The List – Where We’re Eating and Why

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(If people could read my mind…I’d get punched in the face a lot)

It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Seven months to be precise. Lots of travel (Scotland, Rome, London, Venice, Milan, Vancouver, Nantucket, Connecticut – just to name a few stops) since last we posted something, but we haven’t been idle, even if we don’t eat, report, and repeat like we did in the halcyon years of 2008-2020. These days (when we’re in town), we mainly put our energies into podcasting — gab-festing every week about where we’ve eaten on Eat. Talk. Repeat. (Which, from our completely objective perspective, is the liveliest restaurant podcast around.)

As any writer will tell you: talking is tons more fun than writing, and why everyone from Kato Kaelin to D-list actresses have one. Or maybe it’s because listening is easier than reading(?).

Regardless, we’ve always found podcasts (even ours) to be a poor vehicle for imparting accessible information in condensed form. Such as a list of what we consider the best/most important restaurants of 2025. So here goes, roughly in order of their newness, excellence, level of cooking, and importance to the Vegas food scene.

Unlike past years, we no longer scurry to and fro, trying to eat/try every worthy restaurant in Las Vegas. These days we pick our spots, so consider this more highly personal than comprehensive. Some places we adore (Guy Savoy, Ferraro’s, Main Street Provisions, et al) are still wonderful, we just haven’t been in a while. What you’ll get here is places I’ve been to recently (i.e., the last seven months) and to which I intend to return. All are worth your time and money if you seek the best Vegas has to offer.

And, as usual, if you’re looking for washed up celebrity chef retreads, forced fun (Hello, supper clubs!), or some place you “heard was good” from some bizarre “influencer ” who speaks like an annoying four-year old, you’ve come to the wrong place.

(As always, all places come highly recommended unless otherwise noted.)

THE LIST – 2025

 

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1. TAMBA – Calvin Trillin once wrote that the average Italian restaurant gets more customers in a night than most Indian joints see in a month. Four decades on, not much has improved. Indian food – one of the world’s great cuisines –  was, for years, so underrepresented in America as to be almost invisible. Urban areas had their tandoori parlors and AYCE buffets, but that was about it. But the tide may be turning. Indian food, the refined, intricate, delicate cuisine of the sub-continent, might be having a moment, here and elsewhere, and Tamba is showing why.

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Tamba has as much in common with your standard, cookie cutter curry shop as a Bentley does with a Dodge Dart. This is apparent from the second you step inside. Instead of nonstop Bollywood videos, what confronts you is an elegant, subdued restaurant replete with overstuffed chairs, refined flatware and an eye-popping bar that would be right at home in the Bellagio.

From there Chef Anand Singh flies you around the sub-continent (and even into China), dabbling in everything from upscale tuna sushi with smoked sea salt to artichoke sashimi to marinated goat biryani. Spicings are precise, presentations polished, and the multi-layered flavorings a revelation. (A one-curry-fits-all stop this is not.) You can go conventional (intriguing Samosa Chaat, soothing butter chicken) or unique (grilled Afghani saffron paneer, banana leaf-wrapped sea bass, Josper-grilled octopus with purple cauliflower), and be assured that whatever hits your table will probably be like nothing Vegas has ever tasted.

Modern Indian like this has been the rage in England for twenty years. Vegas may be late to the party, but with Tamba and  the arrival of  Gymkanha to the Aria later this year,  the festivities promise to continue for even longer than an Indian wedding.

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2. BAR BOHEME – There were two important restaurant openings this year, and BB was the other one. Fine French and local Las Vegas have generally been as compatible as slot machines and opera, and breaths are being held as to whether James Trees’ ode to haute bourgeois cooking signals a pivot to more serious gastronomy,  or whether we are  forever consigned to the steakhouse/Italian circle of hell.  The Strip is no longer driving the culinary conversation; places like Bar Boheme (and its sister restaurant Ada’s) have taken the reigns….and where they take us is anyone’s guess.

Image(Cheesus Christ that’s good soup!)

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3. STUBBORN SEED  – is the kind of place where the chef (Jeremy Ford) makes a splash out of town (in this case, Miami), wins a TV cooking competition (Top Chef season 13), gets recruited by Vegas bigwigs to bring his concept to a giant hotel (Resorts World) in hopes of enhancing the cred (and pocketbooks) of the chef, the concept and the hotel. The food (like the room) is stylish and comfortable without being overthought or overwrought. This is high-wire, aggressive, veggie-focused cooking (but not strictly vegetarian), and Ford clearly has the chops for it.

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He freely mixes his food metaphors and clearly has a thing for intricacy, playing with odd combinations (and lots of leafy accents) that always seem to work.Thus will you find carrots charred with jerk seasonings and spiced yogurt (above) , and a whole cauliflower (also above) roasted with a cashew puree, then garnished with every herb in the garden.

