Zeitgeist Las Vegas, Finale

I’m only going to tell you about one meal. See http://somepsychoticramblings.blogspot.com/ for the rest.

The place is called Aureole, and the chef is Charlie Palmer--- probably not in person, but you never know, he’s there often.

Upon entering the restaurant, you cross a dizzyingly narrow catwalk at the top level of a four-story wine tower that houses 10,000 bottles of wine. The “wine angel” of the evening, a pretty girl in a black catsuit, rappels up and down gathering bottles as needed. The path wraps around the tower, making damned sure you appreciate it fully before you get to the hostess stand at the bottom.

They know us there, and it was a slow night (a slow season, see previous) so we were escorted under a glass archway with water cascading throughout, to the Swan Court. This is an exquisitely appointed dining room, the floor to ceiling windows face a large pool with fountains at one end and half a dozen sleeping swans at the other. Tres chic, and usually the demesne of VIPs. We got a semi-walled circular booth, and service fit for a much-loved monarch.

First the amuse: a microscopic napoleon of roasted beets and crème fraiche mousse on a tiny cracker, next to a croque monsieur (French for a ham & cheese sandwich) the size of a walnut, then a carved cucumber cup filled with ethereal salmon mousse. Each morsel was one bite. When our magically efficient waiter realized I was giving Robert my croque monsieur (and why) he flew to the kitchen and returned with a little cup made from one hand-cut potato chip, filled with fresh buffalo mozzarella, a slice of heirloom tomato and some micro-greens, all drizzled with antique balsamic vinegar.

Merely to say that Robert had the French onion soup is unfair to every immortal piece of art produced by civilization. The idealized consommé was thickened with truffles and foie gras, the carmelized onions and aged gruyere mere gilding. This voluptuous concoction was baked in a bowl covered with flaky pastry that had more gruyere melted on top. The waiter deftly beheads the whole, and the fragrance goes straight through your nose into your brain, inducing euphoria even before the spoon goes in.

Sure, Charlie Palmer is famous for beef, but the potato gnocchi (yes, Ted, that’s probably redundant) with seared scallops on an organic leek fondue, surrounded by wild porcinis and bathed in champagne foam was a melody of texture, filling my mouth with light. Velvety, savory, delicious beyond expression. I’m smiling as I type this, just remembering how it felt to taste it.

Of course the entrees were equally perfect. Pan-roasted New Zealand snapper came with a summer squash tapenade and citrus wafers, golden chanterelle mushrooms and a sherry-infused jus. The veal loin with crisped sweetbreads had a fricassee of the same golden chanterelle mushrooms alongside, and some citron potato.

But the desserts… how to do them justice? We both had the fleur de sel caramel bombe with summer cherries and cherry-pomegranate sorbet. A pretty citrus tuile held the sorbet sphere above the bombe, and a mathematically exact spiral of hardened caramel garnished the little sculpture.

Our waiter was so saddened by the fact that we had each ordered the same dessert that he brought us another to share. An amazing tiramisu trifle with ginger sorbet came with the strangest sweet I’ve ever experienced. It was like a really good chocolate brownie but not, like a phenomenal dark chocolate soufflé but not. A hybrid of both, baked in buttery, flaky pastry (more croissant than pie crust, only not) served warm and comforting and yummy.

The plate of individual chocolates (each infused with a different gorgeousness: lavender, orange, vanilla, caramel, more chocolate) were both almost too pretty to eat, and superfluous at that point. Don’t worry, we mustered the fortitude to finish every one.