Vegas, Part Two: Mix

I went to Vegas, one million miles from Paris, and spoke French, met Pascal, learned where to find caneles (CityCenter hotel), ate my first rhum baba, indulged in madeleines with melted Nutella, and ate a way overpriced foie gras. My life is amazing.

Vegas fascinates me, partially through flattery, but also because of its vibrancy. Pascal (restaurant general manager #1 I met) complimented on my French accent (he has my eternal gratitude), I spoke a little (very little) Greek with my Ethiopian taxi driver, got a Vegas geography lesson from my Portuguese cabbie, and had fantastic French food on the 60th floor of the Mandalay Bay Hotel at Mix, Alain Ducasse's rooftop resturant/bar. For those interested in copyright infringement:


Mix was equally impressive as my first glimpse of Vegas. It features a relatively simple menu, sophisticated design, classic, well-done food, and an exquisitely French restaurant manager. The decor was elegant: simple fixtures but with a centerpiece curtain of dangling blown glass baubles.

The water glasses were blood red, the tables intimately round, the service reasonably attentive, and the food simple and delicious.

Did I mention the general manager was charming? I have a new friend in Pascal, whose style in hospitality was minimal yet attentive--very French. He was there but not obtrusive. Real waiter got the title of DB, which is short for something not French. DB, first of all, checked out a woman walking by while taking my order. DB, secondly, was recounting some self-absorbed story when he left mid-sentence to attend a table of over-black-halter-topped women. Mid-sentence. I thought he had some premonition another waiter's body had caught fire with the speed with which he abruptly left our conversation. He posed in that family's photo and came over to tell us he did so and to watch as the family realized he'd done it. It was sort of like watching a frat boy on a reality show play waiter. Summarily unimpressive.

We jumped in, though, ordering the foie gras, with a fig paste (it wasn't called a paste but it was a viscous paste derived from fig) as a base. The foie gras was greasy, rich, but a bit crisp on the outside, topped with black pepper and candied orange rind. Massive and mind-blowing.

There were also five types of bread at our table--exquisitely fresh French bread, a seedy bread, a bread with ham, a bread with fruit/nuts and.. a fifth.


The accompanying butter was exceptional somehow and was co-exhibited with a peanut butter, which could have been butter with a peanut-brittle-type mixture melded in.

So, we each got the hanger steak, my new favorite. I respect it's charming elegance despite such humble roots. We each were able to choose two accompanying sides: I got the black peppercorn sauce (bordelaise sauce with black peppercorns) and the... Riviera? Something geographical that was a delightfully greasy herb butter type topping...

It was tremendous. And was served with a grilled pappadew. The meat was cooked perfectly, the sauces were divine, and the portion was just responsible enough to still be overwhelming.


We slurped down our wine (it seems that the only thing one does with wine after eating steak) and I ordered dessert, because I love pain. I was desperate to speak with Pascal so I asked him, in French, whether the Ile Flottante or the Rhum Baba was better.

Clearly I chose correctly.

I love a man who doesn't equivocate. He said definitely Rhum Baba since it was more classically Alain Ducasse and took more skill in making than l'Ile Flottante. Before I could even consider translating for my friend Lisa, he had. Ah, les hommes francais.

In presentation, it was simple: two halves of a rum cake, a small rammekin of whipped cream, and a smaller-handled piece of pottery with rum. It was fantasic. The rum cake was already tremendously flavorful and the simple combination of rum and whipped cream with each bite was simple yet extremely elegant.

It was criminal to leave behind as much as I did. But look again at how pretty it is from another angle.

And it got worse. Pascal brought out freshly-baked madeleines that we ourselves removed from the madeleine cast-iron baking pan. They came with an egg cup filled with Nutella. Really. And a small spoon for serving chocolate with the madeleines. Heaven on earth.

Close up:

DB wasn't paying attention so after we knashed our teeth with how full we were post-madeleine, he brought more plates. After he realized we already had madeleines, he just took back the empty plates and instead brought our check, on which he charged me for the large foie gras rather than the small (ok, ok, it's Vegas, I shouldn't be frugal, but..). DB was true to form in adhering to the tenets of his name. Man couldn't even say "bordelaise" right and that's damn near the culinary capital of France. But....Alain and Pascal fed me well.

Even the bathroom was sophisticated, classic, and well-done (only because it was not French). In views, it was second only to that of the bar, which Pascal snuck us into, that is on an outside deck perpendicular to the restaurant and facing north toward the Strip:

Vegas, Part One

I have no time for this "what happens in Vegas" nonsense. Vegas, I discovered, during a short foray there this week, epitomizes the nexus between food and love. In all the traditional ways I have perhaps inarticulately identified. But it's done better in Vegas: with more neon, from higher up, with greater gusto, cleavage, and indulgence. Vegas is fake, like Epcot or Bourbon Street during a drunken stupor, but it's a city of indulging in pleasure and I can't think of an easier way to enjoy food than in a city where love of indulgence is ubiquitous.

