Hail, Britannia! Part Two

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Man does not live by meat alone. Even if English cuisine is challenged by finding green things to eat, it more than makes up for it with its seafood. The British Isles take a backseat to no one in the flavor of their fishes and the succulence of its shellfish, and if you happen to be there in oyster season (the dead of winter) as we were, you will find no shortage of bivalves to keep your palate enthralled.

It would have been easy enough to stop into a fish ‘n chips shop around London, but we had bigger pisces to fry in our quest for the best. So off to Ramsgate we repaired (a couple of hours south of London), at the far southeastern end of England, to sample this iconic staple of British vittles at the Royal Harbour Brasserie — a cozy local’s favorite, located towards the tip of a half-mile long causeway, called the East Pier, overlooking the Ramsgate harbor:

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Our guide was an American friend of The Food Gal® who has called England home for the past 10+ years. He picked the restaurant both for the the setting (looking as if the dry-docked bridge of a ship had been hoisted wholesale onto the breakwater), the view (with windows on three sides giving everyone the sense of floating in the harbor), and the seafood, of which we plowed through some first class oysters and the best fish ‘n chips of our lives (made with local haddock):

Image(Chippee kay yay)

If you’re a student of fish ‘n chips (and let’s face it who isn’t?), you know that you’re looking for the perfect thickness of non-greasy, malty beer batter, fried to just done, so the moist, firm fish is enveloped in a steamy, soft, starchy blanket of just the right crunch giving way to a fish that’s allowed to show itself to its best effect. If done right, all you need is a splash of malt vinegar, or a dab of lemon dribble, or the slightest tang of tartar sauce to complete the picture. This fish was good enough to stand without accoutrements.

As for the mushy peas, we don’t get it. Never have, never will. No matter how concentrated the pea-ness, it’ll always be green wallpaper paste to us.

There, I said it.

After eating England’s national dish, it was back to London, where Wilton’s took us from one end of the seafood spectrum to another. Wilton’s is as iconic as any eatery in England, having been serving seafood in the city, in one form or another since 1742. For perspective’s sake — that is 280 years, and almost a century before the first restaurants opened in America. What began as an oyster bar is now the clubbiest of seafood parlors (in looks and clientele), catering to a carriage trade who know their fish like a ploughman knows his meat pies.

Image(How do you say ‘Hell ya!’ in British?)

Image(Luxuriating in Langoustines at Wilton’s)

The look and feel of the place may reek of old-school Brit exclusivity, but the welcome is warm and the service cheerful and courteous.  Located amongst the fashionable shops of Jermyn Street, this is a serious restaurant stocked with big fish in more ways than one. Our cozy two-top was perfectly positioned to watch the parade of patrons and waiters as they perused, pondered, and plated the various poisson to a fare thee well.

English food is best which is interfered with the least, and Wilton’s practically coined the phrase. This is food unfoamed and unfused (as Colman Andrews once wrote) — as true to its roots as Royals behaving badly.

The day we were there a coulibiac of salmon was being paraded around the dining room to ohs and ahs aplenty. (Typical Brit reserve seems to melt when faced with a salmon “Wellington” the size – and weight – of a fire log):

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Dutifully wowed, we ordered our hefty slice, which followed a dozen oysters, lightly smoked salmon, Scottish langoustines, and, of course, the Dover sole, barely breaded and on the bone.

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The food could not have been more straightforward, or scrumptious — tasting as if everything had jumped directly out of the sea and onto our plates.

What passes for Dover sole in America (often Plaice, Petrale, or lemon sole) lacks the sweet, firm meatiness of the genuine article. This is the real deal: the thin flour coating barely sauteed to a whisp of crispness, then de-boned to four dense fillets of uncommon seafood richness — the pinnacle of flatfish sapidity, and one worth traveling a great distance to taste.

“Sapidity”… great word that.

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Built in the grand cafe style of various European capitals — Vienna springs to mind, or a high-ceiling-ed 19th Century railway cafe full of ladies in ruffles, bustles and huge hats — The Wolseley (above) is a modern restaurant masquerading as an artifact of days gone by. It is one of those eye-popping restaurants that wows you even before you take your first bite. Being so capacious allows them to hold back a number of tables for walk-ins (just like they do in Venice and Budapest), so even without a late afternoon reservation, we were promptly seated by the amiable staff and within minutes were tucking into some first-class oysters, surrounded by folks taking in British high tea, wolfing down finger sandwiches, crumpets, and other ruin-your-dinner- nonsense, which seems like sacrilege when coquillage this comely is there for the slurping.

