A Blithe PALATE

Leaving Las Vegas

Dinner last night was very nice but not exceptional. We ate at Postria. I don't expect much from Wolfgang Puck. Maybe in the 80's the mystique of Spago was validated by his cooking; but his chef de cuisine in Vegas lacks anything resembling magic. However, someone else paid for dinner so that makes it quite superb. And it was a chance to spend time with colleagues I normally don't get to spend time with so that was quite excellent.

I conned breakfast with another colleague this morning. Sadly, I had to depart at noon on the dot to make my plane, which will redeposit me in Atlanta at 10:30 tonight. This puts me home at 12:30 am. And there will be no food in between because I refuse to pay $9 for a sandwich on Delta. Greg told me to go to the Star Trek Café, a 24/7 Star Trek convention refugee camp, but I didn't have any real urges to eat rokeg blood pie or Brak't or gagh (you think I'm making this up, don't you?). Naturally I selected Bouchon (again), this time to test their pain au chocolat.

Pain au chocolat translates literally to "chocolate bread." Our bastardized version is called "Chocolate Croissant." Try ordering that in Paris, as I did, when I was 16, and have the baker stare at you like you're a freak -- the French do haughty really well. "Croissant au chocolat," I kept saying. He kept staring and inquiring, "Quoi? Quoi?" ("What? What?"). Pointing is universal in all languages. His supercilious brow rose as he put one of the desired pastries into a paper wrap. He handed it to me and said in that snotty tone that only a French accent is able to produce: "PAIN au chocolat."

Okay, PAIN au chocolat you TROU DU CUL. (That translates to exactly what you think it sounds like.)

Anyway, the hallmark of a superb pain au chocolat is the leavened puff pastry-like dough which crisps on the outside and puffs sweetly inside from steam, and the fact that there are NO CHOCOLATE CHIPS. There are one or two STRIPS of bittersweet at least 55% cocoa chocolate (you'll notice I have an obsession with high quality chocolate but if you're gonna ingest calories, it needs to be worth every single bite), NOT chocholate chips. Let me repeat -- there are NO CHOCOLATE CHIPS in a pain au chocolat! That's an aberration of nature!

Puff pastry is also known as mille feuille pastry. Puff pastry is made by folding the dough and butter in thirds, rolling out and folding in thirds repeatedly for six turns. This actually results in 729 layers of butter sandwiched between 730 layers of dough so "mille feuille" (French for "thousand leaves) is a slight exaggeration. Pain au chocolat should not crumble in your mouth; it should flake but the interior should be sweet and moist -- layers are individually steamed opened; and the strip of chocolate should be soft but not melted.

My favorite "cheating" method to make mini pain au chocolat:

1 box of puff pastry, thawed
1 bar of Valrhona chocolate

Cut puff pastry into 2 inch squares; wrap around 1 inch strips of chocolate. Brush puff pastry with egg wash (1 egg beaten + 2 T water). Bake at 400 degrees for 12 minutes, or until puff pastry is golden. Don't overbake. Serve with coffee. I'm partial to tea with it. Of course, I'm partial to tea for anything.

Bouchon's pastry chef is also the chef of operations, the guy who took me on the tour the other night. Since he and I had a ten minute discussion about the proper way to make croissant, I knew the pain au chocolat would be exceptional. But I wanted their maple almond granola and homemade vanilla yogurt instead -- perfect breakfast food. Reminds me I need to start making my own yogurt. In any case, because they love me, I now have a fresh baguette, strawberry jam, and a pain au chocolat for the trip back.

Tomorrow morning there will be self-flagellation at the gym. If I can find a hairshirt, penance will be complete on the treadmill.

I'm rather sad to be leaving Vegas. I always associated the tacky with Vegas. Who knew it was also a central depository for four star cooking and high end shopping (which I had to forgo in my pursuit of stomach happiness)? For the food I've eaten here, I'd happily put up with homicidal cabbies and neon ostentation.

Haut Chocolat. Vegas, Days 3 & 4

Vegas has gone up yet another notch in my books. After the initial shock of day 1, Vegas has found its way surely to my heart through a guaranteed passage: via the stomach. Like all Hong children, I'm deeply obsessed with food. So when Vegas offers me stellar food on one long strip of restaurants, it's easy to overlook the neon grandeur and focus on epicurean rendezvous.