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His proteins don’t miss any beats either: a foie gras/truffle tart (above) reminiscent of a pb&j, brown butter branzino, and a slow-cooked smoked beef rib (priced-to-sell at $85) are better than anything you’ll find in most steakhouses. None of this is cheap, but compared to most Strip restaurants these days, it feels like a bargain for cooking this complex and compelling.  Definitely the most interesting Strip restaurant to open this year, and we are rooting for it to find an audience.

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4. PISCES – Perhaps I’m getting soft in my old age, but I found more to praise than bury in our two meals here. The setting will pop your eyeballs, the service about as efficient as a 300 seater can have, and the Greek-French-Spanish-Italian-something-for-everyone-mash-up menu is a fun read. What also pops are the prices — $120 Dover sole, $34 crudo, and a grab-your-ankles wine list that should be presented with a tube of K-Y.

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You are in the Wynncore, after all, where bargains are rarer than inconspicuous consumption, and the upscale crowd practically demands to be overcharged. Unsurprisingly, most of the Greek offerings (Horatiki salad, Gigante beans, the sea bream, aka Orata) is done better at Milos, and the paella ($155) is far more authentic (and cheaper) at Jaleo. But the fish is as fresh as it gets, this far from an ocean, and the desserts are in a class by themselves.

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5. CARAMÁ – Nowadays, no one likes to bag on the Strip more than yours truly, but the second best Italian food we had this year was at this Wolfgang Puck outpost in Mandalay Bay. It’s an all-purpose Italian, befitting the requirements of Big Hotel, but Puck’s troops have always been great technicians, and their proficiency with the whole spectrum of Italian gastronomy — from the top shelf salumi to squab (pictured above) to dolce to die for –is evident from the first bite. Are we going to drive to the ends of the Strip to eat here? Probably not. But the food is way better than it has to be for this hotel’s slack-jawed, lanyard crowd.

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6. JOËL ROBUCHCON – Without Joel Robuchon there would have been no Guy Savoy, Mario Batali, or Bradley Ogden. Without JR there would be no James Beard recognition, no José Andrés, Bobby Flay, and no Steve Wynn trying (for a time) to turn the Wynncore into a gourmet mecca. Wynn and Gamal Aziz may have started Las Vegas’s restaurant revolution in 1994-1999, but it was Robuchon, coming out of retirement to launch his international concepts (L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon and his namesake 3-etoile jewel box) IN LAS VEGAS(!), that made all the headlines, and brought the world’s food media to our door.

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No one, except influencers looking for a free meal, gets excited about Strip restaurant openings anymore. But Robuchon coming here was a very big deal, and now, twenty years on, its cooking, decor, and service still have the capacity to astonish. This is rarefied air dining, and the tariffs are steep, but a la carte selections ease the pain (and the calories), and for better haute cuisine (and mignardises like these), you’ll have to travel to Paris:

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7. ADA’S FOOD+WINE – Wine Goddess Kat Thomas and chef Jackson Stamper are doing something very special at AFW. If it were in any other city, the accolades and awards would flow like Franciacorta. In Vegas, it’s just another gem struggling to find and audience among people with more money than taste. Its escape from the  Tivoli Village ghost town (and to Arts District digs) can’t come soon enough.

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8. VETRI CUCINA – We love Vetri. even if it’s harder to get to than Henderson at rush hour. But it’s still the best Italian in town, and for that reason alone, it rates a wave.

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9. WINEAUX – has everything you’d ever want in a wine bar: comfy setting, good feng shui, lots of interesting bottles at all price points, thoughtful, handcrafted small plates to nibble on, attentive service. The only thing it needs is to be closer to my house.

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10. LE CLUB BY PARTAGE – IS closer to my house. And a jewel box filled with fine champagnes, and delicate French food to compliment them. The steak tartare (above) is straight from Paris, and the grilled oysters and mini-cheeseburger (topped with a nugget of foie gras) are worth a trip all by themselves.

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11. ANIMA BY EDO – We don’t go the ABE much because it’s both too far and far too annoying to travel to, no matter how good the Spanish-Italian mashup food (and wine) is. But no list of the best restaurants in Vegas is complete without it.

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Image(Ash Watkins and Gio, not exactly weeping in their wine)

12. MONZÙ – Gio Mauro (operatic by nature, in talent and temperament) literally performs a passion play nightly, straight out of “Big Night”. His clientele are the cognoscenti, who recognize his genius with pizzas, pastas, proteins, and wine. One block away is Nora’s, his family’s other restaurant, strictly for the red sauce, chicken parm, and pepperoni crowd. Guess which one has more customers than the bacon cheeseburger egg roll concession at the Iowa State Fair? It’s enough to make me weep into my Barolo.

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13. SPICY ZEST – wins our award for surprise of the year. Tucked into the side panel of a giant strip mall on south Rainbow/Warm Springs, nothing (from the location to the tells-you-nothing odd ball name) prepares you for what’s inside — which is some of the best Szechuan food in town. Sleek, spotless, and friendly, with food that will blow your head off (in a good way).  Everything from the hot and sour soup to the Szechuan boiled fish (above) comes to the table looking like someone in the kitchen really cares, and is not just going through the motions. A real find.

