Steer and Loathing in Las Vegas

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Any freak…can walk into the Circus-Circus and suddenly appear in the sky over downtown Las Vegas twelve times the size of God, howling anything that comes into his head. No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs.

There I was, standing at the entrance, of my own free will, and not on drugs. But they would’ve helped.

Had I lost a bet? Gotten waylaid on my way to CUT? What possible confluence of forces could’ve driven me to such an etiolated place when I’m surrounded by properties  brimming with boffo beef?

Was I suffering from sentimentality. In such a malaise that my eternal quest for excellence was enervated?

The answer is more prosaic: I accepted a free-lance assignment to write about Vegas’s most iconic restaurants. And they don’t come much more well-known than THE Steakhouse at Circus Circus.

Thus did I voluntarily enter the one hotel on the Las Vegas Strip which is as appealing as a Wal-mart on payday, bumping elbows with strollers, snot-nosed monsters, and insundry trailer park refugees looking for a good time on the cheap. The one hotel that would cause nary a tear to be shed if it imploded tomorrow.

Counterintuitively, it may be because the Circus Circus is so shitty that this place thrives. For forty years patrons have come, seeking refuge from the surroundings  — a dark enclave from the fear of cacophony and loathing of kiddies cavorting mere feet outside the entrance.

Image(Never give a sucker an even steak)

A little bit of this town goes a very long way. After five days in Vegas you feel like you’ve been here for five years.

If restaurants age in dog years, then THE Steakhouse at Circus Circus is 287 years old. All things considered, like yours truly, it looks pretty good for its age….at least when the lights are low.

When TSACC first opened in 1982 it was quite a sight. There was a meat locker beside the hostess stand when you could salivate over your sirloins. Then and now it was mostly for show, but at least hinted at dry-aging the beef — twenty years before most American steakhouses picked up the chant. Those were heady days to be sure, and tastier times lay ahead, but this was as good as it got in the early 80s and we were thrilled by it.

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.

Back then the possibilities for Vegas seemed endless, but it was still a cow town in more ways than one, and this brawny, plush restaurant hinted at a new era of steakhouse sophistication. The cozy bar, hanging beef, green leather booths, and birdbath-sized martini glasses were a revelation. As was an elevated wood-fueled fire pit where you could watch the steak chefs work their magic over spitting flames and smoke, while the smell of sweet/musky mesquite perfumed the beef and the room.

The dark, clubby, masculine vibe has remained intact and aged well and least when compared to most Eighties’ decors. (When it comes to good taste in design, THE Steakhouse is to Hugo’s Cellar what a filet is to a stale cheeseburger.)

No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.

It’s been at least five years since our last visit, and experience has taught us that these joints don’t change, but game we were, so gird our loins we did, paid the freight and took the ride.

Unsteady doesn’t describe the half of it.

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Then and now, entrees came with soup, salad and sides, making them seem a relative bargain when compared to a la carte everything, which is now the template for all but the hoariest of emporiums. Back in the day, a forty buck steak could get to a hundy in a hurry when you factored in a complete meal. Now, the meat alone will set you back that much.

Image(We have a beef with prices that steak the bank)

Nostalgia is one thing, but sentimentality served with gouge is another. Yours truly considers himself practically impervious to price tag trauma these days, but those frozen lobster tails got our attention. As did $42 for four shrimp, and a “seafood sensation” of crab legs, oysters and shrimp that will set you back 183 clams.

While we’re at it, riddle me this: Where in this town would one go to eat an onion soup not tasting of onions? Topped with cheese so cheap it is not fit for a grade school lunchbox? Or a bean soup bereft of beans? (See below.)

Image(Cornstarch Circus)

Answer: A once venerated, long-in-the-tooth, union-staffed casino eatery which has been coasting on reputation for decades. Who else would have the crust to charge $178 for two lobster tails when one can be had, a la carte, for 78?

Answer: The same place confident enough in its clueless reviews) to charge $95 for a unseasoned porterhouse of dubious pedigree, served looking like it was hacked into portions with a butter knife:

Image(Past its prime)

“It’s like someone bought a supermarket steak and threw it on a grill and decided to charge 100 bucks for it.”- the quote of the evening.

Looking around the room one has to ask: Who, exactly, is gullible enough to pay these prices for dated, bland food in such a crummy hotel…for four decades?

We asked ourselves this throughout the meal, but kept eating. As disappointing as the meal was…we would be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way out to the end.

We had no choice. We were in too deep. It was either finish the meal or shoot the pasties off the nipples of a ten-foot bull-dyke and win a cotton-candy goat.