The Forum at Caesar's Palace (which my friend Neal insisted I go see) is the west coast home to Vosges Chocolates -- designer chocolate. The company is based in Chicago and Katrina Markoff, the owner and founder, has won repeated acclaim for her unusual flavorings and stunning designs. I've been reading about Vosges for several years now -- I just never saw any sense in ordering chocolate taste untried. Godiva Chocolate is a mere hack compared to Vosges (and owned by Purina -- yes, as in bow wow and meow Purina -- to boot!*). As is perfectly trendy now, everything is organic, all natural, etc. But it's the combination of flavors that shocks and swoons. I tried their Black Pearl truffle (dark chocolate, wasabi, Japanese ginger and sesame seeds), the Alexis (dark chocolate, Cabernet/Syrah and sweet curry) and another dark chocolate truffle with balsamic vinegar and Italian hazelnut chocolates. The girl behind the counter kept staring at me since I only took one bite of each until I explained that I was picking and choosing my calories and since I wasn't bowled over by either of the last two flavors I saw no sense in eating the rest.

Their most popular flavor is a truffle called "Naga," which is milk chocolate, coconut flakes and curry. Yes, curry. Sounds revolting at first - until you taste it. I'm not a fan of milk chocolate under the best of circumstances but then you bite into the Naga -- and the creamy richness of coconut milk curls around your tongue, chased by a lavish punch of curry. I ate the whole thing. It's odd, it's gorgeous, it's a one ounce paean to hedonism. Perfectly apt for Caesar's Palace.

Eating the Naga makes me keenly aware that there are such things as food gods. It's also, as Tony Bourdain notes after eating at one of the rare Michelin three star restaurants (Arzak) in A Chef's Tour, depressing as hell, because not in my wildest dreams could I ever come up with something so unique. How do you put flavors like this together and know they're going to work? How did Gary Scarborough of The Food Studio come up with a lemon basil parfait that stands out as one of the best pairings to hit my taste buds in the last two decades?

The most exotic chocolate I've ever made are my Marco Polo truffles. Marco Polo is my favorite blend of tea, from the Mariage Freres tea house in Paris. I'd tasted Earl Grey truffles before so thought, ah, I'll put together my favorite tea and my favorite chocolate. Truffles are notoriously easy to make. It's chocolate, cream and butter. Don't use Hersheys. Find and buy Valrhona chocolate or another 50%-70% cocoa chocolate. Find and use European butter like Plugra which is 80% butterfat as opposed to Land o' Lakes which is mainly water. If you're going to eat truffles, don't stoop to plebian calorie counting. Make your calories worthwhile -- pick what you're going to eat and make sure it's worth every bite. Otherwise, don't waste your time. You can use your favorite (loose) tea with this recipe.

Bring 2/3 cup of heavy cream and 3 T unsalted butter to boil. Remove from heat and add 3 T of loose tea to the cream. Allow to steep for 10 minutes. Strain flavored cream and discard tea leaves. Reheat cream over low heat but do not allow to boil. Stir hot cream over 6 oz chopped Valrhona or other high quality bittersweet chocolate in glass or non-reactive bowl. Stir well, making sure chocolate is melted and incorporated. Refrigerate 2-4 hours, until the ganache (fancy word for chocolate + cream) hardens. Put surgical gloves on. Using a melon baller or a spoon, scoop 1 ounce of ganache and roll into a ball between your hands. Work quickly: the heat from your hands will melt the chocolate. Place the ganache on a parchment lined jelly roll sheet. Melt 1/2 cup of Valrhona chocolate. Dip the ganache into the melted chocolate, making sure to cover completely. Place chocolate on a wire rack and allow excess chocolate to drip onto parchment sheet. Refrigerate for 2 hours, until chocolate shell hardens. Alternatively, swirl the ganache in a bowl of cocoa powder. Serve with tea or coffee. This is a really really rich dessert. A little goes a long way. One or two should do you fine.