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14. THE PEPPER CLUB – Italian with a kick, rapidly morphing into a downtown power lunch spot. The spicy spaghetti (pictured above) is the truth, as are the stracciatella cheese app, and pork meatballs. If you insist, the (sooo cheugy) chicken parm get raves from the cringe crowd (see what we did there?), but we prefer the double-cut pork chop, and the carpaccio. Service can be well–meaning but spotty, but even at its slowest, it’s a great alternative when you can’t get into Esther’s, for either lunch or dinner. FYI: Despite what the sign says, Todd English hasn’t had anything to do with the place for years.

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15. RAKU – There’s a reason The Food Gal® (pictured above) and I go to Raku every year for her birthday. And the reason is it’s the best Japanese food in town.

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16. HIROYOSHI – doesn’t have the sushi chops of Kabuto, nor the izakaya game of Raku, but for a legitimate slice of Japan in the ‘burbs, it’s tough to beat. The $100 sashimi platter (below) is what everyone gets, for good reason. The house made appetizers, especially the steamed mushrooms, and tempura are not to be missed.

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Image(The Great Vincenzo, and some Luddite in a ball cap) 

17. CIPRIANI – Almost every Friday (when we’re in town) we’re here for lunch. And the reason is deliciously simple Italian food, the way it’s supposed to be.

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18. PUBLICUS – The Food Gal® is nuts about their coffee and their toasts (avocado and otherwise), so every Sunday morn, that’s where you’ll find us. Yearly winner of The Best Restaurant In The Worst Location In Town award.

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19. ESTHER’S KITCHEN – “No one goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” – Yogi Berra

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20. SOULBELLY BBQthe best ‘cue in Vegas. Don’t even think about arguing with me about this.

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21. WILD FIG BBQthe second best ‘cue in Vegas. But skip the sausage, it’s terrible. If you want to argue about the rest of the meats v. SoulBelly, we’ll at least allow the discussion.

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22. WINNIE & ETHEL’S – the ultimate breakfast and lunch diner is now open for dinner!

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Image(Chef Ivan has got the meats!)

23. DELMONICO – 26 years old and better than ever. The steaks (and Louisiana specialties) are superb. Service never misses a beat. And the cheeseburger in a league of its own. And by “league of its own” we mean it won out our 2025 Best Steakhouse Burger at Eat. Talk. Repeat. over some very rare and well-done competition. There might be a better double-smashed cheeseburger somewhere in Vegas, but from the beefiness to the bun, we haven’t tasted it. And we’ve tasted them all.

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24. CARVERSTEAK – In a crowded category, Carversteak gets our nod for the best all-around steakhouse. From its serious booze and wine programs, to the inventive apps (crab with caviar, above, would be right at home on an upscale tasting menu) and major league proteins, no beef emporium does as many things as well as this big hitter, tucked into a corner of Resorts World.

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25. PETER LUGER – Argue all you want about the dated menu (which we find charming), but no one ages their steaks better. Fight me.

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26. HARLO  – The next time some knucklehead starts telling you how great Barry’s, The Steakhouse or Golden Steer is, do what I do: tell ’em to “Go eat at Harlo and then we’ll talk.”

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27. MAE DALY’S – the anti-Golden Steer, with no Instagram-addicted crowds congratulating themselves because, “they heard it was good.” There, I said it. Also, parking is easy (and free!), but tip the valet just like the old days. Get the grilled oysters and a burger as appetizers (like we always do), and thank me later.

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28. RINCON DE BUENOS AIRES – In many ways, the anti-Vegas-steakhouse — informal, fun, friendly, and reasonable. Also very accommodating to the BYO crowd, even if their priced-to-sell Malbecs match perfectly with the meat. Ideal for a crowd of carnivores, looking for exotic ways to make their hearts beat faster.  You’d better like soccer though, and pity the fool who mistakes the poster of Diego Maradona for Pelé.

Maradona GIFs | Tenor

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29. YEN VIET KITCHEN – Not your typical pho parlor. Not even your typical Vietnamese. Tiny with zero social media presence, but a loyal following of Southeast Asian regs who know the good stuff…like Chinese sausage and pork on sticky rice (above).

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30. LAMAII – never disappoints and always has the most intriguing wines to match with its incendiary food. No one leaves without getting the crab fat fried rice (above). Our favorite Thai on Spring Mountain Road.

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31. MOIA – guaranteed to quench your Peruvian food jones even if it has the second worst location in town (after PublicUs). Get the ceviche or  tiraditos or Papa a la Huancaina (potatoes in yellow pepper cheese sause) and thank us later. Dive into the seafood only at your own risk, or only if you’re familiar with Peruvian food. As with every Peruvian restaurant we’ve ever tried, lots of things sound much better than they taste.

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32. LETTY’S TACOS – if you find a better quesobirria taco in town, let me know.

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33. CAFE BREIZH Kouign Amann (above). ‘Nuff said. Also, the best cappucino in town. And pastries. And baguettes.