Fear And GIF - Fear And Loathing - Discover & Share GIFs | Fear and loathing, Fear, Cool gifs

So we plowed through, guided by a waiter who was professional, fast and friendly, and who even took the time to guide us to better deals on some side dishes and salads (it gets confusing when factoring in what comes with what).

Along the same lines, the wine list is priced for the clientele, not fools like the person typing these words, with lots of bottles well under a Benjamin.

And we found some things to like, like the baked crab cake ($27) that had it all over the gummy, bready one we had had the previous night at Vic & Anthony’s, and two salads (blue cheese wedge, and fresh spinach with (not-so) hot bacon dressing) which were decent enough to justify the $18 price tag. And the lamb chops ($78/two) made up for in taste what they lacked in presentation.

Image(Getting crabby at Circus Circus)

But when the final tally came ($640, including tax, tip and drinks) , we couldn’t defend it. The steak was just too plain and pathetic and so not-in-the-same-league as dozens of better ones on and off the Strip.

So now…years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

The high water mark for 80s Vegas steaks was THE Steakhouse, which is the last time the moniker fit. Today it limps along — a once-proud restaurant stuck in a ground chuck of a hostelry from which there is no escape. Time has passed it by but no one has bothered to tell the chefs or the customers — a shared, convenient lie serving both sides, since neither seems to care. Walking into the ass end of the hotel to get there, it feels as if the whole infrastructure, casino, and customers are just waiting to be plowed under.

Old elephants limp off to the hills to die; old Americans go out to the highway and drive themselves to death with huge cars.

In 1983, we marveled at the operation, even if, or maybe because, it was surrounded by the most peculiar hotel in town. Las Vegas has always been a bizarre place. It will never go out of style because it was never in style. No matter how much it has been corporatized, standardized, and lobotomized, it remains a place of gargantuan, tacky hotels stuffed with people driving themselves to death by throwing hard-earned cash at unreachable dreams and mindless diversions.

THE Steakhouse was always a pleasant diversion. It may never have been in style, but it was always more stylish than the fleabag hotel surrounding it. Such was its strength. But the years rob us of vigor, and in old age, the penumbra of despair cannot be shed. Like all washed-up restaurants, it will continue opening the doors, night after night, overcharging for its goods and hoping nobody notices.

We noticed.

Hail, Britannia! Part One

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For a Francophile like moi to admit he was enchanted by London is quite a leap.

“London? Really?” numerous friends smirked, questioning my sanity.

“Somehow I can’t see you hanging out in a Hugh Grant movie, quaffing down warm ale by the pint,” one of them scoffed.

“What are you gonna eat? And drink?” others intoned with eyes narrowed (and a concern usually reserved for discussing chemotherapy).

So strong are the biases against British food, I can’t say I blamed them. But anyone who knows me knows I could find a good restaurant on the moon. And London, my foodie friends, is full of them, if you know where to look, and if you have a secret weapon. And I had both.

Knowing where to look is easy. Stick with the classics, is my mantra. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. In London, that means booking tables that have been around since the 19th Century (at least). Spice things up with a modern meal or two, and luxuriate in some old-school imbibing, and you’ll almost forget there is more refined cooking, and much better wine, 300 miles to the south.

Not to dwell on the differences between London and its gastronomic neighbor, but as a casual observer, I would say the Bulldogs are less food-obsessed than the Frogs, but that doesn’t make their grub inferior, just less in-your-face. Paris assaults the senses with its eating and drinking options. London, like the British people, takes a while to get to know.

Perhaps it is because the catechism of classic British diet (from meat pies to mushy peas) is so boring that the really good stuff (seafood, astonishing veg, cheese, and superb beef) get short shrift indeed. This is not the place to explore three hundred years of English eating habits, but I can say with confidence that (most of) the cliches are all wrong, and classic Brit cuisine will knock you over with its simplicity and succulence. Leave the frou-frou to the French — London will bring out the trencherman in you.

Knowing my proclivities for the ancient and iconic (restaurant-wise), my secret weapon (Marina O’Loughlin — for five years the restaurant columnist for the London Sunday Times) — weighed in with a baker’s dozen suggestions, of which we hardly scratched the surface. One week, as intrepid gastronauts know, is barely enough time to sample the hors-d’oeuvres of a country’s cuisine. But we did our best for eight days and here’s what we found:

Image(Tiny tables, quality cooking)

“Unmissable” is how Marina described The Quality Chop House, so to it we repaired for our first evening’s repast. The Food Gal® and I have become ardent urban hikers over the past decade, so the 2.5 mile stroll from our hostelry on Trafalgar Square to the Clerkenwell neighborhood was a breeze, even if we were a bit wooly-headed from ten hours on Virgin Atlantic.

