Vegas, Part Three: Bouchon

I love myself a restaurant general manager (aka GM; see Vegas, Part Two and imminently, Vegas, Part Four). They are the overtly alpha males of a restaurant, usually suave and sophisticated with crisp suits and diplomatic demeanors, who can soften up any overly critical amateur food critic. They're the manly men who straddle the world of business and culinary indulgence.

In Vegas, I melted (ok, for 1.5 hours) at the hands of Mr. St. John. Charlotte (or was it Emily?) Bronte's St. John in Jane Eyre possessed the same, best qualities of Mr. GM at Bouchon: put-together, articulate, handsome, staid. But restauranteur St. John also possessed qualities Mr. Bronte-St.-John did not have: chaleur, sparkle, non-monochromatic clothing, and no desire to do missionary work. Always gets in the way.

After I met/complained to the general manager, an event followed by 36 hours of obsession, yes, with him.

Just an aside: the Palazzo is charming, with lots of... frescoes or paint by number.

If I started at the beginning of why I ended up at Bouchon at all, we go to 2006 in San Francisco. I heard of a restaurant called French Laundry in Napa Valley. I'll add a friend is always tempted to call it "Dirty Laundry." Same difference: untouchable in some regard. In 2006 I also began to understand that Thomas Keller, chef/owner of French Laundry, had another (cheaper) restaurant in Las Vegas called Bouchon. For four years I've wanted to see what the fuss was about. I made a reservation as soon as I realized we were going to Vegas.

We took our seats: I love the feeling of a brasserie, with the spastically-designed tile floors, the intimate tables, the banquette seating. I love feeling the pulse of the busy kitchen emanating into the dining room with a multitude of waiters. Our waitress wasn't to be seen until after half my aperitif was gone (I was going to do it the French way or not at all). The fill-in waiter (what is this, Applebee's?) said "don't tell her I told you, but she had a wardrobe malfunction." She, when she finally arrived, said she "had been busy with lots of tables." Nonetheless, she was barely attentive, brought my wine out when I was almost done with dinner, asked me twice if I wanted coffee with dessert, and just wasn't timely, etc. etc.. I think I have every right to be the steely-eyed, biting critic I seem to be in my head. This was a culinary fantasy I was living out, by golly.

But, I was in love with the general manager (didn't know it yet though) and don't fault him: the food was good. I got my old stand-by, to start: salade de chevre chaud. There was some extra word thrown in and the staff called it the greens salad, but it was a typical French chevre salad: shiny greens entirely bathed in a vinaigrette, chopped shallots, and a small circle of chevre (here, dusted with herbes de provence) nestled on top.

This salad went beatifully with my Ricard (note the cloudiness of the drink).

...And the delightfully textured French bread (there is some name for the pretty French breads created to look like leaves or flowers, but I can't remember their name). We were also served roasted pistachios. I got aperos (pre-meal snacks like nuts, etc) so I was in Frenchie heaven.


For dinner, I ordered something I've never had: boudin blanc. It was delightful; t almost tasted like barbecued pâté but not as heavy. Or maybe like a filet cut..of sausages: smooth consistency, uniformly colored, not riddled with offal or hints of offal. It was served with grilled prunes (delightful, once I shed the AARP connotation) and delicious pureed potatoes. It was a delightful trio of tastes and once I got smart, I took a small bit of each for each bite to create a perfect trifecta. When I had four bites left, I got my chardonnay but it was a damn good chardonnay. I was just fine.

Listen to this phase and don't wince at the Vegas-ness/snooty Parisian-ness of it: Since I had rhum baba the night before, it seemed the best decision that night to instead order l'île flottante. If you're still reading in five minutes, it gets more tolerable, trust me. Anyway, I got the île flottante.


That made 3 out of 4 items I ordered that night significant for historical reasons: Ricard makes me think of my college French foreign exchange neighbor who loved Ricard and hunting wild boar; the salade of chevre chaud was the first French food item I had that opened my eyes to how different French food was; and île flottante was the dessert I ordered when I took myself to the French restaurant Montmartre in 2004 on Capitol hill when I was interning and didn't know that indulging in French food could be so satisfying. Whatever, it was amazing.

Just like Palladio (quick side note and art lesson). Vicenza, Italy, is home of my brother and Palladian art, both of which were represented at the Pallazzo. To commemorate my brother's robust appreciation for the Palladian aesthetic, Lisa photographed me in front of a print of Palladio's rotunda in Vicenza.

And, in all its glory:

Ok, finished. So, food was great but service was poor and, uncharacteristically, I wanted to tell someone about it. I'm not used to my culinary dreams being marred by poor service. I boldly sought out anyone at the hostess stand who would listen to me when walking out and then I met HIM (lovely looking GM St. John).

I explained my general mild dissaatisfaction with my waitress's timeliness, emphasizing that it wasn't a huge deal, but was noticeable. He was the most damn thankful customer service-y person I've ever met. He graciously and prolifically thanked me and offered to have us back for oysters and champagne. Bien sur, I said. I got his card (note: second GM business card I acquired in two days).

After some aspirationally flirtatious emails (only on my end, of course) back and forth, I learned his offer to return for oysters/champagne was in fact legit. So I went two days later. I camped out at the bar, broke out my postcards, and enjoyed St. John's hospitality. There were at any time a maximum of five people at the bar, so there was a mild hum of noise but I was able to enjoy the professional attentiveness of the bartenders. I (believe that I) had three glasses of champagne for free. And six oysters.

I was in heaven. One of the bartenders told me about a new cocktail he was preparing for the staff to try before it appeared on the menu... something with apricot puree (which he gave me a spoonful of), mint (which he let me try), and Domaine de Canton (a ginger liqueur, which he also gave me a small taste of). He also gave me a history of the two sons who created Domaine de Canton and St. Germain (which I sipped), whose father brought Chambord to the States, a story you can read about.

A few delightful hours later, I packed up my stack of postcards, slowly slid off my chair, and admired St. John one last time. Hours later the man thanked ME for coming back in. In true bought-off fashion, I'll say Bouchon was tres bien and if you go, please send St. John my regards.