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34. THE DAILY BREAD – a thumbnail breakfast/lunch joint with serious (in-house) baked goods (e.g. Las Vegas’s best foccacia, above). We don’t know how Scott Commings makes a living out of this crackerbox of a bakery/deli, but we’re glad he does.

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35. NOM PANG – Cambodian sandwiches (which taste a lot like Vietnamese sandwiches, stuffed as they are with greenery and bevy of unidentifiable lunch meats) have found a home on N. Rancho Dr. — in the least likely Southeast Asia sammie spot imaginable. The made-to-order soups and stews are a treat, too, even if occasionally you won’t know what you’re eating.

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36. XIANG WEI XUAN – There are two ways to approach Chinatown/Spring Mountain Road: spend thirty years traveling and trying everything up and down its 3 mile stretch (and get so good you can spot a corporate/franchise at 100 yards), OR have friends like Dave the Great who speaks Mandarin and can spot the real deal in Hunanese cooking from a mile out. We discovered XWX the first way, but have learned to love it even more when our friend translates the menu for us. As Gen Z would say: This place is frfr (“for real for real”), no cap.
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SPECIAL BOOZE-CENTRIC ADDENDUM:
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37. DOWNTOWN MIXOLOGY CRAWL
Jammyland
–  Esther’s Kitchen
– Main Street Provisions
– Echo Taste & Sound (pictured above)
– Bar Ginza
– Petit Boheme (top of the page)
– Liquid Diet
– Nocturno
– The Creamery
– The Doberman
– Stray Pirate
….plus a few we probably missed. The cocktail bars in DTLV have gotten so good, I almost wish I was an alcoholic.
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So, that’s the best of the best of where we’ve been dining (and drinking) this year, and why we love them so. For the other side of the coin, keep reading.
The Bottom 7
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Battista’s – Wine without alcohol, coffee-free cappuccino, veal Marsala in search of Marsala….Battista’s (“temporarily closed”) continues to be a big hit with a certain type of basic mouth breather who loves it that way.
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Casa Playa – 4 skimpy apps + 1 decent drink = $140. For mid Mexican. The prosecution rests.

Emmit’s – By-the-numbers food in an awkward setting aimed at sheeple drawn to past-their-prime celebrity brands like fentanyl  to Fremont Street. Sorry/not sorry, Mr. Washed-Up Athlete, the world is not dying for another mid-brand steakhouse, no matter how many fans you had in 1993.

Cafe Landwer – IHOP with a bad Israeli accent. And not cheap. You have been warned.

Lotus of Siam (Red Rock) – You sell your soul when you sell your brand to Big Hotel, a lesson the Chutima family has learned the hard way. If only there had been a food writer/lawyer with decades of experience in the restaurant/law/contract business to advise them not to do it…

Irv’s Burgers – People line up for what is, at best, the 43rd best cheeseburger in Vegas.

Jessie Rae’s BBQ – One of my fave sayings (forever) has been, “Barbecue is like sex: the worst I ever had was still pretty good.” At least it was until I dumped an entire platter of this slop in the garbage.

Soooo….that’s really it.

Have you not been influenced?

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Spanish Inquisition – Part One

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As a first-time tourist in any country, I’m usually an easy lay. Buy me a drink of good, indigenous hooch and I’ll lift my skirt. Seduce me with the tastiest local vittles and I’m yours for the asking. Show me your historical sites and I’ll show you my…er…uh…you get the idea.

With Spain though, I left my roll in the jamon not so much begging for more, but rather, wondering if what we ate was all it had to give. It did not sweep me off my feet as much as leave me feeling that our first date might be our last.

Which is another way of saying I liked Spain but didn’t love it. Not the way I’ve fallen numerous times for countries as diverse as Germany is from Mexico.

With Japan it was love at first sensory-overloaded sight. China captivated me with its gritty, cacophony, as did London with its starchy-sexy stiff upper lip. Hell, occasionally I even catch myself lusting for Canada, in all its bland, whitewashed politeness. And Jamaica still inspires bamboo levels of turgidity, even though I haven’t seen her coconuts since 1975.

But Spain was different, and maybe my expectations were to blame.

You see, I’ve been trying to get to España for thirty years and through three wives, but something has always derailed me: lack of funds (the 80s) or lack of time (the 90s), divorces (also the 90s), terrorist attacks, Great Recessions and Covid shutdowns have all conspired to thwart my plans. So when the stars finally aligned late last year, we were off on a trip I hoped would have me swooning more than a flamenco dancer in full vuelta quebrada.

Alas, twas not to be, and therein lies a tale as to why I wasn’t hoping for a return the moment I left — the way I always feel when boarding a flight home from Paris or Rome. Was it the cities themselves? Hardly, as they are fascinating and immaculate. The people? You can’t blame them, as Spaniards may not be Mexican- or Italian-friendly, but they’re darn close.

The wine? Well, it doesn’t come close to the polish of French or the varietals of Italy, but it’s a perfect fit with the food. And cheap! More on this below.