Described as a “19th Century ex-working man’s eating house revamped into a modern British dining room,” TQCH will put you more in mind of a pub than restaurant at first glance, until you see the menu and discover you might be in the coolest little meat emporium in all of London. That revamping is purely menu-focused, as the stiff, narrow benches in the front room look like they are only fit for the emaciated physique of a chimney sweep. The second room boasts actual bentwood chairs (above), but also tiny, over-matched tables barely up to the task of containing  the wave of tasty vittles soon to be crowded upon them:

Image(Small table, big flavors)

As we came late, and were exhausted from both the flight and the walk, we were interested in comfort food served quickly, and the restaurant came through. Service was extraordinarily friendly to a couple of strangers wedged into the last table of the night. The wine list was the very definition of “eclectic” and we loved perusing every odd-ball bottle.

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The setting may be old school neighborhood eating hall, but the menu has new-school gastropub written all over it. Marina had raved about the steaks so we dutifully tucked into a Hereford sirloin and found it mineral-rich, fatty, tender, and flawless — even after our weary bones had already polished off half a loaf of tangy sourdough with good butter, pâté de campagne, salt cod brandade, pastrami-cured salmon, and chicken liver/foie gras parfait hidden blanketed with shredded black truffles.

Image(British spuds, French technique)

Our waiter chided us for forgetting to order the layered, buttery potato confit (resembling a mille-feuille of shaved spuds), and set them down on the table (with a wink and without charge) as soon as the steak appeared. He also insisted we end our feast with the olive oil ice cream and it was a show-stopper as well. I was too exhausted to drink much, but dimly remember a couple of glasses of a recommended French red I had never heard of going splendidly with the steak, and a bill that clocked in at around $200 American for small meat-fest fit for the gods.

If the test of a great restaurant is whether you can’t wait to return and try everything on the menu, then The Quality Chop House qualifies in spades.

Image(Tastes like hazelnuts, not salty, stale fish)

If the Chop House felt like the grooviest steak pub in London, Caviar House and Prunier represents the other end of the spectrum: a posh champagne and fish egg boutique where its nutty, subtly saline sturgeon eggs are a far cry from the fishy and salty stuff they throw on everything in America from desserts to Doritos. We couldn’t resist dropping a bundle on these and some smoked Balik Norwegian salmon — accompanied by warm blinis and tangy creme fraiche of the sort we can only dream of on this side of the pond.

Gird your loins if you wish to wallow in sturgeon eggs, because quality this high doesn’t come cheap. A few small bricks of salmon, two glasses of house bubbly, and the tin you see above set us back a cool $275. And no, our hunger wasn’t cured but our lust for quality oscietre was.

From the toniest seafood digs in St. James it was back to workingman’s London — specifically the Smithfield Market — where Fergus Henderson’s St. John has held sway for three decades. No self-regarding epicure travels to London without putting this notch on their belt, so here we marched, thirty years late to the party, to the holy grail of nose-to-tail.

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For the uninitiated, Henderson was not the first chef to serve tripe, headcheese and kidneys, but when he took over this bare bones, inauspicious space (in 1993) next to London’s famed meat market, and converted a former smokehouse into a whole animal-focused restaurant, his influence was felt world-wide. In effect, he discovered a market no one knew existed: boomers in their prime, eager to break out of the steak, fish and chicken template that had defined western menus since the 1950s. The success this restaurant saw in the mid-nineties (and the publicity it garnered therefrom) is partially responsible (or to blame) for why you see pork belly on every upscale restaurant in the world.

You can also lay the ubiquity of short ribs and bone marrow at his doorstep. So far though, despite the best efforts of Henderson’s acolytes, no one has been able to do the same with sweetbreads, pigs ears, and kidneys. Hope springs eternal.

Fergus deserves further credit, or opprobrium, for foisting the inexplicably popular industrial restaurant look on the world — defined by hard seating, minimalist decor, and lighting less flattering than a hospital waiting room. The look may be overdone elsewhere, but in its original incarnation it works, since the food is as spare and uncompromising as the surroundings. There is nothing fancy about the joint, from your first bite of crispy pig’s foot, to the bare bones oleaginous marrow to be spread on the exceptional house-baked bread, to a mountain of deviled lambs kidneys that would defeat all but the largest lover of “variety meats” as these organ innards are often called.

