the ground floor of the Sherry Netherland hotel. Then and now, the family considers the name “Harry’s Bar” to be sacrosanct, and chose their last name as the brand for their empire. (Arrigo originally wanted the first Harry’s Bar clone to be called “The Copy” but thankfully someone talked him out of it — no doubt because “Let’s meet at Cipriani” has a much more musical ring to it than “Let’s go grab some ‘Copy’ for lunch.”)

When I was frequenting New York in the early 90s, I found myself perched there many a time, too, although in 1992 I remember the prices to be cripplingly expensive. Now they don’t bother me at all — 30 years of “Eating Las Vegas” having immunized me from any and all restaurant sticker shock.

Las Vegas is now the 19th Cipriani in the world. They stretch from London to Singapore (New York currently has three), and the business is still family-owned. This alone probably explains why the quality remains high, and why the food in Las Vegas may be as close to the original as one could ever hope for.

Image result for Ernest Hemingway at Harry's Bar(Harry’s Bar)
(Cipriani Las Vegas)

First timers may find those low tables take a little getting used to, but they are a definitive part of Harry’s/Cipriani brand, so get used to them you will.

Arrigo Cipriani, in his written history of Harry’s Bar,  explains their design as reminiscent of the low tables he sat at as a child, where he always had more fun than at the taller, stuffier “grown up” tavola. Sit at them for a few minutes (they and the chairs are about 3″ lower than standard height) and you will see how they promote a certain intimacy among your table-mates. For larger folk, there are a number of plush booths (also lower) where you can spread out with lots of comfy pillows.

Eighty-seven years on, the details still matter, whether you’re in Las Vegas or one of the other Ciprianis around the world. Those tables will always be covered in starched white linens, the flatware is modestly-sized (Arrigo hates big, clunky knives and forks), and the staff is one of the most smartly outfitted in the business. Liquids are served in short, stout glasses (even the wine), and the sleek and sexy decor — all polished woods and gleaming brass — makes everyone feel like they’re in a Cary Grant movie.

And then there is the food. It’s the real deal, not an Americanized version of the idiosyncratic cuisine of Venice, but as pitch perfect as you could hope for thousands of miles from its homeland.

Before you get to it, you will first have a Bellini: a small glass of Prosecco and white peach juice invented because Giuseppe looked around one day in the summer of 1948 and said, “What the hell am I going to do with all of these white peaches?” Purée them and add the sparkling wine was the answer. He then named it after a 15th Century Venetian painter — Giovanni Bellini — and the world, literally, started beating a path to his bar.

The good news is that those Bellinis are cheaper here! They cost $17.00 in Vegas, and 30 euros in Venice, so have two! (They’re pretty small.)

(A proper carpaccio)

After the Bellini, you’ll have the carpaccio: the other world famous invention of Giuseppe Cipriani. Only slightly younger than the Bellini, its invention (in 1950) stemmed from some “ravishing countess” telling Giuseppe that she couldn’t eat cooked meat. “No problemo, segnora,” was his reply, “I’ll just pound a raw filet paper thin and dress it with a white, mustard/mayonnaise sauce.” He could have called it anything he liked, but the Renaissance painter Vittore Carpaccio happened to be hanging about Venice at the time (his paintings, at least). Giuseppe loved his bold red and white colors, so “carpaccio” it was, and every raw, flattened piece of food ever since has been stuck with the name.

As with the Bellini, a proper carpaccio couldn’t be any simpler, but as with all unadorned, exquisite things, there is no room for error. The raw ingredients must be impeccable, and their treatment must be precise, the better to let the result transcend the sum of its parts. Unfortunately, as with the martini, bourbon, pizza, sushi, etc., the letter and spirit of the original is honored more in the breach these days.

With those preliminaries out of the way, you will be free to peruse the wine list as you nibble on addictive short grissini (breadsticks), or some rather forgettable bread. (Don’t despair, the bread at Harry’s Bar is pretty forgettable, too.)

You’ll find the wine list of modest length and actually rather approachable, with plenty of decent choices of Italian white wines from multiple regions in the $65-$100 range. Maybe it’s the water of the Venetian Lagoon, or it’s famous fish, but I’ve always found white wines go best with this cuisine…even the meat dishes.

By now, it will be time to dive in. Certain dishes separate the men from the boys as it were, when it comes to the food of the Veneto: polenta, salt cod, cuttlefish, veal with tuna sauce, and most of all, calf’s liver “alla Veneziana”. None of these are what spring to mind when most Americans think “Italian food”.

Venetians love their fine white cornmeal (from the Friuli region) and serve it with everything but pasta and gelato. Good polenta — and at Cipriani it is always good — is much more than mere mush. It stands alone, like great pasta, for its elemental purity and strong sweet flavors of the earth. Polenta is as Venetian as a gondolier and learning to love it is your first step in obtaining your Venetian food diploma.