Nope, when all my ruminations were done, it came down to the food, which, for all its savor, failed to stir my soul.

Let’s take our Spanish gastronomic capitals one by one, and try to figure out why…

BARCELONA

Image(El Palatial)

We started in Barcelona, a city I’ve been enchanted by (from a distance) since 1994, after seeing the Whit Stillman movie of the same name.

(Actually, we landed in Madrid, grabbed and excellent eclair and coffee at LHardy, and then bombed around Mercado San Miguel for an hour or so before catching the very fast train to Barcelona the same day, arriving just in time to check into our palatial digs at Hotel El Palace (above) and freshen up for dinner on-premises at the Michelin-starred Amar.

The hotel was everything its name suggested: expansive, old and grandiose, with an eye-popping lobby and solicitous staff, we couldn’t have been happier with our choice. It is also a bit off the beaten track (a half-mile or so from La Rambla), but in a nice neighborhood full of sights and sounds of the city, but also quiet, with a couple of hipster coffee bars on the block, and good shopping just minutes away. With this kind of overture provided by the hotel, Barcelona’s opening act would have to be a showstopper, and unfortunately, Amar, for all of its performative appeal, was not.

Amar checks a lot of boxes: the room is as comfortable and modern as its surrounding hotel is classic. Service was exemplary and there was no faulting the provenance of the seafood.

Image(Amar you ready for some Spanish shade?)

What it seemed to lack was sense of place or warmth, or anything evoking the city it claims to represent. As sparkling as our oysters, and as flawless the fish, it was a meal that could’ve been served in a thousand restaurants around the world. Indeed, we’ve eaten such a meal, a thousands times. The only things that change are the accents of the waiters.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record: Michelin stars are more reliable in Europe than anywhere else, but still need to be taken with a bit of brine. A Michelin one-star in a European capital will have a certain standard of accoutrements and service, and often a menu more predictable than a Waffle House.

Carpaccio to crudo, caviar service, innovative (?) oysters; a little crab here and a free-range there — the progression of courses (straight up the food chain) is so similar they might as well be AI generated. This is not to say the food wasn’t top-shelf, only predictable. And we didn’t travel 5,000 miles to feast on the familiar.

Image(Don’t go to the truffle)

To be fair, certain dishes did command respect: Peas with cod tripe and Catalan black pudding (above, adorned with truffles which brought nothing to the party); white beans with tuna and pancetta; and red prawns tasting like they had leapt straight from the boat onto our plates:

Image(Shrimply irresistible)

Most of it felt like gussied-up peasant fare, and when the formula progressed into high-toned gastronomia, it wasn’t for the better.

Our classic sole meunière —  was draped with the weirdest, whitest beurre blanc we’ve ever seen; spider crab cannelloni proved, once again, that pasta should be left to the Italians; and the most impressive thing about the cheese course was the expandable trolley it came in.

Perhaps is was the jet lag, but we wanted to be blown away by our first bites in Barth-a-lona and weren’t. We left thinking of it as just another exercise in generic dining, brought to you by the Michelin Guide.

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Things got better when they turned less formal the next day.  The better parts of two mornings were spent at La Boqueria, with its sensory assaults tempting us at every step and testing our resolve not to spoil lunch by chowing down on everything in sight.

Be forewarned: in the age of Instagram, half of the hoi polloi is there not  for the food, but rather to photograph themselves filling their little buckets of narcissism. It becomes a madhouse after noon, so get there at 8 am, so you can cruise around (and chow down on your own, personalized Spanish food crawl) for a few hours before the selfie crowd shows up.

The good news is: this being Spain, no one will bat an eye if you want a cerveza at 10:00 am:

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On day one, we stuffed ourselves silly with jamon:

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By day three, we strapped on the blinders and made a beeline to El Quim before a hundred other vendors could tempt us with their wares.

Think of the world’s most hectic lunch counter, located in the middle of one of the world’s most famous urban markets, and you’ll get the sense of Quim’s cacophony. Only in this case, they’re serving patas bravas and croquetas instead of pancakes and hash.

Quim has been called the best Catalan tapas in Barcelona, high praise indeed from no less an expert than Gerry Dawes. What seems intimidating at first (you hang around the counter waiting for a seat(s) to open up) becomes less so as soon as you catch one of the waiters’ eyes and are directed to a stool, then are handed a one-page menu which will fight for your attention with all of the prepared foods and signboard specials tempting you.

We settled on a pork loin sandwich with asparagus, toothsome deep-fried artichokes, eggs with foie gras, and patas bravas for breakfast, forgoing other egg and potato dishes which looked heavenly, but also would have filled us up for the day. Each bite packed a wallop – seriously succulent pork on incredible bread, seared duck liver atop eggs (a belt-and-suspenders approach to richness which will ruin you for bacon and eggs forever), while the fluffy-crisp potatoes were lashed with two competing mayos — one, creamy white, the other possessing serious kick.