Image(Quite the pisser, these bad boys were)

“It’s quite a lot of one thing, isn’t it?” our sympathetic waitress observed as she laid the outcropping of offal before us. James Beard once wrote that kidneys derive their appeal from the “faintest tang of urine” left behind as one masticates through the rubbery morsels. Anyone describing the flavor notes on these bad boys as containing “undertones of urethra” though, would be guilty of serious understatement. The uric acid tang was there all right, side-by-side with enough rough-hewn wild gaminess to stop any carnivore in their tracks. And we loved it. Not enough to eat the entire batch, mind you, but sufficient to give us bragging rights in any organ-measuring contest in the future.

Like everywhere we ate in London, service was friendly, informed and fast. I’m at the age where almost all waiters look like teenagers to me, but in every place we tried, from the fancy confines of the Connaught Hotel to an industrial borough like Smithfield, we had nary a complaint to make. Our bill– lunch for two with a couple of glasses of cru Beaujolais — was also the cheapest of the trip: around $150 at the current exchange rate.

Straightforward food, served without adornment, is the mission statement of St. John. It no longer needs to proselytize about whole animal butchery and cookery because the whole world has picked up the chant. Or at least part of it. When lamb kidneys start showing up on American steakhouses, Henderson’s revolution in how we eat animals will be complete…but I wouldn’t hold my breath just yet.

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Compared to St. John, Rules is positively antediluvian. Some may call it ossified eating, better suited to Victorian tastes in haunches of venison and fresh-killed birds (which come with a warning to watch for buckshot), but at Christmastime the place is magical. We met Marina and hubby David there, and truth be told, the conversation was so lively we paid scarce attention to the food.

What no one can ignore is the gorgeousness of the place. The walls could double as a mini museum, with portraits, cartoons and articles spanning 200 years of catering to the carriage trade. The wine list isn’t much (“If I’m going to drop 200 quid on wine, it won’t be here”), but the leafy, Victorian second floor bar (you have to be escorted upstairs) is so captivating you’ll be tempted to while away your mealtime sipping on good British gin or a Pimm’s Cup. Resist mightily these imbibing urges, pilgrim! Because a meal at Rules is timeless and one for the ages, and unlike any other in London.

Image(If you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding!”)

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Consider for a moment that you are eating in the same restaurant where everyone from Winston Churchill to Benjamin Disraeli once sat. Then concentrate on your food more than we did.

What you’ll find is a menu of rib-sticking standards that have withstood the test of time. What we did notice was Marina’s gorgeous Devon smoked eel, and David’s pheasant disappearing quickly, and once we broke through the suet crust on our steak and kidney pudding (above), we discovered the most meltingly toothsome of beef stews, enriched with the flavor of (you guessed it) more kidneys (urine tang not included). This bastion of ancient Englishness has been around since 1798, and how you take to it will depend on your taste for no-nonsense dishes like potted shrimps, Dorset crab salad and whatever game is in season. But no matter what you order, you’ll find a kitchen not resting on its laurels, but deeply-steeped in the classics and doing them proud.

Quote of the evening: “Sancerre is the U2 of white wines.” Yes, we are soooo stealing it, and henceforth, intend to claim proprietary rights to this juicy putdown — humiliating white wine sheeple on both continents with David’s all-too-true bon mot.

Also too true was this sticky toffee pudding — the last word in English desserts:

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Rules is a splurge, but not as dear as you might think. Even with two bottles of wine (one champagne and one Burgundy, natch) coming in at around 300 pounds sterling, the food bill was about the same, meaning we ate like King Henry VIII for under $100/pp American.

Like St. John, Rules is a place I had always wondered about, and longed to try for decades. Would it be as good as its history and hype? Is English food going to be one big blandburger? And what’s the deal with all the meat? And so few sauces? Do they even know what seasoning is, or what a green vegetable looks like?

Seek and you shall find, the saying goes, and what we found was straightforward cooking with little of the cartwheels in the kitchen invoked in American gastronomic restaurants, where the chefs seem duty-bound to strut every trick they’ve ever learned in culinary school (or have seen on Instagram). There was an unapologetic honesty (and a purity of flavors) to the food we encountered that only comes from confidence. Confidence in oneself as a cook, confidence in your ingredients, your culture, and in what the restaurant stands for — be it a small, modern steakhouse in an antiquated setting, or an icon of British gastronomy.  Most of all, these places evinced a trust in their customers to appreciate the labor and the traditions behind the food being served. Aside from Marina and I doing our duty as serial restaurant chroniclers, I didn’t see a single person snapping pictures of their meal in any of them.

Hail, Britannia, indeed.

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This is the first part of a two part article on my recent eating adventures across the pond. Part Two will drop in a week or so.