I "fasted" last night on bread from the Bouchon bakery (they gave me a to go bag of bread Monday night), and water. I attempted to steal a chunk of Boursin cheese from an industry mixer last night, but carrying it back to my room proved difficult -- it looked like I had a really wet snot rag in hand. And confessing that I took a chunk of cheese from a networking event has probably branded me Weirdo Par Excellence. So I discarded it and subsisted on a baguette that had been made from a levain started four years ago and hot tea. Our per diem allowance is $38. My boss pulled me aside before my trip and admonished, "Now I don't want to be seeing meals from Le Cirque on your expense form!" I said, "Would I do that?" He said, "YES!" So I promised him I wouldn't exceed my collective daily ratio. Having blown two days of my daily quotient at Bouchon Monday night, it was perfectly fitting to eat bread and water last night. But man, fasting never tasted so much like Paris. Maybe I should actually go to Paris -- or rather, the Paris hotel. My friend Anna tells me there's a great crepe place and they have Nutella crepes to die for (confidentially: I despise Nutella).

Happily, I'm at parity today where the expense report is concerned. Even better, I've been invited to dinner by several colleagues and will try to pin the bill on them. I wonder where I should eat tonight?

*Note: I made a mistake. Godiva is owned by Campbell Soup, not Ralston Purina. I'm not sure which is worse.

Gluttony. One of the 7 Deadly Sins. Vegas, Day 2

All is forgiven. I had dinner at Bouchon tonight (I took Anna's advice to bat my lashes and show cleavage). I'm in great charity with Vegas right now (I was kidding about previous comment. I just walked in at opening and pointed out that there was no one in the restaurant so surely they could seat me).

Having eaten at The French Laundry and Bouchon in Yountville (the former with the beloved hubby, the latter with cousins Wendy and Jesse), I was all set for good French bistro fare. Of course, Bouchon did not disappoint. (Okay, they did, initially: they do not make steak tartare.) I ordered Steak Frites and asked the waiter to have the meat prepared to the equivalent of what a dear British friend once described as, "Wipe its arse and throw it on my plate." It seemed to please him immensely that I did not ask for charred flesh so the hunk of meat came to the table perfectly pink bordering on red. And the frites! The frites! Few things in the world make me happier than fries that are properly prepared except it's so simple a dish everyone invariably screws it up.

Here's the proper way to make fries, taught to me by my aunt, the third first-rate chef of my acquaintance (one and two being Granny Le and Mom): first, use Russet potatoes. If you must use anything else, use Yukon Golds. Otherwise, don't bother making fries. Peel and cut into strips. Soak in cold water 30 minutes to wash off the starch. Drain in a colander and rinse with cold water again. Dry using paper towels or cloth towels. Heat up peanut oil (PEANUT! Not safflower, olive, corn or vegetable oil. PEANUT!) until flicking water droplets into the oil causes it to pop and crackle. Water droplets, mind you. Otherwise you are risking life and burnt arms. Put in a batch of fries being careful NOT TO CROWD the pot. This part -- blanching -- is the first part of a two step process. Leave the fries in until they start to turn slightly gold. Remove from the pot and drain on paper towels. Put in the second batch of fries. Repeat until you've blanched all fries. Part two of a perfect fry is to let the oil reheat. Now put the first batch of blanched fries (remember not to crowd the pot) back in. The fries will turn golden quickly -- remove from the hot oil once they're golden. Don't brown too much or you risk crunchy vs crispy fries. Repeat with other batches.

A frites purist would eat the fries without sauces. I'm American enough to want them with Heinz 57. Forget John Kerry. Any other ketchup is worthless.

The highlight of dinner: the chef de cuisine, Mark Hopper, invited me into the kitchen for a tour after I asked the waiter if I could get an autographed menu. Apparently the fact that I'd dined at his former alma maters (French Laundry and Bouchon) was enough to induce him to invite me backstage.

Take your movie stars; they're useless to me. But introduce me to a chef and it's the equivalent of giving me food geek nirvana. Hubby says that when I got to go back to the French Laundry's kitchen, I behaved as if I were going to prom. I was giddy, sure, but it had to do with still being drunk from the 4 bottle pre-dinner tasting expedition and the pain of sore legs from dry shaving. But I digress: that's another story.

