We’ve been a Chinatown nut since 1995. To understand why, you have to remember that thirty years ago, the local restaurant scene, to the extent it existed at all, was dominated by strip mall Italians and steakhouses so lame that a double-stuffed baked potato was considered a big deal. Regional Chinese cooking was unheard of, and Spring Mountain Road was famous only for its potholes.

Into this sorry state of culinary affairs stepped the Chinatown Plaza, with multiple venues featuring everything from Chinese bbq (Sam Woo’s) to Shanghai dumplings to live seafood in tanks. It was looked at more as a curiosity than a gastronomic destination for over a decade. Desperate for anything that broke the Vegas restaurant mold, we not only ate it up (literally) from the get-go, but also wrote the first article about it (featuring the 99 Ranch Market) for Las Vegas Life magazine. All of this is to say our love for the place runs deep, and we unapologetically assert that no other gwailo has spent as much time there as we have.

Our Chinatown Census Crawl 2026 is the kind of dumb-ass undertaking only a restaurant obsessive would do (GUILTY!) — given the recent explosive growth which renders an accurate census akin to herding cats, even as they are spitting out litters.  Undaunted, we have spent the last month walking every square inch of Spring Mountain Road (and its side streets) to get an firm count of what will always be a moving target –and to give you updated ratings of all the sit-down restaurants we deem worthy along this three mile stretch.

Keep in mind this was after having done pretty much the same thing (in a more relaxed fashion) for the past thirty years. ;-)

A few random notes about our methodology, results and conclusions before we get to the ratings:

> For those interested, Chinatown.com dropped its own census last month, but we daresay it was done (mostly) from the comfort of a computer screen. Their count was 248 restaurants/food service outlets, so there is a slight disagreement between us. We attribute this to some closures of some small places they counted, and few tiny storefronts we probably missed.

> Thirteen years ago we did a similar survey, but no one but us really cared. Back then, we counted 110 restaurants, of which we had eaten in 92. As of March 1, 2026, we counted 239 food service outlets, with 169 of those representing real, full-blown restaurants (not tea/dessert shops) coming from six Asian cuisines. Sprinkled among them are a handful of non-Asian places (Partage, Sparrow+Wolf, Amador, et al) who have caught the wave and enhanced the culinary reputation of the neighborhood in the process. No matter whose count you accept, we can all agree that the growth here has been explosive and has more than doubled in the past decade. With all of this in mind, here are a few random thoughts, starting with some unavoidable negativity:

> A LOT of the growth has been in quantity, not quality. Tea shops come and boba — all using the same playbook and appealing strictly to downmarket customers. Trying to catalogue them is a fool’s errand, as many have the half-life of a banana. Sturdier, but no less depressing has been the infestation of seafood slop (e.g. Hot & Juicy Crawfish, et al) and “claw shops” — many of which serve snacks and the ubiquitous tapioca teas to go with the stupidest waste of time since slot machines.

> The dumbing down of Chinatown doesn’t stop with shitty fish, arcades, and super sweet drinks. In lock step with its teenage-i-fication has been the proliferation of AYCE sushi, bottomless Korean bbq, and hot pots galore. Cheap eats has always been the watchword here, but this race to the bottom now threatens to overwhelm the authenticity which made the place famous.

> In this same vein, Big Asian $$$ has planted its corporate REIT paw foursquare along SMR, with big plazas aplenty  (about 20 right now) and more on the way.

> Most of these are filled with logos, chain links, and franchises already familiar to the East Asian diaspora — the better for investors to cash in while elbowing out the mom and pops.

> The best places to eat are still locally-owned (with a few exceptions), but you either have to have a keen eye, the nose of a pan-Pacific bloodhound, or a special friend (RAISES HAND) to help you find them. Rule of thumb (with exceptions): The flashier the signage, the worse the food.

> Biggest surprise: It’s called Chinatown (based upon the original plaza constructed in 1995), and but Japanese restaurants now predominate (58 spots/34% of the total), with China (36/21%)  and Korea (35/21%) neck and neck for second place among all the Asian eateries. Vietnamese (17/10%) and Thai (8/5%) bring up the rear, while India, Hawaii, and the Philippines are almost invisible. Indonesian/Malaysian food, which used to boast several options, is nonexistent.

> Of the final 239 restaurants counted (including all the dessert and tea shops), I have eaten in 139 (or 58%) of them. (Standing offer: find me anyone who’s eaten in more of Chinatown than I have over the past 30 years and I’ll buy both of you lunch. And by lunch I mean a good lunch.)

> Of course, the final counts are interesting, but given our place in the Las Vegas food firmament, tea needs to be spilled, judgments decreed, and restaurants ranked. So below are the top options up and down Spring Mountain Road. Highly subjective, of course, but also thoroughly researched, for over thirty years. We don’t rate anything we haven’t tried, and most (the vast majority, in fact) have been visited multiple times.

Here is the ratings breakdown and legend, and, as usual, everything comes with the Being John Curtas/Eating Las Vegas guarantee: All opinions valid or your money back!

Three rice bowls: (13)

Excellent. Highly recommended. Often at a price:

Aburiya Raku – Japanese pioneer Mitsuo Endo still sets the izakaya standard.

Amador – Oscar Amador Edo’s take on Spanish-Latin fusion is casual, intimate, and a blast of fun and flavor.

China Mama (original location) – The OG of Chinese pastries is still the best, and we’ve never had anything on the rest of the menu we didn’t love.

8 Ounce Korean Steakhouse – The proper, top-shelf antidote to all the bargain basement beef which has infected the boulevard.

Endo – Exclusive (six seats/twice nightly), very expensive, and magnificent.

Kaiseki Sanga  – Dinner and a show, aimed at those who eat by Instagram, but even serious sushi hounds will find plenty to love.

Kaiseki Yuzu – Elegant, subdued, refined, like a small slice of Shinjuku tucked away where only the aficionados can find it.

Kame – Serious stuff at a serious price, not advised for anyone allergic to truffles, caviar, or gold leaf with their fish.

Le Club by Partage – Casual, champagne-focused adjunct to its epicurean sibling next door, serving slices and sips of France before or after your sushi.

Partage – We’re so over tasting menus (#grumpyoldman), but there’s no denying Yuri Szarzewski’s seasonal menus are some of the tastiest in town.

Shanghai Taste – Everyone claims the best xiao long bao, but Jimmy Li’s are the only ones we dream of.

Sparrow + Wolf – No one thought a gastronomic, non-Asian restaurant could succeed in Chinatown until Brian Howard proved them wrong. Simply stunning Asian-inflected, Euro-American bistro cooking, also with one of the best steaks in Vegas.

Yui Edomae Sushi – If pristine, Tokyo-style fish on rice is your thing (without the pyrotechnics and cartwheels of its competition), then locate this demure door off of Arville Ave. and enter a world of sushi like it’s supposed to be.

Two rice bowls: (28)

88 Noodle Papa

Banchan (take-out only, but our Korean friends swear by it)

BBQ King

Capital Seafood

Cō Anh

Crown Bakery

Fuku Burger

Gabi Coffee

Gyu Sandos

Hobak Korean BBQ

Honey Pig

Ichiza

It’s Izakaya

Kare Japanese Curry

Kung Fu Thai & Chinese

Moobongri Soondae

Noodlehead

Oonigiri Okinawa

Pho Kim Long

Q Bistro

Ramen Show

Ramen Sora

Ramen Tatsu

Roma Deli (only if you insist upon eating Italian in an Asian neighborhood)

POP! Café (ignore the kids, get the pizza ∧, and thank us later)

Shigotonin

Shinjuku Ramen

Silver Lake Ramen

Taiwan Deli

Tang Tang Tang

Ten Seconds Yunan Rice Noodle

Xiao Long Dumpling

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Japanese restaurants

Top 3:

Aburiya Raku

Endo

Kaiseki Yuzu

888 Japanese BBQ Premium AYCE

Chamon

Chubby Cattle A.Y.C.E. Japanese BBQ

Chubby Skewers

EKI Ramen

Endo

Gyu Sandos

Hachi Izakaya

Hanare Ichiza

Hashi Ramen

Ichiza

Imperial Sushi Seafood Buffet

It’s Izakaya

It’s Sushi

Izakaya Go

Kabuto

Kaiseki Yuzu

Kame

Kare Japanese Curry

Kaya Sushi

Kura Sushi

Mikiya Wagyu Shabu House

Miu Japanese BBQ

Monta Noodles

Nabe Hot Pot

Nakamura-Ya

Neko AYCE Sushi & Massage

Neko Supremo

Nisei Bar & Grill – Gastro Pub

Oden Spicy Hot Pot

Oonigiri Okinawa

Pepper Lunch

PokeMan

Raku Izakaya

Ramen Boys

Ramen Show

Ramen Sora

Ramen Tatsu

Sakura Sushi

Samurai Japanese BBQ

Sanga Kaiseki

Sapporo Revolving Sushi

Shabu Rokka

Shabuya

Shigotonin

Shinjuku Ramen

Shin-Sen-Gumi

Shokku Ramen

Silver Lake Ramen

Sumo A.Y.C.E. Sushi

Sushi Time

Taru Sushi

Ton Shou Katsu & Izakaya

Tora Japanese Katsu 7 Curry

Yama Sushi

Yohama Noodles

Yui Edomae Sushi

Zen Japanese Curry

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Chinese restaurants

Top 3:

China MaMa (Original location)

New Asian BBQ 

Palette Tea Lounge

88 Noodle Papa

All Seasons

Asian BBQ & Noodle

BBQ Garden Chinese Kitchen

BBQ King

Bowl of Fortune

Capital Seafood

Chengdu Taste

China Mama – (original location)

China Mama – (Shanghai Plaza)

Chubby Cattle Mongolian Hot Pot

Dan Noodle

Dim Sumlicious

Fish With You

Fortune

Hong Kong Garden

Hong Lou

Hot Point Malatang Hot Pot

Hunan Rice Noodle

Malatown

New Asian BBQ

Noodle Pot

Noodlehead

Palette Tea Lounge

Pot Master

Pot On Fire

Rice To-Go

S K Seafood

Shanghai Taste

Special Noodle

Taiwan Deli

Ten Seconds Yunnan Rice Noodle

The Noodle Man

Xiang Wei Xuan

Xiao Long Dumpling

Yunnan Tasty Garden

Korean restaurants

Top 3:

8 Ounce Korean Steakhouse

Tang Tang Tang

Yi’s Traditional Korean Beef Soup

(unrecognizable writing Korean only)

777 Korean Restaurant

8 Ounce Korean Steakhouse

888 Korean BBQ A.Y.C.E.

Banchan

BBQ Chicken

Bul & Gogi Korean BBQ

Captain 6 Hot Pot & AYCE Korean BBQ

ChoJang Korean Hot Pot

CrunCheese

Doya Korean Pancake

Garionban Korean Restaurant

Hobak Korean BBQ

Honey Pig

Hot Tofu

Hwaro 2 Korean AYCE

Hwaro Korean AYCE

Jin Jin

Jinju Gomtang Korean

Jjamppong Zizon

K Chiken

Korean Garden

Lee’s Korean BBQ

Master Kim’s Korean

Moobongri Soondae’

Mr. BBQ Korean P.A.Y.C.E.

Mr. Tofu

Nalsoo Korean BBQ

Q Bistro

Seoul Korean Restaurant

Seoul Tofu

Tang Korean

Tang Tang Tang

Tofu Hut

Yi’s Traditional Korean Beef Soup

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Vietnamese restaurants:

Top 3:

Pho Saigonese

Yen Viet Kitchen

Cð Ahn

Baguette Factory & Euro-Asian Sandwiches

Lee’s Sandwiches

Pho Beyond
Pho Thanh
Viet Noodle Bar
Pho 79 DC
Pho & More
Pho 90
Pho Vietnam
Pho Kim Long
Pho Bac Bac
Pho Concept (Pho So 1)
Pho 7
Dan Han Banh Mi

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Thai Restaurants:

Top 3:

Jipata

Lamaii

Weera Thai (Shanghai Plaza)

Bangkok Street Food

Jipata

Kao Gang Thai Food

Kung Fu Thai & Chinese

Lamaii

Lulla Bar Thai Fusion

Weera Thai

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

…from the Chinatown Boyz:

The post Chinatown Census 2026 – with ratings appeared first on Being John Curtas.

THE JADED BOOMER RESTAURANT CRITIC

HIS VIBE: Perpetually fascinated and bored by all things gastronomic.

HIS STYLE: Straight from J. Press and Brooks Brothers: Khakis, linen and seersucker in summer; blazers and button-downs in winter, plus the occasional ascot to announce he no longer gives a shit.

LIFE STORY: Status as attorney and six-figure income wasn’t enough, so decided to turn his avocation into the ultimate side hustle. Three wives and four law firms later, still wondering whether it was worth it. Now in semi-retirement, he podcasts (who doesn’t?), rants about no one reading anymore, and otherwise spends his waking hours obsessed with lunch, the ripeness of the Camembert, and idiot influencers.

HABITAT: Secluded Parisian bistros, impossible-to-find Venetian trattorias,  obscure wine bars, recherché sushi parlors, abstruse Spanish steakhouses, with the occasional foray into the French Michelin firmament, even though he’s “been there, done that.” Locally, anywhere the waters part when he enters the room.

WHAT HE ORDERS: Only the classics now: cacio e pepe, steak frites, crêpes fourrées aux oeufs brouillés au Parmesan… the better to see if the chef is “on his game.”

WHAT HE DRINKS: Wines you can’t pronounce made from grapes you’ve never heard of.

OVERHEARD: “Spare me your Michelin starf**king and 50 Best bullsh*t, Gagnaire hasn’t been the same since he left Saint Etienne.”

The post Profile appeared first on Being John Curtas.

Ed. note: Today marks 30 years since I started this food/restaurant/critic gig with my first “Food For Thought” commentary on KNPR – Nevada Public Radio. From radio to print to TV to books to the internet, it’s been quite a ride, and feast! In recognition thereof, the above pic charts some of my looks (with some of my favorite chefs) over the years, and here’s a new article celebrating…

WHAT’S NEW IN VEGAS – 2025

Reports of Las Vegas’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. True, tourism is down (around 10%), and prices are up (more on this below), but the conventions have returned, and on most weekends, reservations in the better restaurants are harder to find than single-deck blackjack.  Chinatown continues to boom, and the Arts District (downtown) has so many bars, brewpubs and watering holes that you’ll never be thirsty for more than half a block. On the Strip, a famous face has relocated himself into sparkling new digs, upscale Asian shows no signs of abating, upscale Indian is the new rage, and the best restaurant in town just celebrated its twentieth anniversary.

JOĒL ROBUCHON TURNS 20

(Brigade de cuisine)

When Joël Robuchon first planted his flag on American soil in 2005, it was not in New York, California or Chicago, but with two restaurants —  Joël Robuchon and L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon —  side-by-side at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Their arrival was heralded by Ruth Reichl at Gourmet magazine as a seminal moment in American gastronomy. Robuchon  had been fêted ten years earlier as the “Chef of the Century” by the Gault-Millau restaurant guide, and his sushi bar inspired L’Atelier, and more formal namesake room were giant leaps forward for French food both haute and bourgeois, in Vegas and elsewhere. In 2011, original chef Claude Le Tohic won a James Beard award for Best Chef Southwest, and in the ensuing years, both restaurants have remained true to the master’s reputation for maximum flavor extracted with precision and presented with elegant simplicity.

(Sean Christopher – Butter bombardier)

We’ve sung this restaurant’s praises so often we almost feel like a broken record, but so many things about it are sui generis. A formidable mignardise trolley still beckons as you enter the dining room, foretelling  your willpower’s inevitable demise — diet death by a thousand cakes. The bread cart alone (presented with 16 varieties, all baked in house), has to be the most impressive in America. The Bordier butter precedes it (above), wheeled to your table under a glass dome lovingly encasing a cylinder of Brittany churned cream the size of an artillery shell. Whatever amuse bouche appears (such as lemon gelée topped with anise cream) will have you scratching your head as to how much flavor punch can be compressed into such small bites.

(The yeast you can do is keep reading for the dough I’m making)

Robuchon (who died in 2018) drilled his troops well, and you can taste his attention to detail on every plate. In celebration of the anniversary, we indulged in a re-creation of one of the original tasting menus ($275 then, $525 now, with less expensive a la carte options available). Executive Chef Elezar Villanueva  (a James Beard finalist this year) still performs minor miracles with a humble ingredients: cream of lettuce soup, tuna tartare with bell pepper confit, and a single frog leg wrapped in kataifi (shredded filo dough), punctuated with garlic and small chanterelles.

This is cooking at its most elevated, but without affectation. No slight of hand is invoked, nor guess work required. In keeping with Escoffier’s  philosophy, things taste like themselves, only more so. So it is with a 48-hour (sous vide poached) leg of baby lamb, so tender and gently infused with Moroccan spice you’ll question ever enjoying lamb any other way. Or his Brittany lobster in a small pool of seafood bouillon — the briny concentrated flavor of the homard moderated by the slightly sweet broth. The usual haute cuisine signifiers — caviar, truffles and foie gras — are in use but judiciously so. Nothing overwhelms; everything has its place. The point being to make every bite a revelation, on the palate, not on the internet.

(Mignardises is French for: I can’t believe they’re serving us more food!)

The deep purple and cream decor, replete with the obligatory flowers, soothing drapery and massive chandelier, has held up well, invoking late Twentieth Century Michelin-approved plushness without stuffiness. Whatever haughtiness you might expect from such a formal dining room is quickly dispelled by a staff that puts everyone at ease. Many of them are multi-lingual, and all seem to have a twinkle in their eye as they guide you through some of the best cooking on the planet.

DOWNTOWN’S FRENCH REVOLUTION

(No guillotines needed)

French food in Las Vegas may have gone through a resurgence  in the early aughts with the likes of Robuchon, Guy Savoy, Pierre Gagnaire coming to the big hotels, but in the neighborhoods, the pickings have always been slimmer than a ficelle. Whether James Trees’ Bar Boheme signals a bistronomy renaissance remains to be seen, but its opening in mid-year gave lovers of Gallic cuisine a reason to rejoice.

(French health food)

Finally, a full-fledged, unapologetic frog pond, smack in the middle of the Arts District, dishing up toothsome takes on boeuf Bourguignon (above), sole Veronique, escargot and soupe a l’oignon. Slide into a corner booth, and dive into the all-French wine list with your tarte flambee, steak frites or crispy-skin poulet roti, and you can almost convince yourself you’re on the Rive Gauche.

Even though Trees made his name with the wildly popular and very Italian Esther’s Kitchen (just down the street), he was classically-trained in the French catechism (at the CIA, then stints with Eric Ripert, Heston Blumenthal, and Michael Mina, among others), and will tell you his first love was cuisine classique. Like the French, he takes his culinary cliches very seriously. His baguette is baked in-house, and his chicken liver paté, frisée lardon salad, and that onion soup are an exemplars of the form. Burgundy snails get their own puff pastry jackets, and the duck fat fries are in a league of their own.

(Feelin’ saucy, punk?)

Trees also sources good beef and knows how to sauce it — with flawless renditions  of au poivre, Bordelaise, and Béarnaise accenting the bavette, filet and rib eye. Further good news comes from the pricing. Those cuts cost substantially less than they do two miles to the south. A 32 ounce, dry-aged entrecôte (boneless rib eye) here runs $155. At some of our more famous steakhouses, you’ll pay twice that. With a sophisticated cocktail program and top notch management, Bar Boheme has made a statement, and is looking to change the face of Main Street into something besides a good place to do a pub crawl.

SO. MANY. STEAKHOUSES.

(José can you see….all the steakhouses?)

Speaking of beef…yours truly has maintained for thirty years that every restaurant in Vegas would be a steakhouse if it could be, and The Venetian/Palazzo seems hellbent on proving me right. In less than a month, three new ones (Bazaar Meat by José Andrés, COTE, and Boa) all opened within a two minute walk from each other, bringing the total number of carnivore emporiums inside the complex to six. Bazaar Meat brings with it the most intrigue since for the past ten years, it’s been a bastion of prime stuck in a less than choice hotel (Sahara). With flashy new digs on the ground floor of the Palazzo, it boasts a similar menu, a huge front and center bar,  two large dining rooms and an open kitchen in front of  which you can examine the premium/pricey cuts ready to be be Josper-grilled to your cholesterol-enhancing satisfaction.

(Not your father’s cheesesteak)

They tell me menu changes will be made, but from where we sat, the pan con tomate, jamon Iberico de Bellota de pata negra, steak tartare, tomato tartare, air bread “Philly cheesesteak” sandwiches, and vaca vieja (8-10 year old Black Angus, aged on the hoof) steaks, are as fine as ever. You can appreciate Bazaar Meat as a steakhouse, a Spanish restaurant, or a wine and tapas bodega (with corresponding price points), and be assured of a fine time. Our last meal here was comprised of only “little snacks” and “little sandwiches” all of which are priced well under twenty bucks. Be advised though, those prime cuts get way north of a hundred bucks in a hurry. Go with a group and split the cost to get the most bang for your buck.

(A COTE above)

COTE is a steakhouse of a different slice. Korean barbecue to be precise, where the meat is pre-cut and cooked in front of you. Right next door to Delmonico and only a chip shot from CUT, it aims to capture the “We’re looking for a vibe-y experience with out steak” crowd — the same folks who consider Papi Steak (with sparklers in its steaks) and STK (with its dj curated incessant din) the ne plus ultra of a meal on the town.

But COTE throws these party-goers a curveball by actually being food-focused, as opposed to a glorified nightclub with obscenely-priced meat. Its vibe was honed by Simon Kim in New York City, where, in 2017,  he captured the zeitgeist of the time by combining a dark, moody vibe with superior cuts of Korean barbecue and a world-class wine list. Faster than you can say bulgogi, the world beat a path to his door. As concepts go, this one is born to travel, and this fourth incarnation (after NYC, Singapore and Miami) is sure to hit with both gastronauts and food fashionistas.

(Be still my heart)

From a person-of-a-certain-age perspective, the lighting isn’t that dark, the music not intrusive, and the booths as comfortable as booths can be. They cook the meat for you here, over smokeless grills, and the choices are geared to steer you to one of two tastings: and $88.88/pp “Butcher’s Feast” or the $225/pp “Steak Omakase”. Our group of famished flesh eaters found the smaller menu more than enough, with its four cuts of various fattiness more than enough to overwhelm our livers.

The limited banchan,  still  earned our Korean companions’ seal of approval, as did the shochu offerings. Of the various sides and apps we tried, some —  Korean “bacon”, Caesar salad — were fine but unmemorable, and the kimchi wagyu “paella” felt like nothing more than a misnamed plop of spiced rice. The wine list is truly impressive, with prices to match, natch.

PLANTING A SEED

(Vegas’s #1 Seed)

The name — Stubborn Seed —  is, depending on your generosity of spirit, either confusing or really stupid, since it tells you nothing about what to expect. Perhaps it makes more sense in Miami Beach, where Chef Jeremy Ford made it big, won a TV cooking competition (Top Chef season 13), and then got recruited to bring his concept to Resorts World in hopes of enhancing his brand and the foodie the cred of the hotel. Confused you may be as you walk to your seat, but several bites in, seated in full view of the large brightly-lit window framing the kitchen, you will realize you are in for something special — a different sort of restaurant, featuring high-wire, aggressive, veggie-focused (but not strictly vegetarian) cooking unlike any in town.

(Holy chlorophyll!)

Ford’s claim to fame is the intricate mixing of food metaphors, playing with odd combinations (and lots of leafy accents) that always seem to work. Thus will you find carrots charred with jerk seasonings and spiced yogurt, and a whole cauliflower roasted with a cashew puree, then garnished with seemingly every herb in the garden(above). House-cured olives come with a festoon of fried jamon Iberico,  Yellowtail crudo is cured by sake and citrus, and small pasta pyramids of harissa lamb fagottelli gets gussied up with a ginger tomato emulsion, sweet hot peppers, pinenut dukkah and crispy leeks. This is high wire cooking without a net and Ford and his crew clearly have the chops for it.

(Just like mom used to make)

His proteins don’t miss many beats either: a foie gras/truffle tart (above) reminds you of a glorified PB&J; branzino in nutty brown butter and hazelnuts, is a worthy upgrade of an often boring fish, and a slow-cooked smoked beef rib (priced-to-sell at $85) are as good as anything you’ll find in most steakhouses. None of this is cheap (the rib runs $80), but compared to most Strip restaurants these days, $145 for a set tasting menu feels like a bargain. You can also downsize by going a la carte, which is how to get the crispy, charred double-smash burger with “crave” sauce ($28), which should not be missed. Desserts — peanut butter/fudge brownie candy bar, olive oil cake citrus Pavlova with caramelized pistachios, warm snickerdoodle cookie with toasted barley ice cream — pull out all the stops and hit all their marks, impressing even this jaded palate.

Stubborn Seed is definitely the most compelling Strip restaurant to open this year, full of interesting ideas and flavor combinations which delightfully challenge your taste buds without intimidating them. We are rooting for it to find an audience.

SUBCONTINENT SUPERSTAR

(As Indians go, there’s naan better)

Calvin Trillin once wrote that the average Italian restaurant gets more customers in a night than a good Indian joint sees in a month.  Indian food – one of the world’s great cuisines –  has been so underrepresented in America as to be almost invisible. Urban areas have their generic tandoori parlors and AYCE buffets, but for decades that was about it. But the tide may be turning. The elegant, sophisticated Indian cuisine of the sub-continent might be having a moment, here and elsewhere, and in Las Vegas, Tamba is leading the way.

(Missing: AYCE steam tables)

Located in the Town Square shopping mall south of the Strip, Tamba has as much in common with your standard, cookie cutter curry shop as a Bentley does with a Dodge Dart. This is apparent from the moment you step inside. Instead of cliched decor and nonstop Bollywood videos, what confronts you is a subtle, subdued restaurant of overstuffed chairs, refined tableware and an eye-popping bar that would be right at home in the Bellagio.

Once you are seated, Chef Anand Singh flies you around the sub-continent (and across the Pacific rim), dabbling in everything from upscale tuna sushi with smoked sea salt to artichoke sashimi to a Hakka (Chinese) noodle stir-fry. Spicings are precise, presentations polished, and the multi-layered flavorings a revelation. (A one-curry-fits-all stop this is not.) You can go traditional with an intriguing hand-folded Samosa Chaat (stuffed with curried chickpeas, masala-spiked potatoes and tangy pomegranates), dry-spiced lamb chops, or soothing butter chicken, or test the kitchen’s more modern chops with its takes on grilled Afghani saffron paneer, banana leaf-wrapped sea bass, or Josper-grilled octopus with purple cauliflower. Either way you will be wondering where all these spices have been hiding. You can also be assured that whatever hits your table will be like nothing Vegas has ever tasted.

Upscale Indian restaurants like this have been in England for a century, and updated takes on this food have been the rage in London for twenty years. Vegas may be late to the party, but with Tamba and, later this year, the arrival of  Gymkanha to the Aria, Las Vegas may be maturing into a deeper appreciation of broad range of ingredients, techniques, and flavor packed into these dishes. Whatever magic spice Singh and manager Olivier Morowati have concocted seems to be working. (Grinding and mixing all of their masalas and curries in house is part of the secret.) Whatever the alchemy, local foodies have taken to this place like naan to a tandoor, portending, perhaps, the long overdue celebration of one of the world’s most fascinating cuisines.

The post What’s New in Vegas appeared first on Being John Curtas.

It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Seven months to be precise. Lots of travel (Scotland, Rome, London, Venice, Milan, Vancouver, Nantucket, Connecticut – just to name a few stops) since last we posted something, but we haven’t been idle, even if we don’t eat, report, and repeat like we did in the halcyon years of 2008-2020. These days (when we’re in town), we mainly put our energies into podcasting — gab-festing every week about where we’ve eaten on Eat. Talk. Repeat. (Which, from our completely objective perspective, is the liveliest restaurant podcast around.)

As any writer will tell you: talking is tons more fun than writing, and why everyone from Kato Kaelin to D-list actresses have one. Or maybe it’s because listening is easier than reading(?).

Regardless, we’ve always found podcasts (even ours) to be a poor vehicle for imparting accessible information in condensed form. Such as a list of what we consider the best/most important restaurants of 2025. So here goes, roughly in order of their newness, excellence, level of cooking, and importance to the Vegas food scene.

Unlike past years, we no longer scurry to and fro, trying to eat/try every worthy restaurant in Las Vegas. These days we pick our spots, so consider this more highly personal than comprehensive. Some places we adore (Guy Savoy, Ferraro’s, Main Street Provisions, et al) are still wonderful, we just haven’t been in a while. What you’ll get here is places I’ve been to recently (i.e., the last seven months) and to which I intend to return. All are worth your time and money if you seek the best Vegas has to offer.

And, as usual, if you’re looking for washed up celebrity chef retreads, forced fun (Hello, supper clubs!), or some place you “heard was good” from some bizarre “influencer ” who speaks like an annoying four-year old, you’ve come to the wrong place.

(As always, all places come highly recommended unless otherwise noted.)

THE LIST – 2025

1. TAMBA – Calvin Trillin once wrote that the average Italian restaurant gets more customers in a night than most Indian joints see in a month. Four decades on, not much has improved. Indian food – one of the world’s great cuisines –  was, for years, so underrepresented in America as to be almost invisible. Urban areas had their tandoori parlors and AYCE buffets, but that was about it. But the tide may be turning. Indian food, the refined, intricate, delicate cuisine of the sub-continent, might be having a moment, here and elsewhere, and Tamba is showing why.

Tamba has as much in common with your standard, cookie cutter curry shop as a Bentley does with a Dodge Dart. This is apparent from the second you step inside. Instead of nonstop Bollywood videos, what confronts you is an elegant, subdued restaurant replete with overstuffed chairs, refined flatware and an eye-popping bar that would be right at home in the Bellagio.

From there Chef Anand Singh flies you around the sub-continent (and even into China), dabbling in everything from upscale tuna sushi with smoked sea salt to artichoke sashimi to marinated goat biryani. Spicings are precise, presentations polished, and the multi-layered flavorings a revelation. (A one-curry-fits-all stop this is not.) You can go conventional (intriguing Samosa Chaat, soothing butter chicken) or unique (grilled Afghani saffron paneer, banana leaf-wrapped sea bass, Josper-grilled octopus with purple cauliflower), and be assured that whatever hits your table will probably be like nothing Vegas has ever tasted.

Modern Indian like this has been the rage in England for twenty years. Vegas may be late to the party, but with Tamba and  the arrival of  Gymkanha to the Aria later this year,  the festivities promise to continue for even longer than an Indian wedding.

—————————————

2. BAR BOHEME – There were two important restaurant openings this year, and BB was the other one. Fine French and local Las Vegas have generally been as compatible as slot machines and opera, and breaths are being held as to whether James Trees’ ode to haute bourgeois cooking signals a pivot to more serious gastronomy,  or whether we are  forever consigned to the steakhouse/Italian circle of hell.  The Strip is no longer driving the culinary conversation; places like Bar Boheme (and its sister restaurant Ada’s) have taken the reigns….and where they take us is anyone’s guess.

(Cheesus Christ that’s good soup!)

—————————————-

3. STUBBORN SEED  – is the kind of place where the chef (Jeremy Ford) makes a splash out of town (in this case, Miami), wins a TV cooking competition (Top Chef season 13), gets recruited by Vegas bigwigs to bring his concept to a giant hotel (Resorts World) in hopes of enhancing the cred (and pocketbooks) of the chef, the concept and the hotel. The food (like the room) is stylish and comfortable without being overthought or overwrought. This is high-wire, aggressive, veggie-focused cooking (but not strictly vegetarian), and Ford clearly has the chops for it.

He freely mixes his food metaphors and clearly has a thing for intricacy, playing with odd combinations (and lots of leafy accents) that always seem to work.Thus will you find carrots charred with jerk seasonings and spiced yogurt (above) , and a whole cauliflower (also above) roasted with a cashew puree, then garnished with every herb in the garden.

His proteins don’t miss any beats either: a foie gras/truffle tart (above) reminiscent of a pb&j, brown butter branzino, and a slow-cooked smoked beef rib (priced-to-sell at $85) are better than anything you’ll find in most steakhouses. None of this is cheap, but compared to most Strip restaurants these days, it feels like a bargain for cooking this complex and compelling.  Definitely the most interesting Strip restaurant to open this year, and we are rooting for it to find an audience.

———————————

(Bream job – $95)

4. PISCES – Perhaps I’m getting soft in my old age, but I found more to praise than bury in our two meals here. The setting will pop your eyeballs, the service about as efficient as a 300 seater can have, and the Greek-French-Spanish-Italian-something-for-everyone-mash-up menu is a fun read. What also pops are the prices — $120 Dover sole, $34 crudo, and a grab-your-ankles wine list that should be presented with a tube of K-Y.

You are in the Wynncore, after all, where bargains are rarer than inconspicuous consumption, and the upscale crowd practically demands to be overcharged. Unsurprisingly, most of the Greek offerings (Horatiki salad, Gigante beans, the sea bream, aka Orata) is done better at Milos, and the paella ($155) is far more authentic (and cheaper) at Jaleo. But the fish is as fresh as it gets, this far from an ocean, and the desserts are in a class by themselves.

—————————————————

5. CARAMÁ – Nowadays, no one likes to bag on the Strip more than yours truly, but the second best Italian food we had this year was at this Wolfgang Puck outpost in Mandalay Bay. It’s an all-purpose Italian, befitting the requirements of Big Hotel, but Puck’s troops have always been great technicians, and their proficiency with the whole spectrum of Italian gastronomy — from the top shelf salumi to squab (pictured above) to dolce to die for –is evident from the first bite. Are we going to drive to the ends of the Strip to eat here? Probably not. But the food is way better than it has to be for this hotel’s slack-jawed, lanyard crowd.

————————————-

6. JOËL ROBUCHCON – Without Joel Robuchon there would have been no Guy Savoy, Mario Batali, or Bradley Ogden. Without JR there would be no James Beard recognition, no José Andrés, Bobby Flay, and no Steve Wynn trying (for a time) to turn the Wynncore into a gourmet mecca. Wynn and Gamal Aziz may have started Las Vegas’s restaurant revolution in 1994-1999, but it was Robuchon, coming out of retirement to launch his international concepts (L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon and his namesake 3-etoile jewel box) IN LAS VEGAS(!), that made all the headlines, and brought the world’s food media to our door.

No one, except influencers looking for a free meal, gets excited about Strip restaurant openings anymore. But Robuchon coming here was a very big deal, and now, twenty years on, its cooking, decor, and service still have the capacity to astonish. This is rarefied air dining, and the tariffs are steep, but a la carte selections ease the pain (and the calories), and for better haute cuisine (and mignardises like these), you’ll have to travel to Paris:

—————————————————

7. ADA’S FOOD+WINE – Wine Goddess Kat Thomas and chef Jackson Stamper are doing something very special at AFW. If it were in any other city, the accolades and awards would flow like Franciacorta. In Vegas, it’s just another gem struggling to find and audience among people with more money than taste. Its escape from the  Tivoli Village ghost town (and to Arts District digs) can’t come soon enough.

—————————–

8. VETRI CUCINA – We love Vetri. even if it’s harder to get to than Henderson at rush hour. But it’s still the best Italian in town, and for that reason alone, it rates a wave.

__________________

9. WINEAUX – has everything you’d ever want in a wine bar: comfy setting, good feng shui, lots of interesting bottles at all price points, thoughtful, handcrafted small plates to nibble on, attentive service. The only thing it needs is to be closer to my house.

——————————

10. LE CLUB BY PARTAGE – IS closer to my house. And a jewel box filled with fine champagnes, and delicate French food to compliment them. The steak tartare (above) is straight from Paris, and the grilled oysters and mini-cheeseburger (topped with a nugget of foie gras) are worth a trip all by themselves.

——————————–

11. ANIMA BY EDO – We don’t go the ABE much because it’s both too far and far too annoying to travel to, no matter how good the Spanish-Italian mashup food (and wine) is. But no list of the best restaurants in Vegas is complete without it.

—————————–

(Ash Watkins and Gio, not exactly weeping in their wine)

12. MONZÙ – Gio Mauro (operatic by nature, in talent and temperament) literally performs a passion play nightly, straight out of “Big Night”. His clientele are the cognoscenti, who recognize his genius with pizzas, pastas, proteins, and wine. One block away is Nora’s, his family’s other restaurant, strictly for the red sauce, chicken parm, and pepperoni crowd. Guess which one has more customers than the bacon cheeseburger egg roll concession at the Iowa State Fair? It’s enough to make me weep into my Barolo.

13. SPICY ZEST – wins our award for surprise of the year. Tucked into the side panel of a giant strip mall on south Rainbow/Warm Springs, nothing (from the location to the tells-you-nothing odd ball name) prepares you for what’s inside — which is some of the best Szechuan food in town. Sleek, spotless, and friendly, with food that will blow your head off (in a good way).  Everything from the hot and sour soup to the Szechuan boiled fish (above) comes to the table looking like someone in the kitchen really cares, and is not just going through the motions. A real find.

———————————–

14. THE PEPPER CLUB – Italian with a kick, rapidly morphing into a downtown power lunch spot. The spicy spaghetti (pictured above) is the truth, as are the stracciatella cheese app, and pork meatballs. If you insist, the (sooo cheugy) chicken parm get raves from the cringe crowd (see what we did there?), but we prefer the double-cut pork chop, and the carpaccio. Service can be well–meaning but spotty, but even at its slowest, it’s a great alternative when you can’t get into Esther’s, for either lunch or dinner. FYI: Despite what the sign says, Todd English hasn’t had anything to do with the place for years.

—————————————–

15. RAKU – There’s a reason The Food Gal® (pictured above) and I go to Raku every year for her birthday. And the reason is it’s the best Japanese food in town.

——————————————-

16. HIROYOSHI – doesn’t have the sushi chops of Kabuto, nor the izakaya game of Raku, but for a legitimate slice of Japan in the ‘burbs, it’s tough to beat. The $100 sashimi platter (below) is what everyone gets, for good reason. The house made appetizers, especially the steamed mushrooms, and tempura are not to be missed.

————————————–

(The Great Vincenzo, and some Luddite in a ball cap) 

17. CIPRIANI – Almost every Friday (when we’re in town) we’re here for lunch. And the reason is deliciously simple Italian food, the way it’s supposed to be.

———————————————

18. PUBLICUS – The Food Gal® is nuts about their coffee and their toasts (avocado and otherwise), so every Sunday morn, that’s where you’ll find us. Yearly winner of The Best Restaurant In The Worst Location In Town award.

————————————–

19. ESTHER’S KITCHEN – “No one goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” – Yogi Berra

————————————————-

20. SOULBELLY BBQ – the best ‘cue in Vegas. Don’t even think about arguing with me about this.

————————

21. WILD FIG BBQ – the second best ‘cue in Vegas. But skip the sausage, it’s terrible. If you want to argue about the rest of the meats v. SoulBelly, we’ll at least allow the discussion.

———————————

(#yolkporn)

22. WINNIE & ETHEL’S – the ultimate breakfast and lunch diner is now open for dinner!

———————————————-

(Chef Ivan has got the meats!)

23. DELMONICO – 26 years old and better than ever. The steaks (and Louisiana specialties) are superb. Service never misses a beat. And the cheeseburger in a league of its own. And by “league of its own” we mean it won out our 2025 Best Steakhouse Burger at Eat. Talk. Repeat. over some very rare and well-done competition. There might be a better double-smashed cheeseburger somewhere in Vegas, but from the beefiness to the bun, we haven’t tasted it. And we’ve tasted them all.

—————————————————

24. CARVERSTEAK – In a crowded category, Carversteak gets our nod for the best all-around steakhouse. From its serious booze and wine programs, to the inventive apps (crab with caviar, above, would be right at home on an upscale tasting menu) and major league proteins, no beef emporium does as many things as well as this big hitter, tucked into a corner of Resorts World.

———————————————–

25. PETER LUGER – Argue all you want about the dated menu (which we find charming), but no one ages their steaks better. Fight me.

————————————————

26. HARLO  – The next time some knucklehead starts telling you how great Barry’s, The Steakhouse or Golden Steer is, do what I do: tell ’em to “Go eat at Harlo and then we’ll talk.”

————————————–

27. MAE DALY’S – the anti-Golden Steer, with no Instagram-addicted crowds congratulating themselves because, “they heard it was good.” There, I said it. Also, parking is easy (and free!), but tip the valet just like the old days. Get the grilled oysters and a burger as appetizers (like we always do), and thank me later.

28. RINCON DE BUENOS AIRES – In many ways, the anti-Vegas-steakhouse — informal, fun, friendly, and reasonable. Also very accommodating to the BYO crowd, even if their priced-to-sell Malbecs match perfectly with the meat. Ideal for a crowd of carnivores, looking for exotic ways to make their hearts beat faster.  You’d better like soccer though, and pity the fool who mistakes the poster of Diego Maradona for Pelé.

——————————————-

29. YEN VIET KITCHEN – Not your typical pho parlor. Not even your typical Vietnamese. Tiny with zero social media presence, but a loyal following of Southeast Asian regs who know the good stuff…like Chinese sausage and pork on sticky rice (above).

———————————————–

30. LAMAII – never disappoints and always has the most intriguing wines to match with its incendiary food. No one leaves without getting the crab fat fried rice (above). Our favorite Thai on Spring Mountain Road.

—————————————–

31. MOIA – guaranteed to quench your Peruvian food jones even if it has the second worst location in town (after PublicUs). Get the ceviche or  tiraditos or Papa a la Huancaina (potatoes in yellow pepper cheese sause) and thank us later. Dive into the seafood only at your own risk, or only if you’re familiar with Peruvian food. As with every Peruvian restaurant we’ve ever tried, lots of things sound much better than they taste.

——————————-

32. LETTY’S TACOS – if you find a better quesobirria taco in town, let me know.

———————————-

33. CAFE BREIZH – Kouign Amann (above). ‘Nuff said. Also, the best cappucino in town. And pastries. And baguettes.

——————————————————-

34. THE DAILY BREAD – a thumbnail breakfast/lunch joint with serious (in-house) baked goods (e.g. Las Vegas’s best foccacia, above). We don’t know how Scott Commings makes a living out of this crackerbox of a bakery/deli, but we’re glad he does.

————————————————

35. NOM PANG – Cambodian sandwiches (which taste a lot like Vietnamese sandwiches, stuffed as they are with greenery and bevy of unidentifiable lunch meats) have found a home on N. Rancho Dr. — in the least likely Southeast Asia sammie spot imaginable. The made-to-order soups and stews are a treat, too, even if occasionally you won’t know what you’re eating.

———————————————————-

The post The List – Where We’re Eating and Why appeared first on Being John Curtas.

The food in London is getting better, the British are always declaring. “Yeah,” a cynical friend texted us as we boarded our non-stop to Heathrow, “but people have been saying that for thirty years.”

Both statements are true. Londoners haven’t been hidebound by pub grub, bad mutton and boiled beef since the Seventies, but no one will ever mistake its culinary scene for Paris, Tokyo or New York’s. But progress can be tasted all over town, as two generations of ambitious chefs have succeeded in creating a gastronomic identity for the country — one based on the bounty of local produce and the melting pot of cultures visible on every corner. The city is now a world capital as much as a British one, with gustatory delights available from every far flung corner of the globe.

But this trip wasn’t about hidden gems, updated Indian (Gymkhana, BiBi, Ambassadors Clubhouse), Uyghur eats, or Senegalese soups. We were here to sight-see, shop, and nosh in the toniest part of town (Mayfair) and show a London newbie (my big sis) how the British upper crust breaks their bread. For this I got some good-natured ribbing from London scribe/pen-pal Marina O’Loughlin who thinks about Mayfair the way I do the Las Vegas Strip (lots of money, little imagination) and is right to implore me to explore the cutting-edge culinary corners of the “new” London. Maybe next time.

(You see ’em prowlin’ ’round the kitchen door, better not let’em in)

We did take her advice for our first meal of the trip, however, heading straight from Heathrow to Shepard Market, for a cozy, jet-lagged dinner at Noble Rot. Fighting through the London fog of our sleep-deprived brains, we were warmed by an extraordinary bread basket, Parmesan snow-capped gougères, rib-sticking boudin noir with pickled quince, and a wedge of Cornish brill (Dover sole’s heftier cousin) napped in a soothing cream sauce speckled with smoked caviar. Desserts are suitably British (straight-from-the-oven apple cake), Italian-inspired (buttermilk panna cotta), and French perfected (chocolate choux bun/cream puff stuffed with brandied prune and hazelnut sauce). The place is basically an English spin on Parisian bistronomy —  combining a laid-back vibe with serious cooking, aimed at a knowledgeable clientele eager to see what the chef is up to, and the service was as warm as that apple cake.

In keeping with the name, the wine list was an oenophile’s wet dream — compelling by-the-glass selections; page after page of  producers both famous and obscure; and prices for every budget — all of it a far cry from the wine gouging we put up with in America.

After our gastropub English-French fusion, we were eager to go old school, something which hearkened back to the days of the British Raj.  While my family concentrated on taking Harrod’s. Selfridge’s, and Fortnum by storm, I dreamt of garlic naan, butter chicken, and Malabar fish curry. London is justifiably famous for its Indian food (at all price points) and we wanted a taste of the granddaddy of them all: Veeraswamy — a bastion of sub-continent cooking since 1926. Located on s second floor overlooking tony Regent Street, it is colorful, elegant, and formal — the sort of Indian restaurant that does not exist on this side of the pond.

The refinement this cuisine achieves in England is also surprising to those of us raised on indifferent tandoori, perfunctory service, and steam-tabled stews so crusted over they should be labeled with an expiration date. Here, the food is as brilliant and vivid as the colors of the room, and it envelopes your palate with sensations both delicate and intense –everything being very, but not excessively, rich. No mean feat that.

(Indian Eggcellence)

You begin with papadum crisps so light they practically float off the table. With them are three chutneys of varying frutiness and heat, each a bracing palate-awakener. From there it’s all uncharted territory: tucking into exotica like Baghare Baingan (stewed eggplant curry), Grandma’s Spicy Egg Roast (served on a disc rice flour noodles, above), and beetroot croquettes with Stilton and green chili (below) — each dish as far a cry from the leaden, underspiced spicy food you might associate with this cuisine.

(No steam tables in sight)

This striking dissimilarity continued through the main courses. Butter chicken (murgh makhani) of astonishing amplitude, halibut in a Malabar coconut curry that respected the fish, and paneer tikka (roasted cubes of fresh cheese) which made you miss meat not at all.

Libations are as upscale as the surroundings Wines are well-matched to the food (this food creates thirst), and we zeroed in on a complex, off-dry German Riesling at 82 pounds/$90). Cocktails are surprisingly au courant for such a classic place.

The trouble with dining at Veeraswamy is it spoils you for a level of extravagance, ingenuity, and sumptuousness that is almost impossible to find in Indian restaurants over here. She may be pushing 100, but from where we were sitting (at the best table in the house overlooking Regent Street) there is plenty of life in the old girl yet.

(He’s looking through you, to the year 1498)

If there is one chef who embodies Britain’s gastronomic revolution, it would have to be the molecularly-obsessed Heston Blumenthal, whose Fat Duck in Bray has been the most famous restaurant in the country for most of this century. Not having the time or inclination to trek out of town for “bacon and egg ice cream”, instead we parked ourselves at a large round table at Dinner by Heston Blumenthal in the beyond-posh Mandarin Oriental Hotel to sample his avant-garde spin on traditional British dishes.

(Toto, we’re not in the Bellagio anymore)

One of the appeals of the place (besides his reputation, the gorgeous setting, inventive cooking, and spotless service) is the flexibility of ordering either a tasting menu or a la carte, depending on your level of interest or peckishness. Another pleasant surprise was letting you choose the degree of intensive care service you desire: three cards are offered for you to peruse and place one in the center of your table —  one asking for full explanations of the Blumenthal oeuvre with every dish, a middle option allows for identifying the dish and little else as it hits the table, and a third  requesting nothing but “here’s the plate and fare thee well” with every course. We put on our fanboy hat and asked for the Full Monty, and the staff indulged us with descriptions both pithy and informative, never taking more than a minute to describe the story behind every recipe.

(Pick your level of intrusion)

The cards are necessary because the entire historical catechism of British cookery is what informs this menu. Rather than modernizing old recipes, though, it’s more like Blumenthal uses them for inspiration to riff on the ingredients. Thus do you get Heston’s famous “meatfruit” (circa 1500) — a foie gras/liver parfait (encased in what looks like half a mandarin orange):

Not to be stickler for details, but one doubts that the kitchens of Henry VII were having their agar-agar way with tangerine jelly.

The same could be said for “The Truffle” (a ping-pong ball of melanosporum butter disguised as a tuber) which also claims  an ancient birthright (c. 1500) on the menu . Regardless of genealogy, the results of both are so rich they should come with a tax return.

(Zero squabbles with this)

Main courses were lighter: a caramelized, roasted cauliflower with shiitake dressing, sea bass with a green sauce spiked with eucalyptus, and spiced squab, no doubt much less putrid  than the “hung” fowl of the 19th Century, but seasoned and sauced in a way Anthony Trollope might recognize.

We ended with a “Tipsy Cake” (a sugar-crusted sweet brioche, c. 1858), but I’m guessing the French claim it for a lot longer), and a platter of English cheeses at their peak, and left with the opinion that this kitchen, fourteen years on, hasn’t lost its fastball. You certainly don’t go to a Heston Blumenthal restaurant looking for bargains, but $1,000/4 US (about a third of that wine) for a dinner this inventive, precise, and polished, was a deal by American standards. The next time we’re in London, we can’t wait to see what edible historical artifact he is re-configuring next.

If HB asks us to indulge his culinary flights of fancy, Saint Jacques, in the heart of St. James,  just steps from Berry Bros. & Rudd, requests nothing of its clientele other than a taste for well-rendered standards of la cuisine Française. Our meal tread no new ground, but a Beaufort cheese soufflé, veal kidneys in mustard sauce, an onglet frites of uncommon mineral-rich depth, and textbook creme brûlée were just what we needed to fortify ourselves for an afternoon of sightseeing in freezing weather. In keeping with the theme of the trip, the greeting and service couldn’t have been more cordial, even though we popped in without a reservation.

A similar fate awaited us a few nights later at Scott’s. We arrived just as they opened, asked nicely, and were seated promptly. (Travel tip: if you don’t have a reservation go early, real early, as in, right-when-they-swing-the-door-open early. You’ll be surprised how often it works, except in hot new restaurants or rarefied-air gastronomic temples.) Scott’s is iconic for it’s seafood (since 1851), and we dove right into a dozen of the freshest oysters imaginable (served oddly with thumb-sized, chorizo-like sausage links), a shellfish bisque that tasted like an entire crustacean compressed into a bowl, and flawless fillets of seared sea bass and pan-fried Dover sole. Welsh rarebit (aka Welsh rabbit) — basically cheese toast with a higher education (below) — and piping hot madeleines completed things, and by the time we left, the restaurant was as full as we were.

(This rabbit made us very hoppy)

Despite the naysayers, there is much to recommend in gastronomic London. The seafood is nonpareil, chefs take great pride in their local ingredients, and the cooking palette has expanded to include ideas and techniques  from all over Europe. New school or old, the typical British reserve seems to have melted over the years, and the place is now so friendly, sometimes you’ll think you’re in Italy.

Take us home, Warren:

The post Dining Old School in the New London appeared first on Being John Curtas.

It’s award season, and true to yearly form, our wits are sharpened, appetite is keen, and patience at an end. So buckle up, pilgrim…

Best Restaurant That’s Closest to My House: Le Thai 2

Best Restaurant That No One Goes To: Jamon Jamon Woodfired

Best Restaurant That’s So Crowded No One Goes There Anymore: Esther’s Kitchen

Restaurant That Deserves to be More Famous Than It Is: Ada’s Food + Wine– Don’t call it a wine bar any more. Jackson Stamper, Kat Thomas and James Trees have turned this corner of Tivoli Village into our town’s most adventuresome gastropub. Surf and turf in-your-face concoctions like nowhere else. Witness the coconut broth mussels above. Paired with a fascinating wine list at prices that won’t have you reaching for a respirator.

Fucktard of the Year Award: Fountainebleu – because after we pointed out what a rip-off the wine lists were throughout the hotel (and got a bit of traction for it on social media), the p.r. folks (and executives) went into full hose job mode, assuring me the hotel really “cared about locals” and wanted its restaurants (and wine lists) to be accessible to a wide range of customers, not just high rollers and rich douchebags. Waited a month and went back. Nothing had changed. Waited another month. Nada. Poked around a few weeks ago….if anything prices have gotten worse. (Good luck finding a bottle for less than $100, anywhere in the hotel.) Then they took the excellent burger off the menu at Don’s Prime because, as one insider told me: “It was getting too popular and people were buying it instead of $100 steaks.” In other words, everything about the place now screams “We’re only here to rip-off people with more money than sense,” and encapsulates everything we hate about late-stage Las Vegas.

F**k the Fountainebleu with a rusty corkscrew.

Speaking of hotels….

Hotel(s) Whose F & B programs We Don’t Give a Shit About Anymore: Basically all of them except Wynn/Encore and Venetian/Palazzo. The opposite of love isn’t hate; the opposite of love is indifference.

Only Steakhouse That Gets Us to the Strip Without Too Much Kvetching: Peter Luger

Told You So Award: Lotus of Siam’s ill-fated partnership with Red Rock Hotel-Casino (see further discussion below).

Runner-Up:  The Sundry Food Hall at Uncommons – because everything about this place (from the ghost kitchens to the QR codes) was stupid from the jump.

Best Smashburger: Stay Tuned Burger – Hard Hat Lounge ($12):

Burger of the Year: the pop-up, $15 semi-smash burger at Featherblade Craft Butchery:

Enough Already Award: Smashburgers

Croissant of the Year: 1228 Main – Hear all about these mille-feuille marvels on Eat. Talk. Repeat. here.

(Let’s taco about how good these are..)

Tacos of the Year: Carnitas y Tortas Asahogadas (above)

Pleasant Surprise Award: Brasserie B by Bobby Flay, 6666 Ranch Steakhouse, Spring by Chinamama, Caramá – our degree of skepticism was only matched by how impressed we were by the food at each of these. If this keeps up, we may start getting excited by the food in Strip hotels again.

Pancake(s) of the Year: Chamana’s Cafe’s blueberry and Winnie & Ethel’s banana-pecan  beauties (above and above)

Hot Dog of the Year: Windy City Beefs ‘n Dogs loaded Chicago Dog (above)

(The 70s called, they want their color scheme back)

(Ash Watkins, calling all Ottomans!)

Turkish Pimp Bordello Award: Palate (above)

Dat Sum Dim Sum Award: Palette Tea Lounge (Yes, we know, it gets confusing.)

(Muchas gracias, Julian!)

Game Changer/Riding Into the Sunset Award: Julian Serrano – who retires after a quarter century of excellence, knowing his enthusiasm, dedication and haute cuisine chops changed the face of Las Vegas. Read more about Serrano’s legacy in this month’s Desert Companion Restaurant Awards (some of which were written by someone you might recognize).

Never Again Award: Marché Bacchus (above) – because what was once a passion restaurant has become a money restaurant. The above pic was from a recent visit, at peak brunch hour (1:00 pm) on a Saturday. As my dad used to say: “All the people who aren’t eating there are trying to tell you something.”

Runner-Up: Lotus of Siam Red Rock Hotel and Casino – which is as close to the edgy, in-your-face flavors and authenticity of the real LOS as Bangkok is to the Bellagio.

Underappreciated Award: The Legends Oyster Bar & Grill – for the freshest seafood (and fabolous ‘ersters, above) you’ll find, 250 miles from the nearest ocean. Also, now with a second location in Henderson!

Brunch It and They Will Come Award: Mi Barrio – which answered the question: Just how bad can Mexican food get and still pull a crowd? Exhibit One (above): what they called a “Milanese” torta, and what we called shoe leather burnt to an inedible crisp. The prosecution has five more exhibits but will rest with this one. We didn’t think anything could make Casa Don Juan look good, but this place manages to.

F**k Mi Barrio and it’s slack-jawed, endless margarita crowd with a stale tortilla.

As long as we’re trashing mediocre Mexicans…

Mexican Disappointment of the Year: Los Molcajetes – what was once a favorite is now straight outta Sysco – proving that Mexican food can be just as terrible in the barrio as it is in the ‘burbs.

Phoning It In Award: Eater Vegas – for continuing to live down to expectations with nonsense like this:

Italian(s) of the Year (toss-up): Brezza, Caramá, Vetri, Cipriani, Ferraro’s, Matteo’s – Las Vegas is lousy with Italian, but these are six of the best.

Unsung Italian Award: Aromi– make that seven.

(When you get a hankerin’ for Hunanese)

Chinese Meal of the Year: Xiang Wei Xuan (above)

Vietnamese Meal of the Year: YEN Viet Kitchen

Podcast of the Year: Eat. Talk. Repeat.– Are we biased? Does the Pope wear a beanie? Does the Navy have ships? Does a wild bear sh____you get the point. YOU BET we’re biased! But no one has more fun covering the Vegas restaurant scene that we do. (CAN YOU PROVE IT ISN’T TRUE?)

Runner-Up: City Cast Las Vegas – the newsy, trendy, gossipy, informative-yet-fun podcast you need to be listening to, daily.

Snoop Dogg Overexposure Award, Sponsored by Martha Stewart, produced and presented by Snoop Dogg, after a very special exclusive interview with Martha Stewart and Snoop Dogg: Caviar

Foie Gras of the Year: Mae Daly’s– a more luscious piece(s) of duck liver (prepared two ways) you will not find anywhere in Vegas.

IHOP With Better Architecture Award: Norm’s

Chinese Hegemony Award: China Mama – Coming out of Covid, CM’s original location rebounded with a vengeance. Then it (literally) caught on fire. So they moved the operation to Shanghai Plaza, and opened a satellite take-out address on Rainbow. When they re-open the original location early next year, and a Palace Station outlet, this once-humble Shanghai noodle parlor will have seven locations across the Vegas Valley. Expansion this fast doesn’t happen unless major investor $$$s are involved. So far, quality-control at all the branches remains high. Hao Chī (right down the street from my ‘hood) and Spring by China Mama, have hit all their marks from the get-go. But experience tells us they’re going to have to simplify their approach when they open in the Palace Station, which has, for twenty years, been a graveyard where good eats go to die.

Japanese Meals of the Year (tie): ENDO, Raku, Izakaya Go, Kaiseki Yuzu, Sushi Hiro

ENDO has the most exquisite Japanese food in Las Vegas, with two seatings nightly (for only six lucky souls) — but it’ll cost you, bigly. Figure a grand a couple once some sake is folded in. As with ‘e’ by José Andrés, definitely an experience every budding gastronome owes themselves. Kaiseki Yuzu is slightly easier on the wallet, and a bit less precious. The other three are restaurants we could go to once a week and never tire of the food, or the (relatively) gentle tariffs.

Drop Dead View of the Year: Vetri Cucina (above) and (below):

Worst Meal of the Year: fingernail pizza at The Bootlegger (see it and weep):

Regrettable Trend of the Year: the corporatization of local brands (cf. Bacchus, Marche, Siam, Lotus of), by restaurant groups who swoop in, with ice water in their veins and profits on the brain, to ruin what was once a good thing, all the while cynically calculating that the hoi polloi won’t notice. We noticed.

Trend That Needs to Die a Sudden, Violent Death: Black food…especially black hamburger buns.

Don’t Fill Up On Bread Award: the glazed, salty-doughy-sweet, drool-worthy Parker House rolls (above) at Scotch 80 Prime  – which you’ll be tempted to make a meal in themselves.

(At half off, you can’t beat this meat)

Deal of the Year: the end-of-summer happy hour menu(s) at Scotch 80 Prime – which more than a few restaurants could learn a lesson from during the cash-strapped dog days of summer.

Cut Above Award (Steaks of the Year): Mae Daly’s, Nicco’s, Peter Luger

(Meat me at Mae Daly’s)

Something on The Strip To Look Forward To Award: Fabio Trabocchi bringing his exquisite Mediterranean seafood to the Wynn at Fiola Mare set to open early next year.

(Seafood risotto at La Rosetta, Roma)

Meal(s) of the Year:

Restaurant Guy Savoy (Las Vegas)

La Tour D’Argent (Paris, France not Texas)

L’Ambroisie (Paris, France not Kentucky)

Gaya by Pierre Gagnaire (Paris, France not Illinois)

La Rosetta (Rome, Italy, not Georgia)

The Seafood Ristorante (St. Andrews, Scotland)

ENDO (Las Vegas, Nevada, not New Mexico)

Dish of the Year: Paella, hand-crafted by José Andrés at Jaleo– Bomba rice, spread a single kernel thick, in a paella pan the size of a manhole cover, over which he melted gossamer-thin Jamon Iberico De Bellota de pata negra, topped with premium Spanish oscetra caviar. All of it washed down with ‘o5 Dom Perignon. Proving that some of the greatest food experiences you will ever have are the unplanned ones, and Las Vegas (even without a world-famous chef at the stoves) can cook with the best of them.

Some days a guy just has to pinch himself.

The post Major Awards 2024 appeared first on Being John Curtas.

Thou shall have no other gods before me

Ya gotta love Christian theology: they put the big one up front. Don’t even think of listening to anyone but me!  I am the oracle. The master. The Obi–Wan/Yoda to your Luke Skywalker. No matter what the rest of them say, they’re wrong and I have all the answers.

Sounds about right. Come to think about it, I am a lot like Moses, albeit with better manscaping.

Admittedly, I am not as active as I once was, but Yoda was holed up in that shithole Dagobah for decades and could still wield his laser sword. And even if I’ve lost a little off my fastball, if you’re taking advice on restaurants from some paid influencer, or worse, some chesty chick with a big following, you’re barking up the wrong tits.

Thou shall not make unto thee any graven image of celebrity chefs

(Squeeze gently for ripeness)

“We’re coming to town, and my wife wants to eat in a Bobby Flay/Giada/Gordon Ramsay restaurant,” is a refrain I hear all the time. Fair enough. These brands didn’t get to where they are by putting out experiences which range from the ethereal (Guy Savoy, Bazaar Meat) to the service-ably mundane (anything by Gordon Ramsay). And when you hale from  Bumfudge, Indiana, Vegas is one of the few cities in American where you can sample a gigantic range of cuisines, from franchises which have now spanned decades. But in Vegas, as elsewhere, the shine has dimmed on many of these stars, and the more interesting cooking is going on in places that aren’t the 15th incarnation of an idea that was hatched twenty years ago.

Instead of Gordon Ramsay Steak, try Mae Daly’s, Scotch 80 Prime, Harlo, Nicco’s.

Estiatorio Milos is great, but you won’t need a second mortgage to eat similar fare at  Elia Authentic Greek Taverna or Naxos Taverna.

(Risotto at Aromi)

Instead of Amalfi by Bobby Flay (which I like), or Giada (which I don’t), give Balla (Sahara), Matteo’s (Venetian), Ferraro’s, Basilico, Milano, Aromi, Esther’s Kitchen, Al Solito Posto, or Cipriani (Wynn) a whirl for top-flight Italian which doesn’t break the bank.

Instead of limping through Bellagio, or getting lost in the maze of Caesars Palace’s infuriating hallways, go to Fountainebleau. You’ll still be gouged out the wazoo, but the decor, the service, and the concepts are much fresher than all those tired celeb warhorses — relics of the 90s and early aughts still going through the motions to please their corporate overlords.

Thou shall not take the name of Joël Robuchon in vain.

French cuisine elevated Las Vegas to status on the world’s gastronomic stage previously thought impossible. And despite it hardly flourishing here, we still sport four of the best French restaurants in the country in our backyard: Joël Robuchon, L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, Restaurant Guy Savoy, and Bouchon. Insider tip: Brasserie by Bobby Flay ain’t half bad, either. Although getting to it, inside Caesars, is a pain in the baguette.

Honor thy Sabbath Day, keep it holy, but forget about brunch.

(Brunch? Non. Croissants? Oui!)

Overwrought pancakes? Eggs nine ways? Bottomless mimosas? Brunch is just a way for a restaurant to clean out its larder and overcharge for omelets and shitty Prosecco. F**k brunch and go have a real meal (and better croissants) at:

Bouchon

Winnie’s and Ethel’s

Cafe Breizh

PublicUs

Chamana’s Café

Daily Bread

1228 Main (Pictured above – Winner of the Croissant Crawl ’24 on Eat. Talk. Repeat.)

Burgundy French Bakery and Cafe

Le Cafe du Val/Le Cafe du Sud

The only thing worse than brunch is a jazz brunch.

Thou shall NOT honor they father and mother….

…unless they were good cooks. Or knew a thing or two about good restaurants. Otherwise, forget everything you learned at the family table and all the boring-ass food you were served there. Picky eaters are bred, not born. Kick your parents to the curb (culinary wise) and you’ll be happier for it.

Thou shall not kill…cooking and cuisines which have developed over hundreds, even thousands of years solely to bring you pleasure

You are not there to “have it your way.” You are there because the people serving you are better at choosing, seasoning and cooking food than you are. And for this, attention must be paid and respect given. You want special food which fits your specific dietary needs? Stay home and cook it yourself. There are entire continents (Europe, Asia…) where people who go out to eat simply order and eat what is put in front of them. Only in America does the “can’t eat something” culture flourish. And flourish it has. Restaurants from Tokyo to Rome now reflexively ask diners if they have “any dietary restriction,” as if your inability to eat shrimp is somehow their problem.

Thou shall commit gastro-adultery…

…by being absolutely faithless to one form of cooking or eating. The world of Las Vegas restaurants (like the human body) is a playground to be taken advantage of — indulging with every whim or immediate gratification fantasy you’ve ever had (within reason, of course). Sticking to a fave restaurant, dish, or routine is like the Missionary position: functional but boring.

Thou shall not steal

From thyself or thy restaurant. Bargain hunting, 2-for-1s, early-bird specials, coupons, etc. is a fool’s paradise which cheats you and the people working hard to feed you.

John Ruskin said it best: There is hardly anything in the world that some man cannot make a little worse and sell a little cheaper, and the people who consider price only are this man’s lawful prey.

Do yourself a favor. Look for quality, the best you can afford, when it comes to things you put inside your mouth. Your body will thank you later.

Thou shall not bear false witness…of whatever “special needs” you claim to have.

See above. Face it: You only like to announce that you’re “allergic to _____” to call attention to yourself. Makes you feel special doesn’t it? To go out in public, gain a captive audience, and then tell the hapless waitron and your table mates how delicate your precious, vulnerable body is. The unbridled narcissism of the internet age has only magnified this solipsism. When someone tells me they “can’t eat something,” it invariably means: “I don’t like it.” So stop the bullshit or stay home.

Thou shall not covet:

– Thy restaurant steak(s) — which have become cripplingly expensive. Slavishly seeking overpriced slabs of steer muscle in a fancy steakhouse is more and more a game of diminishing returns. Yes, they get the best beef and cook it at temperatures which are hard to duplicate, but most industrial beef is a crime against earth, and the real, grass-fed, free-range stuff is out-of-reach for most mortals. These days it makes more sense to go to a good butcher and cook one at home. Peter Luger (above) gets a pass here because its dry-aged beef is nonpareil, and a $200 rib steak split four ways makes sense.

– Thy neighbor’s sushi — Overpriced, fancified, sushbag Japanese has become a cliche. You want a good sushi experience? Find a small, Japanese restaurant like Hiroyoshi on W. Charleston, or Sushi Hiro in Henderson, get to know a sushi chef, and trust him to slice you the best fish he can find. And leave influencer-style seafood and A-5 fetishization to the more-money-than-taste crowd.

– Thy cult wine — Wanna brand yourself as a world-class douchebag? Start bloviating about all the Cali cabs you drink. And don’t get me started about orange and “natural” wines tasting of kombucha steeped in dirty feet.

(Fish bumps)

– Caviar — A dumb, flash-in-the-fetish trend, which appears to have jumped the sturgeon.

– Truffles — Want to see my eyes narrow? Try shaving raw black truffles on anything, in July. Or Summer truffles, anytime. As with caviar, the faux poshification of restaurant food is an insult to the food and to customers, most of whom have no idea they’re being taken for an upcharge ride.

– Any restaurant you have to book more than a week in advance. Fueled by the food porn of Netflix’s Chef’s Table, and all the World’s 50 Best and Michelin Guide nonsense, the “we need to eat at ______ when we’re in _____” culture has attained unprecedented trendiness in the past decade — a slavish, FOMO tumescence, if you will, among the body politic of affluent restaurant goers — and the bullshit needs to stop. For every “must-have” or “bucket list” address on these sheeples’ radar, there are dozens, if not hundreds of similarly worthy meals awaiting at places not overrun by insecure show-offs.

THE REST OF MY (more secular) COMMANDMENTS:

Thou shall not wear thy cargo shorts….

…or thy t-shirt or thy flip-flops, or thy ball caps into nice, sit-down, restaurants. I realize I’ve lost this battle, as the Wal-mart-if-i-cation of America is pretty much complete, but bray I will until they pry my Ferragamos from my cold dead feet.

Thou shalt honor thy Sabbath Saturday by NOT dining out then.

Saturday night is to eating out what New Year’s Eve is to drinking — strictly for amateurs. Restaurant food tastes best Wednesday-Thursday-Friday. YOU COULD LOOK IT UP!

Thou shalt eschew AYCE everything

“Premium All-You-Can-Eat” is an oxymoron. Like jumbo shrimp and plastic silverware. There has never been, in the history of the world, an unlimited, eat-all-you-can table which was slinging anything but under-priced cattle fodder to the slope-shouldered, mouth-breathing sheep who flock there like moths to a cattle trough. (Mix. That. Metaphor!)

Thou shall not covet thy hostess, thy bartender, or thy waitron.

I know, I know, They’re young and sexy and oh-so friendly. And you just know they’re dying to meet you later for a drink. But trust me, muchacho, you’re just a number to them. And unless you are either devastatingly sexy, very rich, or somewhat famous, that friendliness is part of their job, not a come-on.

Thou shalt always order the specials

Every restaurant tells you right up front what they are good at. Sometimes it’s on a chalkboard, sometimes it is highlighted in a letter box. (Like the barbacoa lamb grilled cheese at Chamana’s pictured above.) Often the waitron will tell you what’s special that day. Occasionally, it is in the name of the restaurant. They’re making it easy for you, dummy, so pay attention. If you order the steamed fish at Xiao Long Dumplings, you have only yourself to blame.

Speaking of fish…

Thou shalt never mix fajitas with fish

I knew a woman once who loved Italian food. (Who doesn’t?) But she took her gastronomic myopia to ludicrous levels by always looking for pasta in the most absurd places. Thus did I witness her disappointment in her lasagna from a Lebanese joint, and the spaghetti served at a Connecticut fish shack. She also insisted upon ordering margaritas everywhere from beer halls to wine bars. These choices never ended well. Neither did the marriage.

Thou shalt tip like a potentate

Everyone knows I hate tipping. It is backwards, insulting, racist, sexist, and demeaning to both parties. But until America grows up and starts paying its restaurant servers a living wage, these “gratuities” are the only way many at the lower end of the socioeconomic spectrum can make their rent. The only people who like tipping are restaurant owners and the microscopically few waitrons fortunate enough to work in high-end (read: $100/cover minimum) restaurants. I say: F**k tipping with a dirty fork. But then leave 20% minimum, and be thankful they are serving you and not the other way around.

Thou shalt disdain Strip wine lists.

Big Hotel has officially ruined wine drinking in many of our mega-resorts. (This does not hold true for certain restaurants (Guy Savoy, Peter Luger) and the Venetian-Palazzo lineup (where the tenants have the freedom to set their own boundaries). Bring your own and pay the corkage, or stick to by-the-glass.

Honor thy establishment by not overstaying thy welcome.

Read the room, nimrod. Don’t stay past the end of your meal chatting up your table when a line is snaking out the door — not just as respect for the customer, but for the owner of your favorite hang out. If the place is emptying out, however, feel free to stay until you hear a vacuum cleaner. Then leave a huge tip. (See above.)

Thou shalt not order oysters in a month without an “r” in it.

And with global warming, perhaps it’s best to keep your bivalve lust to between Halloween and Easter.

Thou shalt avoid (most) vintage Vegas restaurants like the plague

From the antediluvian Bootlegger  to the indefensible Michael’s, Vegas’s old restaurants hang on to their hoary clientele with prehistoric menus, somnambulant service and decor more dated than a Steve & Eydie duet. Like the person typing these words, they were cool once, but have hung on way past their expiration date. Unlike this person, they exist in a bubble that ignores the last forty years of America’s food revolution.

FINALLY…

Thou shalt never:

• Order the fish on Mondays
• Take more than five minutes to peruse a menu
• Ask for wine in a cocktail bar
• Try to impress a sommelier with your wine knowledge
• Ask to speak with the chef
• Eat any food pretending to be something else (vegan “cheese,” froyo, tofurkey, etc.)
• Arrive drunk at a restaurant
• Drink cocktails with dinner
• Lick your fingers at the table (unless the barbecue easement is invoked)
• Speak of anything gross, bathroom-related, or appetite-inhibiting at the table
• Expect the service at most small Asian restaurants to be anything but functional
• Expect the wine selection at most Asian restaurants to be anything but horrible
• Use your knife and fork as if you were hacking a vicious animal to death (Here’s tutorial if you need one.)
• Season your food before tasting it
• Assume “the customer is always right” because the exact opposite is usually true
• Go to any party restaurant (Tao, STK, Papi Steak, et al) for the food
• Eat in a place called Mom’s, play cards with a man named Doc, or sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.

But enough about me.

Cheers!

The post The 10 Commandments of Dining…and then some appeared first on Being John Curtas.

Having been to Paris a dozen times in the past twenty years, I pretty much consider myself an expert on the subject — which puts me firmly in the camp of roughly a million other Americans who, at the drop of a beret, will tell you everything you need to know about how they enjoyed themselves over there.

But like anyone who vacations to the same spot again and again, one starts to feel a certain knowingness and possessiveness — a visceral connection to claim it as your own. But let’s not fool ourselves, I may be an accomplished tourist– familiar with Paris’s streets and sites, and able to orient myself quickly — but I’m simply an enthusiastic visitor. With the Olympics coming up this week, and Paris! Paris! Paris! being all over the news, the least I can do for my loyal readers, is offer a few travel tips should you find yourself headed there anytime soon, either physically or in your dreams.

We’ll start with some general advice, and sprinkle in some words of wisdom, heavily sauced with sarcasm…and a buttery Béarnaise, of course.

First, let’s concentrate on the important things.

 Getting there: Take Drugs! Get sleep! We’re talking on the airplane, silly. Benadryl works for me. Gummies for others. Steal your mother’s Valium if you have to, but knock yourself out for at least 4-5 hours of the flight.

You will arrive in the early morning. The airport, even at 8:00 am, will be a mess. Charles DeGaulle is either the biggest headache in travel (worse for departing flights than arriving), or just hugely annoying on par with dozens of other international hubs. It is never a pleasant experience so grit your teeth, get through it, and think of the meals ahead.

Clear passport control, get your bags, and find a cab. Parisian taxis are good and reliable and won’t try to cheat you; but Uber is better. It’s easier to find the cab stand at the arrival terminals than the rideshare pickup areas so hop in and show your hotel’s address to your driver on your phone. Once in town, stick with Uber.

The ride from the airport to the central arrondissments can take anywhere from 30-90 minutes to go 34 kilometers (21 miles) depending on traffic.  The only time it’s ever taken me less than an hour was at 5:00 am, on a weekend, in a driving rainstorm.

Don’t even think about going in the summer. The third time I went to France was in late June, 1998 and it was sweltering, crowded and miserable. And it’s only gotten worse the last quarter century. After two weeks of sweating through crowds and a dozen shirts, I vowed then never to return unless it was sweater weather, and I’ve kept that promise for 26 years. The good news is Paris is more north than people realize (roughly on the same latitude as Rolla, North Dakota(?), and late May is a gorgeous (and quite cool) time to go.

Once you do get there, say, this fall or when the Olympic dust dies down, here is how I attack la capitale de la gastronomie:

Bring your best thick-soled walking shoes. Better yet, bring two pairs and don’t worry about being fashionable. Nothing brands you a tourist faster than showing off your shiny spats (or spiked heels) when all the locals are tromping about in clunky boots.