 

High Steaks in Vegas

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Every restaurant in Las Vegas would be a steakhouse if it could be.EATING LAS VEGAS – The 52 Essential Restaurants

It’s hard not to have a soft spot for the American steakhouse. What began in the beer halls and speakeasies of New York City over a hundred years ago (e.g., Palm, Keen’s, Peter Luger, et al) has morphed into the most expensive of restaurant genres, where checks north of $150/pp are now as common as overpriced California cabernets.

Nothing sells here like steaks. Beef, it’s what’s for dinner, and as a class, Vegas steakhouses outperform other restaurants by whopping margins.  If the baseline for a successful Strip eatery is $1,000,000/month in sales, it’s a fair bet that most major meat emporiums exceed that by at least 50%.

So, it’s no wonder our post-Covid restaurant recovery is being led by steakhouses. Hunks o’ prime steer muscle and a formulaic menu are the surest way to fill your dining room, and packed they are…from Summerlin to Las Vegas Boulevard South. Even with the price of beef being through the roof, people are spending faster than drunken sailors on shore leave. Quite frankly, the crowds of free-spending carnivores cramming these places has flummoxed even an old restaurant pro like yours truly. “Where is all this pent-up passion for prime (not to mention cash) coming from?” he thinks to himself as he sees the bodies pressed four-deep at the hostess stand…on Tuesday nights!

Chefs will tell you profit margins on steaks are very low. But there’s something about the beefy vibe that encourages the copious ingestion of booze — from vodka martinis to trophy wines — and when people want to drink, the Vegas steakhouse is here for them.

The point is, the formula for all of these joints is as predictable as a rom-com plot. They all get the same groceries, so all that’s left is how well they tweak them.

These days, everyone features the same 9-10 steak cuts from similar purveyors, letter-box “wagyu” beef that is now about as special as tuna fish, and the same old-same old sauces and sides. (Robuchon potatoes? Check. Shellfish tower? Double your check. Roasted veggies anyone?)

None of this predictability deters anyone from flocking to these restaurants — which, this being America, may be the point.

With all this in mind, we thought we’d take a look at four major players (two newbies and two old souls) to give you a sense of what you’re up against these days.

HARLO STEAKHOUSE & BAR

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Harlo burst on the scene barely six months ago and immediately flipped the script on Andiron, its predecessor steakhouse in the space. The front door is now where the backdoor used to be, and what was once open, bright and airy (trying to mimic something swanky and Southhampton) is now dark, cozy and clubby.

The bar also shifted….in more ways than one.

Image(Inflation? What inflation?)

There is big real estate money behind this project; real pros in the kitchen; and the house is managed by long-time Strip front-man Ivo Angelov (whose loyal following probably accounts for a half of the customers).

Put it all together and you have the kind of out-of-the-gate hit of which most restaurateurs can only dream. It doesn’t hurt that it is the only decent steakhouse for ten-miles, and that Las Vegas’s toniest neighborhoods are all within a fifteen-minute drive. But Andiron had these same advantages and struggled to find its footing (even pre-Covid). Finding itself will not be a problem for Harlo; finding a seat on weekends will be.

Once you’re seated, you can expect the standard cuts and sides, here priced at or above similar fare on the Strip — and when we say, “at or above” we’re not kidding. Prices here have been set without apology and with the confidence (arrogance?) of someone who knows his audience won’t blink at $30 apps and $80 steaks. Fleming’s this is not.

We passed on the seafood tower, instead settling for some very good oysters ($26) served with a compelling yuzu-soy mignonette that made us forget about the excellent cocktail sauce beside it. (By way of price comparison, at Carversteak, thirteen miles east,  the shellfish extravaganza is $165; here it clocks in at $175. So much for the Strip being “too expensive.”)

Image(The salad is there to make you forget you’re eating the inside of an animal)

From there it was on to a smallish, blandish steak tartare ($20) — the only “meh” of the meal — and three Flintstonean shanks of marrow ($30) that would easily serve a table of four. So dense with flavor were the garnishes for the marrow — port wine onions and oxtail jam on toast —  they could constitute a meal all their own.

The Caesar ($15) had its charms (crunchy anchovy croutons, lots of grated Parm), as did the warm milk bread and butter. All were served at the right temperature, as was the excellent butter. (Frigid salad, less than impeccably fresh bread, and rock hard butter being unforgivable sins at this level, and the banes of our existence.)

As there were only two of us, the main event was slightly truncated…meaning only one protein and a couple of sides hit the table. At eighty-eight bucks, an aged rib eye better deliver the goods, and by and large this one (below) did. Impeccably trimmed and cooked, it was all that is loved about the marbled succulence of this cut.

Image(Holy cholesterol-fest!)