The menu is huge, the crowds constant, and the vibe something Oscar Wilde would recognize. Food offerings toggle between daily specials and recipes from all over the map. Our tiny sample size — those oysters and some spicy, smoky kedgeree (a Hindu-English rice-fish fusion) is hardly enough to take the measure of the place, but for a couple of weary Yanks wandering through Mayfair on a chilly afternoon, it hit the spot.

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Britannia may rule the waves, but in London, its cuisine shares equal billing with any number of countries, and one week is not enough time to get but an amuse bouche of all it has to offer. You may have to search for Spanish tapas or Chinese dumplings, but Indian curry parlors are as common as corner pubs. High-end Indian (on a level found nowhere else in the world outside of the country itself), is also in abundance. We put aside our search for classic restaurants just long enough to slide into BiBi — a mere sliver of a space, tucked into the side of a tony address in Mayfair (above), featuring impeccably-sourced groceries (they list the origins of everything from the basmati rice to the ghee), fashioned into some real menu stunners: buffalo milk paneer, beef tartare, aged lamb, and a wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing green chilli halibut that was as fiery as it was plain to look at.

I make no pretense in knowing the fine points of northern Indian cooking (Indian menus in America are more predictable than an IHop), so whatever metaphors were being mixed, or traditions being upended, went straight over our heads. But we’re savvy enough to appreciate the “Wookey-Hole cheese papad” —  a sharp, cheese-flavored papadum dipped into cultured cream, mango and mint, layered in a cup to look like the Indian flag, and the raw Highland beef pepper fry (a crunchy-spicy tartare that will snap your palate to attention):

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Every bite of every dish seemed to be a hidden minefield of flavor — studded with glorious little surprises like the cheese in those papadum, or seared free-range buffalo milk paneer cheese overlain with chillies and a fenugreek kebab masala:

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None of it familiar; all of it an eye-popping reminder of why god gave us taste buds,

From the sigree (grill) section, we tackled a small portion of almost fork-tender aged Swaledale lamb and finished with an exotic Indian tea (the charms of which were lost on me), and a creamy/puffy, panna cotta-like saffron “egg”, whose delights were not:

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How you react to BiBi’s high amplitude cooking probably depends on how much you want to invest in deciphering the serious and complicated stuff going on in the open kitchen. It is very much an of-the-moment Indian restaurant which is seeking to shift the paradigm for what people think of as Indian food. But even if you don’t like cogitating on your plate that much, the tastable sensations will blow you away…in more ways than one.

We can’t quite leave England behind without a few recommendations and shoutouts to a few other stops — each of which was notable both for what we consumed, and its very British commitment to first-class hospitality; even to a couple of rubes from the Colonies.

No self-proclaimed gourmand should ever visit London town without a stop at one of their iconic food halls. We didn’t have time to hit Harrod’s, but we were a short walk from Fortnum and Mason  and found ourselves wandering its floors several times, marveling at everything from its bowler hats to bangers:

Image(Banger? I don’t even know her!)

Those sausages were part of a simple English brekkie, side by side with the yellowest eggs we’ve ever eaten. Calling F&M an upscale grocery store is a serious understatement. It’s floors are stocked with the best in gourmet gifts and dry goods, from tea towels to jewelry to stationary. Stores like this simply do not exist in America anymore. This one was packed day and night. No wonder they look down their aristocratic noses at us.

We can’t conclude our travelogue without a mention of some serious imbibing. But first an aside: We ducked into several local pubs advertising local ales and cask-brewed this or that, but despite the adverts and charming surroundings, all seemed to offer the same, boring industrial suds you can find on this side of the pond (Guinness, Harp, Boddington’s and the like). Whassup with that?

We’re long past our beer drinking days, so it didn’t phase us, but a word of warning: If you’re a serious about your brews, choose your pub wisely, because despite their outward charms, many of them have become more standardized than Taco Bell. Where you can’t go wrong, as long as you have the coin, is a cocktail at the Connaught . Swanky doesn’t begin to describe the joint, but if you don’t mind paying $40 for a drink, you get a pre-cocktail with your libation of choice, and the joy of sipping in a whole new tax bracket.

Image(Duck! And order another manzanilla!)