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Quim is the sort of place you need to go with a group and order a dozen things. Two people and four items don’t make a dent in its delectation. But it is the first place I would recommend to go to any first time visitor, and the one locale I wish we could’ve returned to.

Which is probably something we should have done instead of cruising through the Gothic Quarter  to our next venue.

Image(Can they be less welcoming?)

Dinner at Can Culleretes (the second oldest restaurant in Spain) was punctuated by a surly teenage waitress and a hostess with all the poise of a hemorrhoid. But the historic rooms were a sight to see and the tariff soft – especially wine, where bottles cost what a glass does in Las Vegas. (This held true in both Barcelona and Madrid, in restaurants both humble and hi-falutin’.)

The food, however (a decent mixed seafood grill, lots of stewed proteins), was one b-flat sensation after the next. Anchovies and olives are everywhere (by day three we decided there must be some kind of law against not serving anchovies with every meal); they put a fried egg on everything; and seasonings are remarkably mild. Anyone who tells you there are similarities between Mexican and Spanish food needs to have their head examined. Mexican food is to Spanish what a habanero is to a bell pepper.

The charms of Culleretes’ famed brandade-stuffed cannelloni also escaped us, and with every bite we kept thinking how traditional Catalan must be the three-chord rock of Spanish food.

But I digress.

Can Solé 1903 redeemed Old Barcelona in our eyes with sparkling paella served by friendly folks who seemed genuinely happy to have us. We arrived a few minutes early for lunch and there was already a crowd outside, pretty much split 50-50 between hungry natives and tourists:

Image(Olé Solé!)

We booked on-line about a month earlier, and, as soon as the doors opened, were shown to the best seat in the house, right under the curtains in the picture above. From there we could watch the steady stream of patrons and various dishes flying forth from the kitchen — all of it washed down with pitchers of white sangria:

Image(Sangria – the official drink of “just one more glass”)

Can Solé is only a block away from the marina so the scents of the shore permeates the food the way it does in all seaside seafood restaurants. (Whether this is an objective fact or simple sensory suggestion is debatable, but briny creatures always seems to taste sweeter when consumed within eyesight of an ocean.)

Our seafood paella was so infused with the sea it was like breathing a spray of salt air with every bite. A steal at 43 euros:

Image(I’m on an all-seafood diet: when I see food, I eat it)

What you’ll find in these old school Barcelona establishments is sticker shock in reverse. The most expensive Spanish wine on the Can Solé list was 34 euros. At Can Culleretes it was 29.50 for a very good Priorat red. Even in fancy joints, the pricier offerings were often well under 100 euros. It didn’t take long to figure out what a bargain wine is in Spain, so our group made no apologies for overspending like a bunch of drunken sailors, since even at their highest, the prices were a welcome respite from Las Vegas’s eye-watering tariffs.

Keep in mind, Barcelona, like Vegas is definitely a tourist town too, but we saw little evidence of price-gouging anywhere, and once you get a few blocks off the tourists paths, you can eat like a local and feel like one too.

Image(Gresca at lunch)

Such was our experience at Gresca — a gastro-pubby hallway of a space so narrow even the vegetables have to enter in single-file. A few blocks west of the tony Passeig de Gràcia, Barcelona’s Fifth Avenue, this shoe box houses a row of four-tops along one cramped wall, and an open kitchen which straddles a second parallel space. The few waitstaff scramble between tables, while in the kitchen, a half-dozen cooks toil away, churning out small plates (not really tapas, despite what the interwebs say) that were the most compelling dishes we had in Spain. Of course, all of the usual suspects were there on the menu, but with a little guidance we crafted a menu of dishes that showed both ingenuity and restraint. A rarity in “modern” restaurants these days.

Rabbit kidneys, sweetbreads, bacon-thin bikini cheese toast, cod “gilda” pintxos, grilled quail, all of it so toothsome we were fighting over the last bites:

Image(Itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikinis)

Image(Thymus be in heaven)

Everything washed down with excellent wines from regions we barely know made by producers we’ve never heard of — which is why god invented sommeliers.

WINE GEEK ALERT: These wines were some of the best of the trip, and we quickly learned Corpinnat is the new Cava. Much as Valdobbiadene has replaced Prosecco, these premium Corazón de Penedès sparklers were tired of being lumped with mass-produced plonk, and have re-made and re-marketed themselves into world-class bubbly.

Image(Life is too short to drink bad wine)

 If Gresca made us feel like an in-the-know local, Lomo Alto brought out our inner carnivorous connoisseur.

What resembles a slightly antiseptic butcher shop upon entering, leads up a stairway to a second floor of capacious booths designed for one thing: to showcase the best beef in Spain. Before you get to your dictionary-thick steaks, you’ll first plow through some beautiful bread, three kinds of olive oil, “old cow” carpaccio with smoked Castilian cheese,  and some of the softest artichokes known to man.

