Raku has only been open two months, but it is probably the single most exciting off-Strip restaurant to open in the past two years. And in terms of finely-tuned food, nothing off the Strip can match it.

Chef/owner Mitsuo Endo hails from Megu in New York (the restaurant where we first experienced edamame beans served with the pod still attached to its tree), along with other Japanese delicacies that added up to one of the most expensive meals of our lifetime - around $600 for two if memory serves).

Here you’ll find the tariff much more reasonable. The menu is simplicity itself, and your meal as small or large as you want to make it. We didn’t try the meat guts or Bonito guts pickled in salt, but the Tsukune (grilled ground chicken on a skewer), butter sauteed scallop, bite-size foie gras bowl, pork ear, corn stuffed with potato, whole (headless) Hokke fish (a Japanese mackeral), skewered tomatoes, and meltingly tender kobe beef skewers were so good that most of us were speechless. These are only about half of the plates we tried - but from the portabella (with ground chicken) to the pork cheek - every dish was flawless.

Equally compelling are soy sauces and tofu made in-house, and a wine/sake/sochu list that’s small, well-priced, and perfectly matched to the menu. Some say the Japanese put a finer point on their cuisine than anyone (even the French), and a tour around this menu, with its small plates perfection, will give you an idea what they’re talking about.

RAKU

5030 W. Spring Mountain Rd. #2

Las Vegas, NV 89146

702.367.3511 (although this number seems to be on FAX mode until late afternoon)

Open for dinner only, 6pm-3am, every night except Sunday

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Witness the recent mass hysteria brought on by the government warnings about salmonella in tomatoes. Turns out, blaming tomatoes was a bad idea. In fact, most of the stuff you heard a few weeks ago was not supported by any hard evidence - just conjecture and supposition - which didn’t stop the destruction of millions of dollars of tomatoes, because a few people (maybe/supposedly) ate some (actual/really) crappy food at some (possibly) bad restaurants (mostly in Texas.)

The point is, because 922 people got sick from something (nobody knows exactly what), that may or may not be related to salsa, tens of millions of people, thousands of businesses and hundreds of farmers have to suffer…..

Read the tale of government and journalistic panic-button-pushing here in the Wall Street Journal.

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* e.g. Watergate, Vietnam War, Cambodia, Richard Nixon, J. Edgar Hoover, The Chicago 7, Oliver North, CIA, Henry Kissinger, Three Mile Island, Weapons of Mass Destruction, et al…

** See: IN DEFENSE of FOOD, Michael Pollan, (Penguin Press 2008)

Dal Toro Ristorante, the newest offering in the Palazzo, sports “Sexy sports cars and traditional Italian food” and enough high-toned design on each of its three levels to keep Dolce and Gabbana happy. And if 245k (for the aforementioned Lamborghini Gallardo) just isn’t enough carbon footprint for you, there’s a $1,800,000 Bugatti on the premises - for Discover Card holders just itching to spend that government stimulus check.

A level above those sports cars is a mega-cool bar, and some comfortable outdoor seating, and some highly serviceable northern Italian food. The pizzas are reliably thin-crusted and made with good ingredients, and the scampi alla Paprika has some real kick to it. Best of all, the lasagna della Nonna is the real deal; al dente sheets of pasta covering a melange of sausage, ragu, hard boiled eggs, proscuitto cotto, mozzarella and pecorino cheese. The menu says the recipe comes from Chef Fiorenzo Trunzo’s grandmother (”nonna”) and we believe it.

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*The management doesn’t advertise these things (for fear of creating a panic), but if you pay cash for the car, the linguine’s free!

DAL TORO RISTORANTE and Lamborghini Store

In the Palazzo

3325 Las Vegas Blvd. South #200

Las Vegas, NV 89109

702.437.9800

Ladies of course, are also guilty of dressing like they’ve never seen a mirror, and, even when they’re lookin’ might fine, of letting boyfriends and husbands look like slobs when they go out to eat.

Regardless of attire, though, there are certain rules all of us should follow always. Therefore, a gentlemen should always:

-Make reservations;

-Go to the restroom before sitting down;

-Salt and pepper his food after tasting it….and in a truly fine restaurant - not at all.

-Arrive early when meeting a lady;

-Stand when a woman (other than a waitress) approaches;

-Know what he wants to eat within 3 minutes of receiving the menu - because nothing pegs you as a hopeless, metro-sexual weenie faster than ordering envy and menu indecisiveness;*

-Order after his guests do, and;

-Take up issues with food or service discreetly, and away from the table.

As for things a gentlemen should never do, the list is endless. But for starters, a gentlemen never:

-Drinks too much;

-Snaps his fingers or waves a breadstick to get a waitron’s attention;

-Asks a chef to alter his cooking;

-Wears shorts in public - except at the beach or golf course, and finally;

-A gentlemen never, ever criticizes the food, wine, or service to his dining companions. If you’re the host take up issues out of earshot of the table as noted above. If you’re a guest, keep quiet unless asked by your host. If you’re splitting the tab, talk about it away from the table.