But our favorite tipple of all was at the oldest wine bar in London  — Gordon’s Wine Bar — which has been pouring out amontillados and vintage ports since 1890. The subterranean space is a treat, and the list of fortified wines is something to behold. You can’t give away sherry and port in America, but here there were oenophiles of all ages sidling up to the bar, and ordering  beakers of old wood tawny like Winston Churchill on a bender.

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I guess that’s the thing about a country this old and this steeped in tradition; it doesn’t have to keep re-inventing itself. People appreciate, even luxuriate, in their history without a need to jump to the next big thing to satisfy their short attention spans and lust for the next selfie wall. Everyplace we visited was sedate and welcoming. Best of all, none of them felt like they were trying too hard — a refreshing respite from the relentless boosterism which surrounds us at home. Dining around London town fit us like a cashmere cardigan, and was the perfect antidote for the modern American restaurant.

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Downtown Dining is Now a Destination

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Downtown has become a gastronomic destination in its own right.

Five years ago I would’ve called you crazy if you uttered those words. But things have been booming, as drinking and dining options continue to expand, and everything from wine bars to wood-fired pizzas are on the horizon.

Main Street (aka the 18b Arts District) and East Fremont Street are the epicenters of this epicurean revolution, and though bleak some surroundings may be, once you duck inside any of these eateries, you will find delightful meals, and hand-tooled food aplenty.

I eat out in downtown Las Vegas more than anyone. Ever. (No brag just fact.) Morning, noon and night I patrol these concrete canyons scouting the best places to sooth my savage hunger, and seeking to send you serenely to the most satisfying sustenance. Here’s where you should be supping and slurping right now, but be advised, more superior comestibles are soon to surface.

Image(Holy Ensendada, Batman! We’re in Baja!)

Bajamar Seafood & Tacos

Good Mexican food used to be harder to find downtown than a slot junkie with good credit. These straight-from-Baja tacos (above) immediately changed that. Ignore the surroundings and dive in.

Casa Don Juan

An old reliable with a large menu and a huge following. The tortillas and the carnitas and the great service keep us coming back.

Carson Kitchen

CK started the downtown dining revolution five years ago and is still going strong. Those veal meatballs, oxtail risotto, and glazed donut bread pudding never get old.

DE Thai Kitchen

Forget the regular menu and order off the (not so) secret menu on the chalk board. If there’s a better Kua Gling (spicy ground pork) or soft shell crabs in town, I haven’t found them.

18bin

Brand spanking new, still finding its sea legs, but early experiences with its limited menu have been positive.

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Esther’s Kitchen

I eat here so often they ought to name a booth after me.

EAT

Wonderful breakfast and lunch; to-die-for flapjacks; heavenly hash.

Evel Pie

Downtown is blessed with four good pizza joints, and it all started with Evel Pie. As good as it is, I prefer the dense, chewy slices at….

Image(One of each please)

Good Pie

Nothing more than a counter, some deck ovens, and an assortment of the best slices in Vegas (above). Soon to open a full-service pizza restaurant in the Arts District, much to the rejoicing of pizza mavens everywhere. The pepperoni slice (above) absolutely slays the competition.

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Hatsumi

Robotayaki on East Fremont? Yep, and it’s great. Fine sake list, too.

Jammyland

The drinks here are so good they make me wish I was an alcoholic. A booze-absorbing menu of (mostly) Jamaican food is just the thing after a few of them.

La Monja (The Nun)

This is one fun nun. An indoor-outdoor vibe (at the top of the page) that threatens to do for East Fremont Street what Esther’s did for the Arts District: bring a modern twist to a hoary formula. In this case, by giving ceviches, taquitos, and fish tacos the upgrade they deserve. Everything is under twenty bucks, and the patio has “destination drinking” written all over it.

Ocha Thai

A family-run oasis of good Thai cooking for decades.

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Old Soul

The odds are against Old Soul, but Natalie Young’s food — like the meatloaf above — is so good we don’t care. Take the time to find it and you’ll fall in love.

Oscar’s Steakhouse

Oscar Goodman is an iconic figure in Las Vegas. His steakhouse doesn’t quite match his out-sized reputation, but new chef Ben Jenkins is on a mission to change that.

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PublicUs

We constantly debate the relative merits of PublicUs v. Vesta like a man who can’t decide between his wife and his mistress. We resolve this argument by alternating between them… just like we did in 1999.

