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: