Every food writer has their epiphanies.

The earliest ones are the most memorable, and stay seared on your brain and taste buds like they were put there with a branding iron.

There was our first taste of barbecue in the early 60s — from a place we remember as Meyer’s, or Meier’s or Myers in Orlando, Florida — a platter of chopped meat swimming in a sauce we thought was the best thing we had ever put in our mouth. (To this day, ELV has a weakness for even bad barbecue sauces.)

Then, in 1964, an oval, silver dish of crab meat bubbling in a sherry-butter sauce at Antoine’s in New Orleans — a dish so good we remember turning to Marcella Ruth Schroader Curtas (d.o.b. 8.10.24 – The Official Mother of ELV) and asking her: “Why don’t you cook like this, Mommy?”

After that, adolescence and life interceded, and we spent our teens and twenties doing what every red-blooded male does: acting stupid over women.

By 1982 some of that was behind us, and we started concentrating on working our way through Jacques Pepin’s La Technique and La Method cookbooks, and mastering what little we could of Chinese cooking as well. Two years earlier, John Mariani had published an article in Playboy listing the 50 greatest restaurants in America, and since we were starting to accumulate a little cash, it seemed about the right time to start expanding our restaurant education.

True to form, ELV started right at the top with Le Francais – Jean Banchet’s temple of haute cuisine right outside of Chicago.

Memories are dim of what we had — a bisque was certainly involved, as were sweetbreads, and probably lobster ravioli — but what we remember most is how gracious the staff was to a foursome of dining-out neophytes, how intense the flavors were, and how the whole meal cost $336 for four — an astronomical sum to us in those days.

Somewhere in his boxes of memorabila, ELV has the American Express receipt for the meal…but the sum of the experience needed nothing but a view of this matchbook to bring them all back to us.

The matchbook, you see, was given to us by foodie friend Rod Schiffman, when he was in town last week. Over a tasty lunch at China Poblano, he told us he had read an old post of ours mentioning our seminal Le Francais experience, and it seems he had a very similar one in the exact same year. Rooting around his extensive match book collection, he found the above souvenir and presented it to as a gift and a symbol of how the gourmands of our generation all started (literally and figuratively) from the same place: being taken by the hand by the French masters and shown what superior cooking is all about.

Who knows? We could’ve been there in the same week! It doesn’t matter. What matters is how important it is in a gourmet’s education to experience the best of everything as soon as you can….and how glassy-eyed we both got just thinking about a single meal, in a long gone restaurant, three decades ago.

Merci beaucoup Rod.

And merci beaucoup Mon. Banchet.

WHEN DID TIPPING BECOME A STICK-UP

By John Mariani

On a recent TV show a restaurateur told the host that he would never have a problem getting the best table in the house, but that all those out there watching that show were going to have to pony up big time to get even the slightest recognition of hospitality at his restaurants.
He then went on to detail exactly what amounts achieved precisely which results at his restaurants:  “Twenty dollars will get you noticed,” he said. “Fifty will get you a good table. But you’re going to have to pay out a hundred to get a  great table.”

After 35 years of covering restaurants around the  world, I am not naive about how greasing the palm of a maître d’ can work inane little miracles for those who measure their own self worth by what they perceive to be an “A” table. But upon hearing this restaurateur’s blatant statement of just how much the bribes would cost shocked me for its arrant smugness, this in a business supposedly built on service and hospitality. It was the kind of statement that defines the cynic as precisely as did Oscar Wilde–”a person who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.” Or, as Bob Dylan observed, “Money doesn’t talk, it screams.”

If restaurateur extraordinaire Danny Meyer has taught his colleagues anything (read his book Setting the Table), the relationship between the guest and staff should be warm, indeed, fun, for all concerned, and demanding–not anticipating–a twenty, fifty or c-note in a maître d’s hand for a table is the exact opposite of all that.  By the same token, if a guest has a delightful evening and the maître d’ helped make it so, then a tip as the guest exits is perfectly hospitable on both ends, especially if that guest intends to be a regular. The fact is that, not only at Danny Meyer’s restaurants but any restaurant that uses Open Table can easily gather summations of guest’s likes and dislikes, and, along with notes taken by the restaurant staff, a profile can be compiled so that the next time he or she visits, the guest will be enchanted to find the staff caters specifically to his likes and dislikes. That is what hospitality is all about, not bribery. And those who frequent a restaurants, as with any other establishment, are going to get preferential treatment simply as a matter of valuing their fidelity.