Then the carving starts and you are transported to a higher level of beef eating:

 

The Spanish way to cook beef is basically to yell “fire!” at the meat as it is leaving the kitchen. Need proof? This is what they call medium-rare:

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Make no mistake, though, it was an aged steak for the ages. We did a side-by-side of two steaks (a vaca vieja chuleta – beef aged both on the hoof and in the fridge), the other a very lean, 60-80 day aged strip of Simmental beef from Germany. Neither was cheap. (145 euros and 118 euros) together amounting to about $300 of European, grass-fed beef split between four people. As compared to an American steakhouse (remember, we practically invented the genre), I’d give it and A- for food (the Simmental was as chewy as overcooked octopus and not worth the tariff) and high marks for service, despite the room exuding all the hospitality of a hospital. But I’ll remember that steak and those starters for a long, long time.

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Was Barcelona worth it after thirty years of anticipation? I wish I could say yes, but nothing we ate was memorable enough to draw me back there.

Not to end on a sour note, but much of the traditional Catalan cuisine left us cold. Bread, stews, olives and anchovies are nothing to scoff at, but when you see them at every restaurant for days on end, the template gets tiresome. Anyone expecting vibrant seasonings, or a little spice with their ultra-fresh ingredients will quickly discover they’ve landed on the wrong shore.

In spite of the gorgeous Gothic quarter, the shimmering seafood, and those steaks, and the tapas of Quim and the precision of Gresca, we left Barcelona feeling there wasn’t much left for us to try.

Before you take me to task, I know all cities are full of surprises, and a single visit barely scratches the surface. Perhaps next time someone like this big guy will show us a range of flavors we didn’t experience.

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After all, some of the world’s greatest romances started with a whimper instead of a bang.

This is the Part One of a two-part article.

Peter Luger Steaks Its Claim

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“You’re not being rude enough,” was the first thing I said to our waiter (Tony) as he was cheerfully guiding us through the menu and drink order.

He just smiled and shrugged, “That’s not the way we do things around here,” and then kept on being more solicitous than a billboard lawyer at a fender-bender.

stephen colbert oh no you didnt GIF

Which is another way of warning you that when  it comes to atmosphere and service, Peter Luger Las Vegas is as far from the actual Peter Luger (the one located at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge in actual New York), as Caesars Palace is from actual Rome. Except for the food — which hits most of the benchmarks established in the glory years when Luger was widely considered the best steakhouse in the country.

Back then, Luger was famous for several things: cash only (unless you had a PL credit card), rude waiters, and having the best beef in the city. These were the days before any Podunk purveyor of prime could access superior beef from around the globe — a time when New York City got all the best steers, and few in America even knew what dry-aging was.

Trading on that reputation, the family (yes, it’s still family-owned) has finally started to expand, opening first in Tokyo in 2021, and a week ago in our humble burg.

Before we get to the food, back to that rudeness thing. From our experience, it has always been an apocryphal complaint — the sort of gripe jaded New Yorkers hurl at any place where “Do you know who I am?” has no currency.

For those who wish to believe such malarkey, here is a pic of me in Brooklyn, twenty-three years ago, being totally abused by a waiter:

Image(Obviously hates his job)

On both of my visits in the 90s, I went early without a reservation (the second time with three teenagers in tow), and humbly asked if they could squeeze us in. And they did, remarkably quickly, with a smile, in one of the stark, Teutonic rooms — more German beer hall than American steakhouse — at bleached wood tables saturated with a century of beef fat, smoke and history.

Service was cheerfully brusque, the kind you get from sassy diner waitresses when they tell you, “You’re not having that; you’re getting the _____ and he’ll have the ____, and anymore questions?” Causing everyone at the table to win by conceding defeat to those in the know.

The porterhouse steaks we ate then were life-changing: a study in mineral-richness, shot through with tangy, gamey beefiness, singular in their haunting intensity. For perspective, the only steaks  I thought were in the same league at the time were from the original Palm, Gallagher’s, and Keen’s in New York, and Gibson’s in Chicago, but Luger was in a league of its own. Dry-aged beef was a rarity then, today in New York it’s as common as Yellow Cabs.

Then and now, Luger stubbornly avoids anything fancy. The dry-aging still permeates the beef, causing textures to tenderize, and flavors to intensify and “double-back on themselves” (Pete Wells) — the sizzling plate spitting butter and melted tallow so hot you can finish cooking your slice on the sloped sides of the platter if you want it a percentage more done.

Image(Iconic porterhouse)

Is the beef as good today as the steaks I remember?  Tough to say, as I consider those Luger steaks in the 90s as the apotheosis of the porterhouse which has rarely been equaled — even after tucking into hundreds of slabs of dry-aged steer from Soho to Tokyo. But the buttery mouthfeel and nutty, umami undertones I tasted at the fourth Peter Luger will no doubt send some fetishistic foodies into fits of tantric foodgasms, placing this beef at or near the top of any in town.

