‘Tis the season to be jolly, isn’t it? The time of year for rejoicing and celebrating; for toasting the year’s ending with reminiscences, good cheer, and hale and hearty fellowship. Am I right?
Nope, not this year. Not by a long shot. Why? Because lovers of good food downtown are in mourning. Because Bradley Manchester’s Glutton closed its doors for good last night, after just twenty months of operation. Because the number of good places to eat in downtown Las Vegas just got cut in half. Six days before Christmas.
That means Manchester and his small crew of chefs and bartenders and waiters are out of work, less than a week from what is supposed to be the happiest day of the year. The day of the year when gifts are bestowed and glasses are raised in celebration of the year’s past, and in hopes of a prosperous new one.
Not for Glutton, and not for downtown. Because the closing of Glutton portends dire days ahead for the downtown dining scene. Soon enough, a chain restaurant called Eureka! (exclamation point essential) will open in the space once occupied by The Beat coffee shop, and the marketing muscle it will bring to the scene will no doubt further endanger the survival of the small, locally-owned stores like Carson Kitchen, The Smashed Pig, Bõchõ, and La Comida — places that, like Glutton, had foodies all atwitter just a couple of years ago.
Truth be told, we were never fond of the name, or the logo of Glutton. The name sent all the wrong messages, and the logo looked like some cheap eatery you’d find in a food court. But from our very first bites back on April 10, 2015, we were taken by the place. Manchester’s concept was everything people say they want in a restaurant: intimate, local, chef-driven, and delicious. The size was right, the corner location attractive, and the open kitchen/bar/dining room just the sort of Millennial-friendly space that the post-recession zeitgeist seemed to call for. He also had a solid mixology program as well as what might have been the best burger in town.
Alas, it was not enough. “I strongly stand behind the product we offered. Unfortunately, we just couldn’t get enough consistent business through the doors,” is how Bradley put it when I asked him what went wrong. Sometimes, though, quality isn’t enough. To succeed in the restaurant business, you’ve got to capture people’s imagination, and perhaps that’s where Glutton fell short.
Or perhaps downtown Las Vegas is about to get the (boring, derivative, franchise) restaurants it deserves.
I hate iced tea. I hate iced tea because iced tea is nothing. It is not tea and it is not water. All iced tea is is a murky brown liquid that has only the vaguest resemblance to its name.
Iced tea looks and tastes like a polluted, stagnant swimming pool. Iced tea is what you order when you want to pretend to be drinking something, when actually you are drinking nothing but rusty, mouth-drying H2O.
You know who loves iced tea? Americans. Americans order it because it makes them feel like they’re ordering something special to drink, when in reality, they are ordering nothing but perfectly good water that’s been spoiled by a weak bag of gawdawful, cheap tea.
Tea is, and always has been, a warm drink. A drink whose flavor derives from the steeping of leaves (fresh, dried or fermented) in hot water — the better to release the essences, aromas, antioxidants and tannin from the leaves. I hate hot tea too, but when it’s made properly, i.e., carefully and warm, at least it tastes like what it is….and what it’s supposed to be.
Arnold Palmer obviously recognized the loathsome qualities of iced tea when he had the good sense to add some lemonade to his way back in the Sixties. But to my mind, he only made things worse. Because once the most popular athlete on the planet decided to do christen a drink (especially at the dawn of the television advertising age), everybody wanted to get on board. As a result, from about 1964 forward, every single, goddamned country club, golf course, watering hole, backwater diner, luncheonette and shithole restaurant in the goddamned country has been making gallons of iced friggin’ tea to slake the thirst of slackjawed customers who would be better off with a glass of f*cking water.
Yep, Arnie sure figured out how to make the worst cold drink on the planet palatable, but he also ended up ruining a perfectly good glass of lemonade in the process.
I can forgive Arnie this transgression because I, like so many others, loved Arnold Palmer, the man. By all accounts he was the genuine article. A kind, warm, friendly fellow who never let his fame go to his head. There are probably a million people out there who have a story about Palmer shaking their hand, looking into their eyes, and treating them, if only for a moment or two, like the most important person he had ever met.
I forgave Arnie a long time ago for his sins. For never winning the PGA, for blowing a seven stroke lead on Billy Casper in the U.S. Open and for not beating Jack Nicklaus more than he did. He let me and my dad down more than once as we stared into a grainy TV picture and tried to cheer him on to one of his famous “charges” on the back nine of a tournament. But somehow, in losing, he became even more beloved, even more noble. Palmer fans felt the heartbreak with every missed fairway or putt. His expressive face and emotions-on-his-sleeve demeanor pulled us into his world — unlike the cold, calculating Nicklaus who exuded all the warmth of a two-iron.
They say they don’t make ’em like that anymore and they don’t. When news of his death reached the PGA Tour late yesterday, the tributes and accolades came pouring in. But one of the most telling came from Rory McIlroy (from all accounts, a decent chap in his own right): “If it weren’t for Arnie, we wouldn’t have all the success we have (on the tour), and we wouldn’t be playing for the obscene amounts of money we do today.”
So true, and so true that athletes today (in all sports) can make a name for themselves and immediately rope themselves off from reality and their fans. Arnold Palmer never roped himself off from anyone. For over half a century (and most of my life), he was one of the most famous people in the world, but he never acted like it.
I saw him in person only once, at the Citrus Open golf tournament in Orlando, Florida, back in 1967. He walked right past me on his way to the first tee, surrounded by fans and officials. (You could actually walk along with the players then, unlike today.) I remember thinking he was smaller than I thought he would be. In my teenage brain, I guess I expected him to be a foot taller than me. But there he was, smiling at everyone, and shaking hand after hand with those big, bricklayer paws of his. A gentleman in a gentleman’s sport who didn’t know how to be any other way.
“My father taught me that just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be nice,” he liked to say, and boy did he ever take the lesson to heart.
The world seems like a lesser place when someone like Arnold Palmer dies. No other athlete ever has had, or ever will have, the uplifting and transcendent impact on his/her sport that Arnold Palmer did. He got me into golf (the only sport I’ve ever been good at), and by doing so, he gave me a bond with my father that lasted a lifetime. Most of all, though, he showed me (and the world) how to be great at something and do it with grace and style and humility.
RIP Arnie. I don’t hit the links much anymore, but the next time I do, I may even have an “Arnold Palmer” in your memory. But please forgive me if I opt for a Rolling Rock (which used to be made in your hometown) instead.
Ed. note: After eighteen years at the Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino, the last Andre’s will close its doors in early October — management having made the decision to close before the lease is up to make room for a gigantic Eataly to span the Strip side of the hotel. The good news is that Andre’s will soon resurface in a new location in the southwest part of town (in the space of a well-regarded local joint that has already relocated downtown), and that negotiations are underway to bring a casual bistro back downtown, only a stone’s throw from the original Andre’s location on Sixth Street. Below, I share some thoughts on my long and tortured relationship with the chef-owner of this culinary pioneer.
When I got the news last night that Andre’s would be serving its last Dover sole on October 5, it suddenly dawned on me that Andre Rochat and I have had a decades long, movie-of-the-week relationship straight out of a bad rom-com.
You know the kind: where a couple who each has been starved for affection meet cute, have a torrid affair, drift apart for years, miss each other terribly but won’t admit it, rediscover the flame, re-connect for what looks to be a long, steady relationship right up until they both disappoint then infuriate each other causing both to swear undying loathsome contempt for the other until one is found to have a disease that brings them back together even thought willful pride won’t let either one admit they made a mistake and even though everyone is rooting for them to get back together and it’s only when one of them is leaving for good that both realize what they’ve been missing all along.