Not really sure what the two-week aging brought to the dance but the beefy flavor was there in spades, even if a certain mineral-rich tang was not. The blistered green beans ($10) and crispy ‘taters ($11) were all that and a bag of almond romesco– the snappy sauce adorning the Phasoleolus vulgaris.

Our biggest surprise of all, though, was reserved for the pasta:

Image(Impastably delicious)

Gina Marinelli is the talent behind these creations, and her rotating cast of pastas will depend on whatever is seasonal the day you arrive. We sprang upon the Spring papardelle with English peas, morels, goat cheese and poppy seeds (above) to see if she was up to her old tricks, meaning: sometimes her pastas go an ingredient too far for our tastes. But this time everything had its place and there wasn’t a flavor wasted. Really spectacular stuff. Worth going for all by itself and enough to make you forget your inner carnivore.

Besides the tariff, Harlo has announced its big-league intentions by hiring a pastry chef — in this case, a young chap named Alberto Rodriguez, who does a panoply of worthy sweets, including a mean Grand Marnier soufflé:

https://twitter.com/i/status/1501736412307095557

They also do the bloated caviar service-thing here (caviar and truffles now running neck-and-neck with “exclusive” Japanese wagyu in the faux luxe sweepstakes), and no shortage of ostentatious spirits for those needing to impress themselves by stupidly combining Louis XIII cognac ($200/shot) with salty fish eggs — one of those things you do because having bad taste isn’t much fun unless you can show off about it.

The wine list is evolving and it isn’t exactly cardiac-inducing, but don’t expect any bargains either. Bottles under a hundy are sprinkled here and there, but the calculation has obviously been made that the landed gentry is now ready to cough up big bucks for bottles. By-the-glass options start at $12 and zoom quickly above $20, topping out at $45 and $65 for “reserve” Cali cabs. That’s sixty-five bucks for a glass. Of wine.

As you can see, Harlo is not for the faint of heart or pocketbook. It is a big-hitter steakhouse with the pedigree and prices to prove it.  Direct aim has been taken on a customer base who used to travel many miles for beef and cooking this good. They’re staying closer to home these days, and apparently spending like it’s 2019 again. Only time will tell if Harlo will succeed in out-stripping the Strip, but for the time being, Summerlin’s fat cats now have a steakhouse to call their own.

Our meal was comped and we left a $100 tip, augmented by our dining companion’s $100 tip.

CARVERSTEAK

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Waiter: How would you like your steak sir?

Me: Like winning an argument with my wife.

Waiter: Rare it is!

Steakhouse quality is so high across the board, searching for the preeminent purveyor of prime is a fools errand. Instead we look for the subtleties that distinguish them, and hope that something stands out. Often, beyond the differences in decor, it does not.

And none of this is by way of criticizing Carversteak. Only to point out how, to set themselves apart, chefs and owners strain mightily  to convince you they’re doing something unique, even when they are not. At Carversteak, occasionally they are.

Sometimes you just throw up your hands and admit you have no more shits to give as to whether Carversteak’s “yellowtail sashimi crudo with avocado , serrano chili, ginger-lime ponzu”:

Image(Toto, we’re not in Golden Corral anymore)

….is all that different from Harlo’s “hamachi crudo with ginger-soy vinaigrette, avocado puree and serrano chili.”

Or take the ubiquitous shrimp cocktail — one might dazzle you with Cajun remoulade (Harlo), while others —  Caversteak, Golden Steer, SW et al — stick strictly to the horseradish catechism.

The same thing occurs with side dishes:

Image(You cheddar believe, this is as gouda as it gets)

“Oh look honey! They have mac ‘n cheese with aged cheddar!” says you, feigning excitement.

“That’s much better than the mac ‘n cheese with smoked cheddar and gouda, isn’t it?” Said no one ever.

They’re all good, soothing, and cheesy, but basically only minor variations on a theme you’ll find in every steakhouse in Vegas, if not America.

Carversteak does a “baby iceberg wedge” ($19), garnished with an onion ring and a soft-boiled egg. Harlo throws pastrami into the ($16) mix, and tops its lettuce with lavash. (How very unleavened of them!)  The Golden Steer keeps it simple and pours on the blue cheese sprinkled with bacon and tomatoes ($10). Is one “better” than the other? Does an onion ring and an egg justify doubling the price? Or are you paying for real estate and decor? Or do you even care?

Where Harlo announces itself as ingredient-driven, here the menu emphasis is recipe-driven — in this case by restaurant vet Daniel Ontiveros — a dude who knows his way around premium proteins.