Celebrities, sports figures, politicians, and restaurant critics, in that order, get good tables as a matter of course; the most fawned over of all? Police commissioners and precinct captains, who need not pay off for the courtesy.  (By the way, the term Siberia, indicating a table is a less-than-appealing part of a restaurant, was coined by actress Peggy Hopkins Joyce [below] in 1931 at NYC’s El Morocco supper club when she was inadvertently shown to a lesser table.)

Of course, people who love to be seen throwing money around are the same people who feel abject ego-deflation if they had to play by the normal rules of hospitality.  I was told that the late plumbing contractor John Gotti, who ended up getting his meals through a slot in solitary confinement,  used to tip the amount of the bill itself, always insuring him of first-rate service. (The fact that he was a vengeful gangster might have had something to do with it.)

Tipping, at least in Anglo-American society is very old, dating back in print to 1755. The first specific reference to a waiter receiving a tip was in 1825.  Since then it has become common practice in Great Britain and the U.S., although until recently it was considered very bad form for a bartender in a pub to take a tip. In the first half of the last century, that is, the 20th, fifteen percent of the bill, before taxes, was the norm; of course, back then–say up until the 1980s–few people ever ordered expensive wines, so the idea of tipping fifteen percent on beverages was ridiculous. Sommeliers would receive a five or ten percent tip, but only if they did somewhat more work than merely open a bottle. There was also a time, almost wholly gone, when captains and waiters in posh restaurants were tipped separately, five and fifteen percent, respectively, with two slots on credit cards for that purpose, which was a real pain in the neck.  The tips were usually pooled anyway, with busboys and bartenders getting a cut. Maître d’s were given money on the way out.

(By the way, it is a myth that the word “tip” is short for “to insure promptness.”)
Of course, all this is, obviated by the inclusion on the bill of a service charge, increasingly the case in Great Britain, for the reason that their European guests all too often pretend not to know about tipping on the bill because in places like France and Italy, the service charge (“service compris,” “servizio incluso”) was part of the cost of the food itself; that is, if a lamb chop cost $25, about 10 to 12 percent of that cost was for service. The so-called pour boire (“for a drink,” below) was no more than a few francs (before euros) one left on the table, perhaps rounding off the bill.  This was pretty much the case in Europe until the 1960s when Americans en masse began traveling to France, Spain, Italy, and Greece, and, either ignorant of the included service charge or not wanting to seem cheap, added the usual 15 percent tip they would have back in the States–on top of the included service charge.

The expansion of this to just about every staffer in hotels also grew, despite the fact that a service charge is built into the price of the room by law. So Americans would tip everyone in sight until it became routine. I recall many years ago, when informed that Americas were tipping the chambermaids in France (who would be sharing in the service charge), the French travel and food guide editor Christian Millau gasped, “You mean after I pay $500 for a room I have to pay more to have it cleaned?”  So now in Europe tipping has become far more common, even expected, despite a note that it’s included printed on the menu or bill; if it is not, you should ask.

The tinny age of tipping was in the post-war period when maître d’s and captains at French restaurants in Paris, London and Rome could wither an incoming guest with a glance that meant, “You are obviously a nobody, but I might be convinced to seat you if you pay me a wad of money.” Even then it didn’t always work: the imperious owner and host Henri Soulé of the famous Le Pavillon in NYC refused ever to give a good table to his despised landlord, who happened to be Harry Cohn, head of Columbia Pictures.  Cohn threatened to evict Le Pavillon, but Soulé refused to budged and was out the door. (Le Pavillon relocated.)
More distressing was the upward spiral of tipping from the normal fifteen percent to twenty percent–previously reserved for exceptional service beyond the usual call of duty. Today, twenty percent has become the standard, while twenty-five is now the larger reward.  Of course, the show-offs will tip whatever they think will make the waiter or captain love them.  Don’t misunderstand: were I one of the one-percenters on earnings, a public figure like Jay-Z, or a Russian billionaire, I would tip very, very generously too, but these days people feel intimidated if they don’t tip at least twenty percent, even on wine.  Then again, as a restaurateur once told me, “If a guy can afford a $500 bottle of wine, he can readily afford to tip 20 percent on it too.”

So, depending on your spirit of generosity, bank account, or genuine gratefulness, tip what you want; also, do not tip when service has been terrible.  I know this makes Americans terrified that the waiter will run after you in the street or spike your coffee with something unpleasant, but registering your discontent with the maître d’ or owner is at the end of the day helpful to the management, as long as your complaints are legitimate and delivered courteously.

There are still places in the world that frown on tipping as uncivilized and dishonorable–Japan being a paramount example of a country that believes a service person should be paid what he is worth by an employer, not by a guest in his restaurant. And that’s more or less the case  when service is included in a bill. Tipping is almost always awkward, and now it seems always expected. What was once a congenial gesture has now become a requisite, especially when the restaurateur lays out the fees in advance just to get noticed.