7th and Carson

Elevated pub grub (below) at a location we can never quite remember.  ;-)

Image(Once in a blue moon, we eat healthy)

The Kitchen at Atomic

Jackson Stamper’s food might be too hip for the room, but it suits us just fine. One of the best steaks (and rum-brined pork chops) in town, too.

Image(Blimey, mate; takes me straight back to the Cliffs of Dover, it does.)

The Smashed Pig

Ignore the Fremont Street fanny-packers and duck in for a black & tan and the fish and chips (above).

VegeNation

If you insist, there’s a vegan restaurant downtown – the best vegan restaurant in town, in fact. In fact, we have actually eaten here more than once and sorta enjoyed it (hangs head in shame).

Vesta Coffee Roasters

See comment to PublicUs above. And please don’t mention anything to our current wife.

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The Goodwich

We have dreams about the Rueben-ish (above) and the Patty. How good do sandwiches have to be for you to dream about them?

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Pop Up Pizza

The only thing wrong with Pop Up Pizza is its customers. Most of them take a gander at these superior pies and wonder where the Domino’s is. The stromboli (above) is so good it ought to be illegal.

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Santos Guisados Tacos & Beer

These guisados (braised meat) tacos are in a class by themselves. Good beers and a full bar in a postage stamp place about the size of studio apartment (above).

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As tasty as things have gotten downtown, it bears mentioning that this entire renaissance has occurred because restaurant owners, chefs and developers finally decided to ignore Fremont Street altogether.

Those of us of a certain age remember all the teeth-gnashing in the 90s and early aughts about how to “revive” Fremont Street….as if that collection of sad, shitty hotels and their slacker/slob customers were the key to downtown’s revival. They weren’t and aren’t. Leave them to their lame-ass beers and souvenirs.

No one under that atrocious canopy gives a crap about spending money. All they want is Vegas on the cheap. Gawking at those stupid light shows and naked street performers is the Las Vegas they deserve.

The good stuff is for the rest of us. All you have to do is walk a few blocks east, or a half a mile south to taste it.

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A Tale of Two Italians

That place is so crowded no one goes there anymore. Yogi Berra

Good restaurants are multiplying around here faster than a Catholic rabbit.

So what did I do last week?

Endured two meals that were long on calories and short on satisfaction — a cardinal sin for an experienced, conscientious carnivore catered to constantly by crave-able concupiscent comestibles.

I can make excuses for one of them (and will do so below), but the other disappointed in so may predictable ways I should’ve had my head examined for going there.

Let’s save the worst for first, shall we?

I’ve been a huge Nora’s Cuisine fan since it opened in 1992. Back then, its pizzas and pastas (like pasta con le sarde) were revolutionary for their time.

Back in the day, the whole joint was about as wide as a pizza box, had maybe six tables, and made most of its money on take-out pies. It was a tiny local treasure, known to the pasta cognoscenti as an island of authenticity amidst a sea of red sauce.

In 2004, Nora’s (named after matriarch Nora Mauro) decided to go big time. It blew out walls on both sides of the skinny pizzeria, installed a cocktail bar, upgraded its kitchen, hired a bevy of waiters, and proceeded to rake in mountains of cash. (Fun fact: Nora’s bar was the first local, off-Strip restaurant to sport a serious mixology program. When every bar in town was still pouring cosmopolitans, Nora’s was doing magical things with obscure Italian vermouths, oddball bitters and craft spirits. The drinks here are still money, with the Lemon Drop and Sicilian Mule being justifiably famous.)

The pizzas were still good after the expansion, but the food became more pitched to the endless breadsticks crowd. The something-for-everyone menu eschewed small-bore quality for dazzle factor, and subtlety on your plate became harder to find than an ectomorph at a fat farm. Some time around a decade ago, I wrote it off, not because it was terrible, but because it was too much — too much starch, too much garlic, and too much tomato.

(Four pounds of fruitti di mare, or so it seemed)

So why did I go back? Especially when the excellent Pizzeria Monzú (owned by the same family) is only a block away?

Good question….and one The Food Gal® asked me continually on the ride home after we dropped $150 on two apps, two dinners, and two glasses of wine.

As I patiently mansplained to her, I went mainly to see what all the shouting is about. The shouting in this case coming from Nora’s new digs (2016) in a free-standing building only a few hundred feet from their old location. (The old location now houses the aforementioned Monzú.)