We didn’t have the “Lobster en Croute” , but at least it is something different. (Cream sauces are back!) Ditto the green goddess “Crudité” — which almost makes hummus wondrous:

Image(Yummus hummus, believe us)

….and a chunky, mayonnaise-y steak tartare (below) that combines creaminess with a kick. Definitely one of the more unforgettable ones we’ve tried….and we’ve tried them all:

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Other items which kept our attention included the “Caviar Poppers” (gougères stuffed with lemon-chive crème fraiche), and the previously maligned yellowtail sashimi, that made up for in presentation what it lacked in innovation.

Finally, there were the proteins. Being a two-top our capacity was limited, but the 20 oz. Kansas City strip ($76) claimed to be aged for 28 days and tasted every bit of it.

Image(Best steak of the bunch)

We don’t want to go too far out on a limb here, but of all the boffo beef we’ve had during this two-week steak-out, this one had the deepest, most penetrating flavor. Both sauces (Bordelaise and Peppercorn) were textbook perfect, with the latter disappearing the fastest.

Image(Fleming’s this is not)

The Food Gal® ordered the salmon (above left), even though doing so should be grounds for divorce anywhere but the Pacific Northwest. To our surprise, as much as we fished for flaws, our critic’s net came up empty. Fresh and firm, it was flawless, right down to the curry broth beneath it. All in all, a nice way to give this over-served, insipid (and often stale-tasting) species a little sass.

Big hitters will no doubt love the Brobdingnagian (42 oz.) Pat LaFrieda Tomahawk, which gets its hefty price tag ($260) from the branding of the beef (cf. Harlo where you get 2 ounces less Flannery Beef for eighty fewer bucks). These humongous cuts are all the rage these days, and make sense for large parties, even if the weight advertised includes the prodigious bone. Regardless, large parties of beefy men take to these things like a college boy to a kegger.

Cocktails are by über-booze maven Francesco LaFranconi, and the wine list won’t cause cardiac arrest.  How much better can a steakhouse get?

Our dinner a deux was comped and we left a $120 tip.

SW STEAKHOUSE

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We’ve run hot and cold about SW over the years. Two perfunctory wallet-bending meals in a row (over five years ago) had us writing it off forever, and it was only Mark LoRusso taking over the kitchen (after the shuttering of Costa di Mare) that brought us back.

It’s a huge (300+ seats) restaurant that can feel like Grand Central Station on busy nights — which is almost every night of the year. It shows itself best if you’re able to score a seat on the patio, but those fill up fast. As busy as it gets, the noise level remains remarkably conversation-friendly, and the lighting is soft, not-too-low — complimenting the aging Boomer crowd seeking to forget the ravages of time when their hair was dark, their thighs were firm, and they had less chins than a Chinese phone book.

If Harlo is ingredient-focused, and Carversteak full of surprising recipes, SW takes the steak as the cheffiest in the bunch, as LoRusso’s mosaic of raw tuna shows:

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If that doesn’t convince you, then perhaps this Snake River Farms carpaccio with balsamic “pearls” will:

Image(Nothing says “don’t try this at home” like balsamic pearls)

All of this is the domain of Mark LoRusso — unsung hero and former top toque of the shuttered Costa di Mare upstairs — who made the transition from Italian seafood to meat seamlessly. We’ve followed LoRusso’s career since the early 2000s, and everywhere he has moved he has made his mark without fanfare, but with the confidence of a real pro who elevates any kitchen he controls.

When they announced he was taking over SW last year we had no doubt it would up its game and it has, re-invigorating the (previously tired menu with Sardinian lobster gnocchi ($29), Alaskan King Crab ravioli ($24/$48), and a thick with lobster bisque that shows off LoRusso’s seafood chops:

Image(Is that the bisque you can do?)

At these prices, you expect the steaks to be perfect and they are. (See the strip pic at the top of the page.) The tone is set with the incredible/addictive Parker House “monkey bread” that kicks things off, and continues through impeccable wagyu skewers, a properly dressed Caesar ($24), and a marrow bone large enough to slay a few Philistines should the need arise:

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No one seems to mind that it has always had the shortest, least interesting menu, and (until recently) the highest prices of any steakhouse in Vegas. We’ve always had a tough time squaring these with the cattle call feel of the joint. Locating a bottle of red wine on the list beneath a Benjamin is tougher than finding a slot junkie with a dental plan.

Regardless, it appears to be a bullet-proof restaurant — packed through thick and thin — overflowing with customers and conventioneers who would line up for a table if Russian tanks and the Bubonic Plague were rolling down Las Vegas Boulevard.