ELV's new kitchen is taking shape

It is amazing how serious kitchens are….A kitchen seems to be sort of garage for your emotions, a repair shop. I have, in kitchens permitted myself to pretend to be profound. It is in bedrooms that I am laughable. – John Leonard

Marinated? In what?

It’s not often that ELV has such a bad experience in a restaurant, he rushes to his computer to tell you about it.

Usually, the worse the meal, the more he feels compelled to take a day or two ruminating over his repulsion before writing of his repugnance.

But our fourth try at Petra just confirmed every awful thing we’ve thought and said about it since the day it opened.

The owners have obviously spent a lot of money on this joint — it is the very embodiment of a big, expensively decked-out restaurant — but just as obviously haven’t a clue about Greek food.

And neither does the kitchen.

The souvlaki appetizer ($8), boasts of “marinated…with lemon juice, olive oil and spices,” but discerning any marinated  flavor in  these cooked kebabs is all but impossible.

Even worse, the meze “Sampler” of four spreads ($18) of your choice brought a “skordalia” dip that looked like an ice cream scoop of cold, chunked potatoes, and tasted like it had been infused with that sweet, slightly acrid, chopped garlic you buy by the gallon at Smart & Final.

Come to think of it, the whole menu here tastes of cheap, pre-made, Costco or Smart & Final flavors.

After that “skordalia” there was a scoop of Htipiti — which at least tasted of feta and red peppers — followed by Melitzanosalata, described on the menu as “fire roasted eggplant whipped with garlic and spices.”  What arrived was another ice cream scoop of loosely chopped, indifferently-seasoned eggplant that any third-rate home cook could’ve tossed together. The only flagellation this dip has ever seen was the flogging ELV did to himself for ordering it.

Then came the “taramosalata” coup de grace. We say “taramosalata” because that’s what we ordered, but as we pondered the appearance and flavor on the plate we couldn’t figure it out. By process of elimination that had to be the final spread we were given, but this one tasted neither of fish roe, potatoes or softened bread crumbs. No roe was visible within it, and the whole concoction contained not the expected graininess from those ingredients, but instead that of a silky, bland, emulsion.

Our conclusion was it had to be a cheap, commercially processed taramosalata, made with a minimum of roe and a maximum of emulsifiers.

Which, again, sadly, fits the flavor profile of just about everything you will have here.

What really got our Kasseri up, though, were the puny, rice-filled dolmathes ($7) — which probably cost this kitchen 7 cents to make. They tasted like bland rice inside a slightly lemony grape leaf, and were made with all the passion of a Louis C. K.  sex scene.

On the bright side, they give you tons of soft, squishy pita bread with everything…so there’s that.

The reason ELV gets soooo cheesed off at the pathetic-ness of this place is because of what it represents.

Here is a big, splashy restaurant that could be our town’s showplace for the best of Greek cuisine — it certainly looks like it is — but instead, what shows up isn’t even on par with Yasou, The Fat Greek, The Great Greek, Opa, or even Paymon’s fer chrissakes.

It isn’t just disappointing, it’s embarrassing.

Our food bill was $35 and we left a $15 tip because the bartender was a sweetie.

PETRA GREEK TAVERNA

440 South Rampart Blvd.

Las Vegas, NV 89145

702.534.0200

http://www.facebook.com/PetraGreekTaverna

My dinners have never interfered with my business. They have been my recreation…A public banquet (dinner), if eaten with thought and care, is no more of a strain than a dinner at home. – Chauncey DePew (1834-1928)

Dining out is a vice. A dissipation of spirit punished by remorse. – Cyril Connolly, The Unquiet Grave (1944)

Why should so vast a national expenditure be left entirely to chance? – Duncan Hines, Adventures in Good Eating (1936)

This morning’s theme was “Steak For the Ladies” — our take on steakhouses with a certain feminine touch.

This doesn’t mean the meat is any less manly, only that you won’t necessarily smell bullwhips and testosterone the moment you walk in the joint.

Many thanks to the good folks at Gordon Ramsay Steak for providing the most eye-popping, heart-stopping, cholesterol-saturated props ever seen in the KSNV studio.

As usual, you’ll have to scroll down to the 26:42 minute mark of the video above to behold the meat-fest we were surrounded by early this morning.