That shouting, you see, is because, the new new Nora’s is always full. Day and night, it is overflowing — with people, cars, and presumably, red sauce. Regardless of the time, there’s never a parking space to be found.  It’s so full the side streets are lined with its customers’ cars (and it has a capacious parking lot). Nora’s is so busy your average Indian restaurant could exist for a month on the patrons it turns away every day.

How do I know this? Because my in-laws live close by, and we drive by it. All. The. Time.

So I was curious, and took my wife along to take the plunge with me. What we found inside were three not-unattractive large rooms facing an open kitchen, with a long, comfortable bar taking up space in one of them (much as it did in the old place). As with the old Nora’s, there’s a winning wine list, excellent service, well-crafted cocktails, and serious digestivos — everything giving off a serious foodie vibe…except the food.

(Fuggidabadit)

As for that food, well, let’s just say it hasn’t gotten any better since they started serving it in a McMansion.

But I’m not blaming the owners, the managers, or the chef(s). The food has gotten worse because Nora’s has become a victim of its own success. Nora’s is too big. This new restaurant is double the size of the old one, which was triple the size of the original one. And no matter how big they get, they’re always full. And being always full, they’ve now become too successful.

Some businesses are too big to fail; Nora’s is too big to be any good.

With those physical expansions has come a menu that looks like it’s locked in a bad recipe arms race with Piero’s for who can offer the most over-the-top Eye-talian dishes to its undiscriminating diners.

“Over 70+ classic Italian dishes,” the menu boasts, and, true to its word, it offers everything from fried calamari to chicken parm to  “Crazy Alfredo” for the hungry hordes. Wings? Pork bellies? Salmon? Spinach and Farro salad? We got ’em. Just add veal for $8 more!

To put things in perspective: if you’re serving 30 different pasta dishes, dozens of pizzas (with 25 different toppings!), 20 proteins, and everything from arrabiata to mozzarella sticks, quality control is going to take a back seat to plate slinging and turning those tables.

(They had me at lemon clams)

I think the chefs here deserve combat pay more than criticism, so we’ll leave you with these final words about the new new Nora’s (which really isn’t that new anymore): the garlic bread is good, the lemon clams were great, and two pounds of pasta underneath the fruitti di mare isn’t fooling anyone.

Serviceable osso buco bedecks a small mountain of mashed potatoes (that starch thing again), but the Josper-grilled veggies (pictured) were a waste of time and ten bucks.

But one can hardly fault the kitchen for not finely-tuning some grilled endive, when 300 growling stomachs are out there demanding their creamed fettuccine with chicken, sausage and shrimp.

So, as with Piero’s, we will leave Nora’s to those who love it, and resolve to eat Italian elsewhere the next time the curiosity bug bites.

At the other end of the spectrum, in terms of vibe, clients and ambition, is La Strega. Located due west and some miles from Nora’s, it aims to be new school Italian, bringing chef-driven food to those who know their polpette from their soppressata.

That chef is Gina Marinelli, and she’s a Strip veteran who knows her way around a pesto. Open barely two weeks, Marinelli is still working out the kinks, but even after a quick glance (or, in our case, a quick meal) you’ll find a lot to like about the place.

To begin with, there’s the build-out. The owners (the Fine family of local real estate fame) have taken the old Due Forni space and blown it out in all the best ways. The kitchen is now open, the bar is in the middle of the room (sounds weird, but it works), and the feel is one of a casual, food-focused room.

The space compliments the food, and the wine list compliments everything. (As we’ve mentioned here and on social media, the wine selections in off-Strip restaurants have improved 1000% over the past few years, and wine director Stephanie Torres’ list is the latest example.)

(Looked great, which is all it brought to the party)

Service was razor-sharp on a full-night not 10 days after the opening, and it was remarkable how poised everyone seemed under such pressure-packed circumstances. There are bones I could pick with some of the menu (the meatballs need to be bigger and cooked better; the frutti di mare (above) was all hat and no cattle; and the sardines need to be 86’d), but the signifiers are all there that this could be a major player on our restaurant scene — even though half the things we sampled missed their mark.

So, we’ll chalk up La Strega’s menu missteps to its infancy and give it another chance. As for Nora’s, I’ll meet you there anytime for a cocktail, as long as we can stroll over to Monzú to eat.

NORA’S ITALIAN CUISINE

5780 West Flamingo Road

Las Vegas, NV 89103

702.873.8990

http://www.norascuisine.com/www/

LA STREGA

3555 Town Center Drive Suite 105

Las Vegas, NV 89135

702.722.2099