If you ladies think you’re getting off with only those few words above - you were sorely mistaken. So pay attention, because a lady should always:

-Be interested in eating, if she agrees to go out to dinner;

-Keep her food allergies to herself;

-Treat the staff with respect, not as servants;

-Make a sincere effort to pick up the check, or at least the tip, on the second date;

-Be willing to try new wines, if she drinks wine;

-Eat only with vegans, if she’s a vegan;

-Know the difference between sexy and sexual. Sexy is a little black dress….but not too little. Sexual is butt-crack jeans and bodacious ta-ta’s. Sexual has no place in any restaurant….No matter how hot you think you are.

And finally, a few don’ts. A lady never:

-Takes more than 5 minutes to decide what to order;

-Pretends she’s not hungry;

-Orders spaghetti and meatballs in a French bistro;

-Gives her number to a bartender in the middle of a date; or,

-Pounds four Glennfidich 30 year old Scotches at the bar ($120) before passing out at the table after 3 bites of a seven course tasting menu ($110) at Le Cirque, after which she has to be propped up as she stumbles through the dining room while mumbling about how great the margaritas were that afternoon that she had by the Bellagio pool with her high roller(?) boyfriend who stuck me with the check.**

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* This rule does not apply to middle-aged restaurant critics suffering from a surfeit of testosterone.

** Bitter? Not me.

For now, I thought I’d give you a taste of the effort and stress and work that yours truly goes through to keep up his street cred as the world’s greatest restaurant critic.*

My New York summer day began late with lunch at La Goulue (746 Madison Ave., 212.988.8169). We were feeling fashionable - decked out as we were in a fetching ensemble of faded Chuck Taylor’s, RL jeans, and a Brooks Brothers seersucker jacket - so we ducked into the most fashionable restaurant we know on the Upper East Side. There we tucked into a superb steak tartare with equally good frites and a demi-bouteille of Gilbert Picque Ses et Filles Chablis.

All seemed right with the world as we strolled down Fifth Avenue (working up a sweat in the process in the 88% humidity and 85 degree heat), and found an outside table at Brasserie Ruhlmann (45 Rockefeller Center, 212.974.2020, www.brasserieruhlman.com) for yet another glass of Premier Cru Chablis (Robert Vocoret ‘06) before heading to a business appointment. This being New York, showing up for a meeting with a decent Bourgogne blanc on your breath is quite acceptable.**

La Goulue and Brasserie Ruhlmann provide some of the best people watching in the city, along with a smattering of celebrities and recognizable faces to intrigue all but the most jaded tourist. Was that Glenn Close in the corner? Beckoning to me with the insouciance one only shows to a fellow celebrity? Possibly, but I had bigger fish to fry, so there was no time for canoodling with washed up actresses…

After some tedious-but-necessary-for-the-IRS business was dispensed with, it was off to the lower East Side for my third meal in as many years at wd-50 (50 Clinton St., 212.477.2900, www.wd-50.com). Now I’ve never met Wylie Dufrense. All I know about the guy is that I’m fascinated by his food. That doesn’t mean I always like it, but it does make me think.

Dufresne (pronounced Du-frane, as in Andy Dufresne, the protagonist in The Shawshank Redemption), first popped up on my radar screen as the first head chef at Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s Prime in the Bellagio - way back in 1998. For the past five+ years he’s been the chef/owner of this 50-seat place on Clinton Street - an area that law abiding citizens avoided like the plague as recently as 2002. Since then this former den of iniquity and illegal immigration (the neighborhood not the restaurant) has become a hipster haven. Of course, having Moby move into the neighborhood after “Play” went platinum in 2000 didn’t hurt - and now - thanks to Dufresne et al, the area has also become something of a foodie destination, and the perfect petri dish for him to engage in his flights of molecular food fantasy.

My meal here last night was the most elaborate of the three and the least satisfying. But there were still plenty of jaw-dropping (and jaw-closing/masticating) moments that provided pure bliss. The meal began with two clear losers: a snapper/cilantro/okra/chinese sausage amuse that tasted of none of those ingredients. It could’ve been put out by dozens of mediocre restaurants (and often is) throughout Las Vegas. Next came pizza “pebbles” that may be the worst idea in the (short) history of molecular gastronomy - tasting like tiny marbles of dried out, sandy, pepperoni-flavored pizza dough.

From there things improved considerably. Dufresne is justifiably famous for his Knot Foie - a thin ribbon of liver mousse sprinkled with tiny balls of kimchi and white raisin puree and even tinier balls of puffed rice - that tastes greater than the sum of its parts. Hamachi tartare with sticks of Asian pears also highlighted the pure clean flavors of yellowtail tuna and the crisp, apple-like pear. But the real winner was another Dufresne classic: the deceptively simple eggs benedict - a deconstructed assemblage of a squarely-shaped, barely cooked egg yolks, sitting beside deep-fried squares of hollandaise, against which lean “tuiles” of re-composed Canadian bacon. Slice or poke one of those squares and a small flood of perfect hollandaise sauce streams onto your plate. The whole thing looked as far from eggs Benedict as you could get, yet tasted just like it. Genius.