With LoRusso at the helm (aided by Michael Outlaw’s superb desserts) the food is well nigh flawless, as is the service. Both are so good you’ll probably forget you just paid a hundred bucks for a filet.

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Our bill for a bone-in strip steak ($84, top of page), with several sides and a bunch of freebies (including a Brontosaurus-sized marrow bone) came to $213 and we left a $100 tip.

GOLDEN STEER

Image(Breaking up and making up since 1982)

The secret to running a successful restaurant is hiring people who give a shit. – Nectaly Mendoza (Herbs & Rye)

If the Golden Steer was a girlfriend, we’d have one of those “can’t live with ’em; can’t live without ’em” relationships. To say it’s been love-hate over forty years is an understatement…kinda like saying I might’ve had a teensy-weensy bit of an issue with the the whole “till death do us part” thing from 1973-1999.

Sometimes we’d go multiple times in a week; others would find us staying away after another spate of indifferent service from a fossilized crew, warm wine, and a menu as dated as the Rat Pack vibe the place was trading on.

“Never again!” we fumed six years ago after storming out. Tired, threadbare, shopworn…going through the motions…you name it, the adjectives came flowing forth. So over-the-hill did it seem, that we expected a death notice any month. Further cataloguing the failings and service insults no longer serves a purpose, so let’s just say it was obvious, around 2015, that no one gave a shit, and were content to milk the old cow(?) for all she was was worth until someone turned the place into a weed shop or Walgreen’s.

Now, amazingly, people give a shit and it shows. Covid forced the Steer into a reckoning (and new management), and it came out of that nightmare smelling like the apotheosis of prime. Amanda Signorelli (daughter of the owner) now runs the joint with her husband Nick McMillan, and they’ve managed to spruce the joint up and give it a subtle facelift, while retaining the 1958 vibe that gives the Steer its old school patina.

The Steer is cheapest steakhouse of this beefy bunch, except when it is not. The “Chateaubriand for Two” at SW is pegged at $160, while the one here will set you back 190 samolians.  Another exception: the Steer’s 12 oz. filet (“The Aristocrat of Tenderness) is priced two bucks more than Carversteak’s ($71 v. $69).

Generally though, the cuts here are a little less expensive, but not by a lot. For example, a classic one-pound New York strip is $65 here, $78 at SW, and $62 at Carversteak. Harlo’s clocks in at an eye-popping 96 buckeroonies. Yikes! (Swear to god, they must price these things by blindly throwing darts at a board.)

Over two recent visits, we sample just about every cut on the menu, and even the filet impressed us more than we expected. Our table loved them all, but this rib eye was the true show pony:

 

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….followed by a dictionary-thick slab of prime rib:

Image(Missing: gobs o’ horseradish sauce)

….which appeals to many more for its caveman appeal than general taste. (We’ve always considered prime rib more of a horseradish sauce-carrying vehicle than anything else.)

The new menu is substantially shorter than the multi-paged tome that used to confront you — which featured everything from broiled quail to veal saltimbocca. Thankfully, they kept the toasted ravioli ($14) and oysters Rockefeller ($17), although why they call the so-so escargot ($17) a “house specialty” is anyone’s guess.

And for the 563rd time I will criticize them for not using a wooden bowl for the Caesar salad (yes, it makes a difference), but otherwise tell you it is a beautiful rendition and worth every penny of your seventeen dollars. The wedge ($10) is a blessedly simple version, but doesn’t suffer for it:

Image(Salad, not Caesar)

Ooh and ahh over the bananas Foster. Skip the cherries Jubilee.

The Italian food is just as awful as it always was. Thankfully, there is now less of it.

The wine list is short, but well-chosen and well-priced. Lower your expectations and you’ll be well-served, even if the bottles are still too warm and the sommelier service nothing like what you get at more vino-centric steakhouses.

All in all, the Steer has made a dramatic comeback. Covid’s many losses were somehow its gain, and the newest crowd of avid steak eaters has taken to it like Dean Martin to a martini.

A decade ago, the iconic golden steer statue underneath the lettered sign had faded into a yellowish-tan, and was allowed to stay that way…for years. Her(?) name, BTW, is “Betsy”. This stood less as a metaphor for the Steer’s decline, and more as a direct signal advertising the fact. And it made us sad every time we drove by.

Now Betsy gleams bright and lustrous, trading on the past but looking to the future, a mere stone’s throw from the Las Vegas Strip, but competing with it just the same. Long may her golden hide shine.

Our last dinner for two came to $260, including tip. An earlier dinner (where we ate the entire menu) was covered by generous friends who have the pocketbooks to match their prodigious appetites.

Image(Vegas steakhouses are once again en fuego!)