Vegas to me is eating free oysters with three glasses of champagne offered by a gorgeous man with a literary name, a free lunch offered by a friend's brother (restaurant general manager), and learning, in French, that I have to try rhum au baba because it's the chef's specialty. A spirit of indulgence permeates everything and makes the food taste better; it's never been so easy for me the passionate about food. A hint of debauch in the air makes all the difference.

It's also never been so easily to be cavalier about love. When 105-lb waitresses' assets are as large as their head and smutty advertisements paper the streets, it's hard to imagine that good conversation is what satiates men in Vegas. So, ironically, I think I might be able to observe with only some element of exaggeration that only in Vegas could a single amateur food critic break three hearts (delight of delights!) and:

1. Spend all evening with a man who didn't speak English and with whom her Spanish-speaking ability was lauded (there were apparently differing ideas between them on what "conoserte" practically meant, although messages were sent that included "Imlove," "miss you" and "memandaras una foto para mi por pleases")
2. Spend the next evening with an accountant who offered to fly out to DC this weekend and invited her to San Jose next weekend. Accountant from Iowa. (She also would insist she's not kissing and telling totally slimy-ly as they both were ridiculous.)
3. Have a guy at 0600 stumble out of a cab while she waited for her airport shuttle, approach her, whisper in her ear that she's sexy (but also allege that she doesn't take risks or indulge in what she wants), then offer to pay for her taxi to the airport she was subsequently required to take because her friend inadvertently caused the shuttle to be missed (looking for cell phone charger in the room), while she protested that this was all unnecessary. Again, only in Vegas, would this increasingly sober out-of-cab-stumbler (tall, good-looking, from Philadelphia) make fun of her for having purchased an "Ultimate Club Hopping Package" (saying something like "a white woman with that in Vegas couldn't be more cliche"), take her bags to the taxi stand, get in the front seat, pull out a wad of money, pay for the cab and only ask for her cell phone in return (was not given), and walk back to the hotel.

And there was a little half-heart break was on her side as a result of seeing Chippendales, perhaps one of the most amazing shows ever. To see the manifestation of women's fantasies on stage was delightful (rugged businessmen saying they loved to get women flowers.. ripping off their shirts... cowboys, traditional archetypes of masculinity.. ripping off their chaps...sailors... ripping off their bell bottoms....and shirtless men coming into the crowd giving women hugs). The only way it could have been more perfect is if they gave each of us foot-rubs or said we don't look fat in our jeans.

Anyway (abandoning third-person narration) we befriended the bartender at the Chippendales bar (aka "the afterparty"), who let us guess which Chippendales were gay (only two), what each one did, and how late the Chippendales stayed out at the bar (until they found someone to hook up with, he joked). We waited until "the nicest Chippendale" was free, circa ten minutes prior to closing time.

We all talked about something, the bouncers started clearing out the girls in tight dresses, and Nice Chippendale said he'd walk us out. We meandered and NC played with his cell phone, asked us what our plans were (my suspicion is that they didn't meet his threshold or one of us didn't mention the words "hook up") so after a solid two seconds of lustily looking us over (I think more an effect of his professional tendencies) he somehow managed to disappear in about three seconds after the bar doors closed. Sort of mortifying but at the same time, enough of a Chippendale interaction to say we closed the bar down with a Chippendale. Technically.

Rapid exposure suggests that I'm doing more than respectfully touching a wall.

I recount that because it was ridiculous. What was not ridiculous was the free drink I got at Harrah's while I stared at more cowboys (fantasy is reality):

And really drank beer from a mason jar at Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill:

And leaned awkwardly into a cardboard cutout:

And perhaps more awkwardly, pretended he was real:

And ate my delicious not-at-all-awkward time-killing-between-2-and-3-am-pizza at the Wynn's restaurant, Stratta:

Speaking of exceptional blowing skills, innovative glass blower Dale Chihuly has two beautiful exhibits at the Bellagio:

In the conservatory:


And in the lobby:

The hotel itself is beautiful from atop the Eiffel Tower ride at Paris:

And equally delightful was a trip to an outpost of the Carnegie Deli in the Mirage with my mom's friend Neal, who graciously treated me to pickles, corned beef and pastrami (my new deli favorites), and good conversation. He also thoughtfully insisted I take a photo of our delicious meal for the blog, a most welcome gesture:

So in keeping with Vegas excess, I took photos of nearly everything I ate, including meals at Alain Ducasse's restaurant, Mix, Thomas Keller's restaurant, Bouchon, and at a few other delightful restaurants. I love Vegas and will explain why in pretentiously serialized accounts.