Perhaps genius is too strong an accolade, but Dufresnes’ food begs to be intellectualized, since that’s what he’s does in dreaming up this stuff; so we must give the molecular devil his due. Next came crabtail loosely encased in soybean, ravioli-like noodles, and sitting in a cinnamon-infused dashi that I could’ve sipped on all night, followed by another atrocity: chicken liver “spaetzle” sprinkled with pine needles (I tasted no pine) and cocoa nibs (to zero effect). It looked like something the cat leaves behind and had no smell or flavor whatsoever. All I could do is shake my head and wonder if Wylie and his kitchen crew ever actually taste their concoctions, or just play with their avant-garde gadgets with no regard for the customer.

The last savory course - thinly shaved beef tongue accented with a hoisin-like cherry-miso glaze - and four stunning desserts - saved the day. Words don’t do justice to Pastry Chef Alex Stupak’s yogurt with olive oil jam with yet another olive oil tuile - a thin, yellow white tube of congealed oil that tasted much better than that sounds; jasmine custard dusted with black tea powder and banana sorbet; a small log of toasted coconut cake sharing a plate with smoky, brown butter sorbet; and the innocent-sounding yuzu ice cream with marcona almond. The ice cream was sublime, and those almonds were encased in an edible chocolate pouch that was al dente to the bite and seemingly impervious to melting…until it hit the tongue. Stupak should be given a raise for (nightly) saving Dufresne’s symbolic bacon.

Ever since receiving a Michelin Star and three more from the New York Times*** this year, wd-50 has become as hip as its neighborhood. One wonders if such experimentation would find an audience even some fifty-odd blocks north in the Big Apple, but for the time being, his kitchen-kid-with-a-chemistry-set act is playing to a full house every night.

The day after my meal, I asked a well-known restaurant writer in New York what he thought of wd-50. His response was to compare Dufresne to Ferran Adria, the godfather of molecular gastronomy. “At El Bulli,” he said, “Adria constructs and de-constructs his wacky food out of a quest for personal actualization, scientific curiousity, and an abiding passion about the components of food and flavor. Compared to that, Dufresne just seems to be a guy playing in a kitchen.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

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* self-proclaimed

** Lesser wines and vintages have been known to raise eyebrows, however.

*** Whose critic, Frank Bruni, also found fault with the gritty, unappetizing pizza pebbles (top right picture below) - a criticism that Dufresne has heeded not one bit.****

**** Of course, when you’re getting fawning articles written about you like the one Tom Junod wrote for Esquire three years ago, who needs critics?

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Click below to see the man, the gourmand, the myth….and a guy who talks too much with his hands….(with his second favorite food gal-Denise Valdez.)

Now he’s two days from opening a 200 seat hamburger restaurant right off the Mirage Casino-in the space formerly home to the famed white tigers of Siegfried and Roy fame - one of whom once tried to make its own burger out of Roy’s face. We’re guessing the cuisine will be a bit less refined than Tourondel’s peekytoe crab soup en gelee (Yup…Nuthin’ gets past EATingLV.com!), but from our sneak peek and taste test of yesterday, the burgers will take you straight back to the classic California Googie diner burgers of the 1950’s, albeit with substantially better beef.

Here’s a preview of the space, and a good look at what goes on in the final hours before the launch of an $8,000,000 burger joint!

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The good news is that, while I’m away, I’ll be bestowing the munificence of mind and spirit that you have come to take for granted on the rest of the world, as I assume my rightful throne (for one episode at least), on the judges stand of Iron Chef America-beginning its seventh season this fall (air dates TBA).

As popular as ICA is, I must confess I remain true to the Japanese original-a show that reveled in badly- dubbed wackiness and its breathless emulsification of haute cusine into high camp.

For a blast from the past, click here to listen to my original “review” of the original Japanese Iron Chef for Nevada Public Radio.* Number Two Son of Food Man (Hugh Alexander Curtas D.O.B. 10-15-84) and the culturally babe-i-licious Ginger Bruner (D.O.B. unknown) supplied the other voices.

*Important historical footnote: Our spoof of the show aired on January 4, 2001, nine days before Saturday Night Live ran a similar (and far inferior) skit….although the mini shark’s head pizzas whipped up by Charlie Sheen looked mighty tasty.

Special added bonus: My commentary also defines the difference between an epicure, a gourmet, a gastronome, a gourmand and a glutton. Who says restaurant reviews cain’t bee edjeecaetional?

Click here to hear my review of DJT on Nevada Public Radio.

Click here for some dire news for banana fans.