STEAKS FOR THE LADIES

1. GORDON RAMSAY STEAK – Paris Hotel and Casino

2. STRIP HOUSE – Planet Hollywood (Stay tuned for our updated review of SH coming soon!)

3. PRIME – Bellagio

4. SW STEAKHOUSE – Wynn

5. STK - The Cosmopolitan

Crassostrea gigas

ELV is not a fan of giant oysters — preferring the smaller, brinier, crisper taste of Belons, Kumamotos, Olympias (and smaller Wellfleets) to the larger Gulf Coast and Blue Point varieties.

But one bite of this Washington State beauty had us hooked. Mainly because they slice it into nice, bite-size sections for dipping into the house ponzu sauce here.

Thus does it become firm, instead of an unwieldy, slimy mess, and perfect for bracing your appetite for the sushi/sashimi treats to come.

They only offer these as a special when they can get them — and there’s usually just a few of them in the house — so get to Kabuto early and ask for availability.

They cost $12 each (if memory serves — there was a lot of sake involved).

Just thought you’d like to know.

KABUTO

5040 Spring Mountain Road #4

Las Vegas, NV 89146

702.676. 1044

If you don’t love life you can’t enjoy an oyster; there is a shock of freshness to it and intimations of the ages of man, some piercing intuition of the sea and all its weeds and breezes. – Eleanor Clark, The Oysters of Locmariaquer (1964)

A flaccid, moping, debauched mollusk, tired from too much love and loose-nerved from general world conditions, can be a shameful thing served raw upon the shell. – M. F. K. Fisher, Consider the Oyster (1941) — on why you shouldn’t eat oysters in the warm weather months.

Chicken and waffles

ELV ate at Hash House a Go Go the other day.

He does not know why he did this nor why he is telling you about it.

But indeed, he ate there.

Lunch, as a matter of fact.

With Troy Polee. (Troy Polee paid.)

TP had the chicken and waffles. ELV had the chorizo hash.

That chicken and waffles was a bit bread-y for our tastes (i.e., not crispy enough), but otherwise decent, well-seasoned and juicy.

It came on a slab of waffles with the bacon strips cooked inside the waffle.

This puzzled ELV.

Because the bacon made the waffle hard to eat and the waffle made the bacon impossible to eat.

Or was it the other way around?

Regardless, there is a certain low-born charm to the dish, which made us understand why such gastronomic titans as Adam Richman and Rachel Ray are so fond of it.

Martha Stewart, on the other hand, remains a puzzlement. (Perhaps her time in the hoosegow gave her an appreciation for more plebian vittles?)

If so, she may have appreciated our chorizo hash — a big chunky hash of Mexican chorizo, smothered in melted cheese of no particular breeding, and served atop a mound of giant, cubed potatoes.

Both dishes cost around $13 apiece and both could’ve easily fed two adults.

Both came reassuringly with the obligatory big sprig of rosemary thrust into them — a fact which comforted ELV.

Because it’s nice to know the hoi polloi have somewhere to overeat that prepares decent food to order.

And it’s nice to know that some things never change.

Rachel and Martha still don’t know what they’re talking about.

HASH HOUSE A GO GO

6800 West Sahara Ave.

Las Vegas, NV 89146

702.804.4646

www.hashhouseagogo.com/vegas/

Take one of, if not the, most influential French chefs of our time, marry him to an American/Korean bride with a passion for the food of her birthplace, and presto-change-o, you have the ultimate fusion lunch.

That’s just what the Vegas Uncork’d participants got last weekend at Prime — in a setting so beautiful it’s a bloody shame they don’t use it for lunch more often.

Between questions about their marriage (mostly having to do with who cooks what) Marja Vongerichten and hubby Jean-Georges Vongerichten dazzled diners with a three-course lunch blending the best of both cuisines.

Neophytes to Korean got a lesson in pan chan, while steak lovers got to experience melt-in-your-mouth Kobe rib eye marinated “bulgogi” style. All matched with wines that brought out the best in all that spicing. (German Riesling, started things off (natch) followed by a spicy pinot noir, finishing with an Inniskillin Vidal dessert wine that blew everyone away with its ability to mute some of the fruit’s infamous tartness.)

Marja — she of PBS’s Kimchi Chronicles — told the emotional story of re-connecting with her birth mother and the foods of her homeland, years after she’d been adopted and raised in America. We also learned that famous French chefs don’t do a good j0b of cleaning up after themselves at home.

JGV also opined (in response to our question) that eating fresh and local was not only “the next big thing” but one destined to leave a permanent mark on the world’s restaurant scene.

All told, it was one of those “only in Vegas” moments that Uncork’d is known for, and another example of why we have the most unique restaurant scene in the world.

PRIME

In the Bellagio Hotel and Casino

3600 Las Vegas Blvd. South

Las Vegas, NV 89109

702.693.6584

www.bellagio.com/restaurants/prime-steakhouse.aspx