Chef Hopper asked me about my experiences at the French Laundry, and mentioned that he might have cooked for me and Hubby the night we went with Wendy and Jesse since Chef Keller was in New York at Per Se. I asked him if he was planning to branch out on his own like Grant Achatz, one of the former FL sous chefs and Hopper lit up. He said Grant was his best friend and we chatted about Achatz's career and his new restaurant, Alinea, due to open May 4 (is it sad that I know restaurant opening dates and Star Wars movies opening dates?). He told me that when Hubby and I are in Chicago and we want to eat there to give him a call and he'd set us up with Achatz. Then he asked the chef of operations to give me a tour of the entire place.

It lacked only the Hubby to make the experience superlative because it's never fun to eat dinner without someone whose food sympathies are perfectly aligned with your own. You feel like The Jerk with the spotlight on you. On the other hand, everyone in the restaurant feels sorry for you and they keep bringing you bread from the Bakery and take you to the kitchen for a private tour.

I've figured it out: Vegas is like DisneyWorld on steroids. It appeals to my sense of the ridiculous so I like it. And let's face it: the food selections are pretty impressive. Le Cirque and a Keller restaurant within spitting distance?

My friend Greg text messaged me: "the thought of you soaking up all that psuedo-culture is painfully funny."

It is/was painfully funny to me too: I think I peed myself laughing under the fake blue sky when the singing gondoliers pushed by at The Venetian.

Culinary Adventures in Vegas

I dunno about this.

Initial impression of Vegas: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuw.

Let's start with the psychotic conspiracy theorist cabbie who wears an ELF absorbent medaillon around his neck -- ELF as in electric low frequency -- he swears Russia and the U.S. Government are transmitting ELF rays throughout the world to inflict people with cancer to kill them. His medaillon apparently absorbs the gamma radiation so he is protected. Of course, then he's got to deal with the flouride that's being pumped into our waters to poison us because after WWII the government didn't know what to do with the surplus flouride so they've decided to put it into our water in order to keep the population levels under control. In the meantime, he's actively working on killing ME as he swerves violently through traffic that can really only be described as leisurely -- like, everyone's ambling along, gobsmacked by this technicolor alternate universe. Then as we're at a stop light, he starts laying on the horn, explaining to me that this will ensure that everyone steps on the gas pedal when the light turns green so he's not stuck at another red light. I'm pretty sure it's gonna ensure that everyone is annoyed as @!#$%^&* with him because *I* am. But then why bother when he simply races THROUGH the red light because he misses the green light?

It's possible to transcend this plane of distorted reality by listening to songs on my iPod and muttering my mantra: "happy place, find a happy place, find a happy place -- eyaaaggh that's a human being you're about to hit -- happy place, happy place..."

And then let's move to the lovely check-in girl who was so spaced out on some drug she could barely speak. I suppose it might be a telling sign of particular drug use if your nose keeps dripping? Or maybe she's got a wicked ass cold. Maybe I should have offered her the tissues that are perpetually in my pocket. Maybe I need to start carrying Purell around. All the same, I put my leather gloves on to handle what she's touched. Have I mentioned it's 70 degrees out?

From there we go to the Walk through Hell. Apparently the Mirage doesn't like it if you go directly from guest check in to the elevator -- they require you walk a mile through meandering (and I DO mean meandering -- I never knew bulk like that could be supported on two human legs) tourists, drunk college boys, and a zillion slot machines. I'm not sure what's more repellent: the décor or the weeping man at one of the machines.

Oh, and the woman who brought my room service food was shaking so bad I thought she was having an epileptic seizure (I turned off the TV just in case the lights and color were wreaking havoc with her eqilibrium). I gotta tell you, if I'd wanted a martini, I'm sure she would have made one hell of a drink.

My snobbery is clearly showing its ugly elitist head. So is my adoration of the ridiculous. Someone needs to beat them both down.

The long and short is actually that I'm pissed because Bouchon and Le Cirque and Osteria del Circo are all booked solid so I have no hope of meeting my eating goals whilst here.

I suppose I could use all the money saved that would have otherwise been spent on steak tartare and papardelle with smoked duck raghu and find a blackjack table. I can count to 21! Most days. If it doesn't involve goodwill, P/Es, Revenue lines, EBITDAs or Net Income. Or I could run across the road and go to the exhibit on Ancient Egypt and spend the next four nights sleeping with the lights on. The choices, it appears, are endless: eat, gamble or scare myself to death.

Welcome to Vegas?