A Fleur Grows In The Desert

Once upon a time the Nevada desert gave out a tiny neon burp. Someone named it the Las Vegas Strip. Now people come from all over to fill it. It’s both paradox and oxymoron. Gauche, elegant and absurd; abandon all reality, ye who enter – and enter with abandonment.

The devil is in the dichotomies. Driving to breakfast at 7:00 a.m. (!), leaving elegant comfort and heading up the Strip toward comfortable elegance, we saw a half-naked drunk guy rousted from one of the dives near the Imperial Palace. Later, inside the Venetian, we saw a Taoist monk in robes next to a mother and daughter wearing matching “Twilight” t-shirts.

Did I say breakfast? We shlepped to Bouchon every morning for sourdough waffles with fresh strawberries and hot maple syrup, custardy apple-y French toast, oeufs au gratin, sautéed spinach with shallots and garlic, croissants with fresh peach jam, luscious pastry, hot caramel (like hot chocolate, only caramel), excellent eggs, et cetera, et yummy cetera.

The tourists may range from entertaining to awful, but the people who live and work there are genuinely nice. Shout-out to radiant Allison in the VIP lounge, she is as charming as she is pretty and you should see how very pretty she is.

And of course a huge thank-you goes to Juan at Fleur de Lys for being a stand-up guy and a pal and also for bringing the amazing Hubert Keller out for a long chat. What a perfect ending to a meal that transcended perfection.

You’ve heard me go on about the Fleur de Lys onion soup in previous posts when I was discussing Art. This soup is Art. Before it came a tempura black cod amuse bouche on soft yet crunchy warm potato salad with cayenne aioli which was as magnificent as the yellowtail with a cippolini onion, shiitakes and ginger foam which was as gorgeous as the slow-cooked salmon and then there was the mind-alteringly lovely butter poached lobster on herbed spaetzle. What can I say? This ersatz vegetarian loves her fish. Truffled macaroni and cheese; some kind of magical cow produced that cheese, no ordinary cow could have done it. Then, oh my dear lord, then there was the cold tapioca fruit soup with mango and passionfruit sorbet intermezzo before the chocolate soufflé with mocha ice cream. I’ve run out of adjectives. Buy a thesaurus or read some poetry to get the right words. I can show you the pictures. That’s the best I can do. It isn’t enough. Even the music is perfect there. It’s a gestalt for mind, body and spirit, and our friend Juan gave us the opportunity to thank the man who created it all.

Really, the watchword for the trip was “gestalt”. That, and “full”. And so, with a happy sigh, I return to the cycle of veggies and grains, gym and keyboard, until it’s time once again to visit the delicious electric chaos on Las Vegas Boulevard.