Some menu items, struck me as better crafted here than there: an incredible crab cake, pristine cold seafood, crispy/creamy German potatoes, along with some non-food improvements: well-spaced tables, better stemware, large circular bar brought front and center into the restaurant (the former Rao’s in Caesars Palace) — all calculated to produce both as sense of masculine comfort and a “wow” factor which the original lacks, all while catering to the demands of a three-hundred seat Vegas steakhouse slinging 2,000 lbs. of steaks a day.

Image(Finally, a place to go for a $139 shot of gin)

Upon taking one of those seats, they give you a fancy cocktail menu, and a wine list full of interesting bottles. The one in Brooklyn has always been infamous for being barely above the “red, white, or pink?” level of choices, unless your tastes run to overpriced Cali cabs. (Regulars — the ones with that coveted private credit card — usually bring their own.)

You will then be given a menu with a large letterbox in the center outlining steak for two, three or four, priced from $148.95 to $285.95. Those steaks are all porterhouses — for the uninitiated, a thick, t-bone containing part of both the sirloin and filet. All are broiled and brought to the table sliced amidst the hiss of fat coming off white-hot plates. They are what you order at Peter Luger in the same way you go to Mott 32 for the Peking duck. Everything else is window dressing.

This is 60-day, dry-aged beef, cured on-premises in a 4,000 square foot meat locker below the restaurant, so it ain’t cheap, but $150 for a “steak for two” will easily feed four, unless you have an NFL tackle among you. If you insist, lamb, chicken, and Dover sole are there for the pikers, and the bar burger (if it’s anything like the original we had in Brooklyn) will be a showstopper.

Image(This crab doesn’t filler round)

The rest of the menu is unapologetically old school. I happen to be a fan of the Luger steak sauce, even though Pete Wells (in a New York Times take-down in 2019) described it as ketchup and horseradish fortified with corn syrup. Unlike his though, our shrimp were not the consistency of “cold latex,” but pristine and perfect.

And the signature tomato and onion salad may be a bit bizarre, but it’s as much a part of the Luger legacy as sizzling fat:

Image(Just like Grandma used to make)

Wells insults the dish by stating it “tastes like 1979” but that’s exactly the point: this was your grandma’s idea of sweet-sour salad in 1966. It is  outdated, un-seasonal and about as voguish as a dickey… and all the more glorious for it.

Desserts are no-nonsense classics: hot fudge sundae, properly-crusted New York cheesecake, chocolate pie – all of them served mit schlag (“with unsweetened whipped cream”) reminding us of this place’s German roots and sending everyone home with a satisfied grin.

The staff is an all-star lineup of local restaurant pros who have put in their time from the biggest operations to the smallest sandwich shops. Jacob “Jake” Leslie is now Director of Food and Beverage at Caesars. We’ve seen him come through the ranks from The Goodwich, to Libertine Social to now running the whole shebang at a gigantic hotel.  Executive Chef Eric L’Huillier has gone from Pinot Brasserie (Joachim Splichal’s once-underrated bistro in the Venetian) to being top toque at Wally’s, to now heading a kitchen with ten broilers expected to feed hundreds of customers an hour.

Image(Dynamic Duo)

Front of the house is anchored by David Oseas (pictured above with L’Huillier – who was previously at Rosa Ristorante in Henderson), along with one of our favorite wine guys: Beverage Director Paul Argier. Argier is responsible for the vastly-improved, multi-national wine list, which isn’t cheap, but still possible to mine for relative bargains — once you understand that $125 is the new $75 when it comes to Strip wine lists.

Walking into PL and seeing them all running the place made it feel like old home week, rather than another soulless Strip branding exercise. It is a huge restaurant but also a welcoming one. How it stacks up against our other top-shelf purveyors of prime probably depends upon your expectations when approaching a restaurant with such a storied history.

Image(Super somm Paul Argier is there to serve)

Peter Luger started in 1887 as a cafe and billiard parlor. It had hit hard times when the Forman family resuscitated it in 1950, turning it into a cathedral of beef (and the template for the modern American steakhouse) in the latter half of the last century.

Back then, the Formans were known for being the toughest customers in town when it came to sourcing prime grade beef. But in the twenty-first century, these kinds of top-shelf, tender, well-marbled cuts — which used to be the  exclusive province of a few select steakhouses — are now sold world-wide. I used to consider it a treat to fly to Chicago or New York to dive into a Brobdingnagian, dry-aged porterhouse. Now there are a dozen steakhouses within 20 minutes of my house where I can indulge my Flinstonean fantasies.

The final question thus becomes: Is the meal worth the tariff?

Lezbee honest here: You don’t go to Peter Luger for innovation or chef’s creations. You are not here for the appetizers, or the side dishes, or seasonal eating; you here for the main event: the meat and the bragging rights to having taken down one of the world’s greatest steaks. One hundred and thirty-five years on, from the point of view of a palate who has eaten them all, this one is still one of the best ones, and more than worth boasting about.

And, as always, it will be served with a smile.

Our meal for two came to $341 (including one cocktail, three glasses of wine, and a comped shellfish tower), and we left a $100 tip.

Image(Mit schlag is German for “more please”)

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