(Baby artichokes alla Romana)

Of things not to be missed (after that carpaccio) should be an order of baby artichokes “alla Romana” and Bacalà Mantecato (whipped salt cod, served with fried polenta).

The first will be the best artichokes you have ever eaten — soft, small and delicate — so unlike the woody, giant, indigestible globe artichokes we are stuck with in America.

Americans resist mightily the allure of the second dish, even though salt cod is no fishier than a tuna sandwich), but serious foodies love its airy, whipped refinement, which echoes the sea without bathing you in it.

Tuna of a more refined sort makes an appearance in a mayonnaise-like emulsion covering thin slices of cold veal — another exquisite recipe of extreme foreignness to American palates. Vitello tonnato appears on menus from Turin to Trieste, and is an umami-rich, meat-sea antipasti, much beloved by Italians in the summer.

(Seppie in tecia)

Salads of endive and radicchio and lobster with avocado are offered, and they’re perfectly fine (if a bit boring), so you’ll want to lean more towards the prosciutto and bresaola, which are top shelf and sliced right.  Seafood lovers are equally well-served by the plump shards of sweet-sour anchovies, and the seppie in tecia — a real test of your Venetian food chops — it being a thick, black stew of ink enveloping tender cuttlefish strands that’s as far from fried calamari as foie gras is from a chicken salad sandwich.

It would be nice if they could offer some of the bounty of the Adriatic Sea/Venetian Lagoon here (moeche, canoce, barboni, etc.), but a 6,000 distance makes seafood a secondary protein on this menu, rather than its focus. You’ll forget all about the fish, however, as soon as you dive into the pastas.

(Baked tagliatelle with ham)

Pastas are where things get heftier. But the portions easily feed two, and are so good they should come with a warning label that repeated exposure to any of them could become habit forming.

It’s doubtful you’ve ever had a veal ragú as light as the one dressing thick strands of tagliardi, and you’ll wonder if cream, ham, peas and cheese have ever matched better with tortellini, or baked more beautifully as a crust for thin, egg-y tagliatelle — the latter being another must-try signature dish. Knuckle-sized gnocchi come dressed with tomato cream one day, Gorgonzola cream the next, and are surprisingly light despite their weighty descriptions.

They do a beautiful Dover sole “alla Mugnaia” (a.k.a. a la meuniere) here, wonderful langoustines “al forno” and a rib-sticking braised short rib (again, all easily feed two), but if you really want to eat like the Doge of Venice, tuck into the calf’s liver “alla Veneziana”:

(Fegato alla Veneziana – liver and onions, Venetian-style)

The Venetians claim to have invented the dish, but as Waverly Root wrote in his The Food of Italy, “…it seems so natural a combination that it need hardly be pinned down to any single point of origin. It is true, however, that nobody does it better.” And nobody does it better in Las Vegas than Cipriani. Even if you think you hate liver, you should give it a try.

Pizza makes an appearance (just to appease knuckle-dragging Americans) —  but going to Cipriani for a pizza is like going to La Scala to see the “Book of Mormon.”

Something called “YOTTO Japanese Cuisine” is also on the menu, presumably because when people go to an Italian restaurant, what they really want is some Japanese food.

Desserts are remarkably light and white: Dolce Vanilla Meringue Cake, a Napoleon with vanilla cream, vanilla panna cotta, and the thickest, creamiest, silkiest and most vanilla-i-est gelato you have ever tasted. No foolin’….it is truly extraordinary gelato, worth a special trip all by itself.

(Best. Gelato. Ever.)

Cipriani is neither crowd-pleasing nor horde-imploring. Some people won’t “get it” in the same way people don’t “get” classical music, haiku poetry, new wave cinema, or the lines of a simple black dress. Cipriani is a state of mind. The ease and grace with which it displays its good taste is something new here — refinement and subtlety being to Las Vegas what strippers are to the Piazza San Marco. But there is a seductive reassuring quality to its flavors and its atmosphere. Nothing overpowers, but each bite beckons another; every visit inspires a return. The cuisine is born of nuance, and the service has been honed by almost a century of tradition. Cipriani is not for everyone. It is for the cognoscenti. You have to go there on purpose.

(Cipriani is open for lunch and dinner, seven days a week, with the same menu for both. Most dishes are easily split between two people with apps and pastas running $15-$30, and mains in the $30-$50 range, meaning: a modest lunch or dinner for two can run well under a hundy, or a more extravagant one about $150, excluding booze. My first meal here was comped, my next three have run $72, $200, and $163. They also validate your parking. Anyone who orders “nigiri sushi” here should be (figuratively) shot.)

CIPRIANI LAS VEGAS

Wynn Hotel and Casino

702.770.7390

http://www.cipriani.com/restaurant/?loc=las-vegas