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.