Speaking of fashion: scarves are to les hommes de Paris what feathers are to a peacock. As soon as the temperature dips an inch below 70, they wrap their necks in them as if they were trekking through Greenland. Bring one (preferably the size of a bedspread), or buy one there and wear it like a world weary Parisian in love with his blanket.

Final dress code note: Paris is a lot less formal than it used to be. However, in some of the tonier hotels and gastronomic cathedrals, without a sport coat on, you will feel as out of place as a Twinkie in a patisserie. So men: bring a blazer. Women: you’re on your own. These days you can get away with almost anything.

As for accommodations…

Decent hotels are everywhere. Paris is full of great small hotels with clean facilities and helpful staffs. Like everything else, prices seemed to have risen 50% in the past five years. Expect to pay at least $250/night for a decent bed in a smallish room, with plumbing that’s a lot more reliable than it was in 1994.

It may be a bit off-brand, but for twenty years, I was the king of the shitty Parisian hotel — Hotel Malte, Hotel Crayon Rouge, Hotel Therese, Hotel Cambon, Hotel Select, Hotel La Perle — from a Best Western near the Louvre to a hot sheet joint around Brasserie Flo in the Tenth that I used for a one-night stand {food, not sex} — were, for years, where I parked my solo self before trekking to a three hour lunch or four hour dinner.

Then, marriage civilized me. Like most wives, The Food Gal® has more refined sensibilities when it comes to these things, and doesn’t appreciate the charms of tissue-thin linens, pillows the density of cotton balls, and showers the width of a golf bag. For her I bite the bullet and try to book Le Relais Saint-Germain (in the heart of the Left Bank), or Grand Hôtel du Palais Royal (a block from the Louvre and Palais Royal) so she doesn’t have to walk over the bed to use the bathroom.

Regardless of where you cool your heels, it’ll be late morning when you arrive in town and your room will not be ready. This means you’re going to have a few hours to kill before you can wash off the airplane grime — which is why sleeping on the transatlantic flight is so important.

Another travel hack I’m fond of is a bit harder to cultivate, but it comes in particularly handy when you have to wait hours for your room:

(Towels so fluffy they barely fit in my suitcase)

Have rich friends! The kind who, in the before times, would’ve been bossing around porters with Goyard streamer trunks strapped to their backs. If you’re fortunate enough to befriend someone in the carriage trade, they might let you hang out at The Ritz (above), Hotel Lutetia, Mandarin Oriental or Cheval Blanc (where the $2,000/night rooms are always ready) before you crawl back to your hovel to begin a week of listening to other people flush their toilets.

Wherever you are, you’ll be dead tired (it’s the middle of the night your time), and in need of a shower. And, if you haven’t read this blog, you’ll find yourself standing in the middle of some hotel lobby, smelling like dried sweat and musty airplane cabin, and wondering what to do until 3:00 pm. This is where planning comes in. This is why leaving meals to chance, especially in a target-rich environment like Paris, is dumber than ordering a cheeseburger on the Champs-Elysee.

(Braserrie Flo)

Book a lunch venue for the day you arrive at a nice cafe/bistro within a few blocks of your hotel. Decent bistros are more common in Paris than baguettes these days, and with a little research, you can find a foodie favorite. Consult Paris by Mouth if you want to be in-the-know and au courant, and reserve a week or so before you arrive, knowing that your first meal on French soil will probably leave your waiter wondering whether it is you or the aged Espoisses he’s sniffing.

Here’s a sampling of places which barely scratches the surface of all the cornucopia of dining choices which await you, sort of in alphabetical order:

Allard

Au Pied de Cochon

Bouillon Chartier

Le Bistrot Paul Bert

Brasserie Floderer

Brasserie des Prés

Chez L’Ami Louis The link is to one of (the famously dyspeptic) A. A. Gill’s most acerbic reviews in which he savaged the place. Enjoy his prose, but ignore his vitriol. He must’ve been feeling more splenetic than usual, because L’Ami Louis is famous for a reason(s), and the reasons are it has some of the best poulet, foie gras, a haystack of  frites the size of your head (above), and baba au rhum in France. The hardest thing about it is securing a reservation. (Use a concierge.) The staff is gruff, but actually quite nice.

Flottes

Juveniles

La Bourse et la Vie

L’Assiette:

Le Dôme

La Rotonde

Le Bon Georges

L’Ami Jean

Le Chardenoux

Le Grand Colbert

Le Procope

Le Servan

Le Severo

Lipp

Ma Bourgogne

Rotisserie D’Argent

You could build a two week vacay around eating in only these and not have a bad bite. But there are bigger fish to fry in Gay Paree (see below).

As you can see, I lean heavily classic when it comes to French food — from cuisine bourgeoise to haute. If you want trendy (lots of tweezers,  Franco-Sino  mashups, high-wattage outposts from some enfant terrible) you’ve come to the wrong place. And If you’re looking for cheap eats, you’re really at the wrong address. That said, the street food of Paris is quite the bargain, and worth checking out.

Begin with a Day One lunch and you’ll start your visit with a thorough immersion in French food culture before you’ve even had a chance to unpack your bags.

After lunch (With a mandatory carafe of wine? Bien sur!) you’ll be more tired than Gerard Depardieu walking up a flight of stairs, but resist mightily the urge sleep. Stagger back to your hotel, and retrieve your bags from the lobby, check in, shower and change, and then….do anything but fall asleep. You’re full, you’re exhausted, and nothing sounds better than hitting the rack….but it’s only 5 in the afternoon. Collapse then and you’ll wake up at 2 am, rarin’ to go with nothing to do,  Dozing off on your first day is a serious rookie mistake and will consign you to days of waking up in the wee hours and conking out in mid-afternoon, which will rob you of days of eating enjoyment.

(Brewtiful)

This is where French café culture comes in to save the day. We guarantee that there will be a cozy one within a stone’s throw of your hotel. Find it, plop yourself in a chair, order a café crême, double espresso,  or café allongé, and caffeinate yourself to the nines. Take your time. Play on your phone. Read a book. They don’t care if you’re there five minutes or five hours. Once the jitters set in, that’s your sign you can make it a few more hours until a respectable bedtime.

(Avg. number of times crossing Le Pont Neuf when in Paris: 10)

Walk your ass off – our second favorite pursuit in the City of Light, and the reason we actually drop a pound or two on every trip. Pick a different neighborhood every day and then start walking. It almost doesn’t matter in what direction — (almost) everything there is to see in Paris is within a four mile radius of the Louvre, and picturesque strolls are everywhere. A few of our favorites: St. Honore du Faubourg (shopping!), Rue de Montorgueil (food), Rue Caulaincourt (gorgeous neighborhood in Montmartre), Rue de la Roquette (Bastille delights), Rue des Martyrs, Rue Rambuteau (cafés galore), Rue des Franc Bourgeois, or the entirety of Saint Germain de Prés, you get the picture.

“The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

(‘Muricans in Paris)

Have a drink at Harry’s New York Bar. All Americans do. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Then leave cocktails to the sheeple waiting at Bar Hemingway at the Ritz. As good as the drinks are at both of them, you’re here for the food and wine, pilgrim, not to booze it up. Getting drunk on vacation is for this side of the pond. And Germans.

(Santé!)

Adopt a wine bar.

Better yet, explore two or three. Wine is as much a part of French culture as sugar water is to ours. Going to Paris and not drinking wine is like touring Italy and skipping the pasta. You won’t find better French wine anywhere in the world, or at better prices. Here’s few of our faves:

Lucien Legrand Filles et Fils

Dilettantes Cave à Champagne

Willi’s Wine Bar

Ambassade de Bourgogne

La Cave des Abbesses

Most likely you’ll still be full from lunch, so plan on a tipple and light bite at one of these (all of them offer snacks to full meals), and then head to your home base to hit the hay. Don’t ask me to recommend natural wine bars though. We have nothing in common if you enjoy imbibing alcoholic kombucha dappled with scents of mouse droppings and hints of musty closets and sweaty feet.

Get the museums out of the way. My wife had been to Paris three times before she stepped inside the Louvre. Every time we’d walked past it she’d whine, “I want to see the Louvre.” To which I always replied, “There it is, now you’ve seen it. Let’s go to lunch.”

Pro tip: Hit the Louvre early on day two so you won’t have to put up with such misguided caterwauling. You’ll still be getting your sea legs, so schedule a private or group tour as early in the day as you can. We’ve had wonderful luck through Viator, and when you sign up for the small group tour, often it’s just you and the guide. Don’t forget to tip the guide (about 20 euros/pp is appropriate, more if they spend extra time with you, as ours did.) If you’ve got the energy, cross the Seine and knock out the Musée d’Orsay in the afternoon. Dispose with those and you can forever pat yourself on the back for being more cultured than the slack-jawed rubes you call friends back home.

Eat cheese.

Slurp  oysters.

The French are the biggest oyster and cheese eaters in the world. Paris is the apotheosis of shellfish appreciation, and glories in its fermented curd culture, so take full advantage.

Skip the Eiffel Tour. It’s a total shitshow these days. You wanna see La Tour Eiffel? Look up from anywhere in Paris and you’ve seen it. Ditto Notre Dame. The approaches to both are crammed with screaming toddlers, obnoxious Instagrammers, and hordes of tour groups speaking everything from Cantonese to Swahili.

(See? Now you’ve seen it.)

Do not miss a river cruise.  This should be mandatory for first-time visitors. We did a lunch cruise a year ago and the food was remarkably tasty, as were the house wines. The dusk and evening cruises are supposed to be spectacular. Whenever you go, it will be three of the best hours you’ll spend in the city.

Restaurants! Restaurants! Restaurants! Remember, Paris isn’t just the ancestral home of the restaurant, it is also the food capital of the world with at least 44,000 restaurants (cf. New York City, which has four times the population and half as many food outlets). Equally impressive is the fact that most of its temples of gastronomy are open for lunch — and the food is just as good, the portions a little smaller, and the tariff a bit shallower. Plus, you have the added bonus of being able to spend the rest of the day walking it off.

(Roasted pigeon at L’Ambroisie)

This territory has been covered extensively on this blog before. To summarize, consider your options:

Guy Savoy might be the best restaurant in the world.

L’Ambroisie is the pinnacle of classic cuisine in an historic setting, and even though the menu is entirely in French, they are extraordinarily friendly and patient with clueless Americans.

Taillevent might be the swankiest place on earth to have lunch. If you don’t want to spring for such an upscale extravaganza, Taillevent’s wine-centric spinoff —  Les 110 de Taillevent  — comes highly recommended by our staff:

The legendary La Tour D’Argent may be the most spectacular combination of food, wine and setting on the planet. The wine list alone is worth a trip:

(Not found: Two-buck Chuck)

Pro Tip: Do not despair. Trying to navigate this tome is more futile than trying to parse French genders. Do what the pros do: Ask for it respectfully; accept it religiously; peruse it solemnly; then point to a region and a price point and throw yourself on the mercy of the sommelier. In multiple visits they have never steered me wrong.

Pierre Gagnaire continues to be one of gastronomy’s most inventive chefs. He’s may be in his 70s, but his restaurants haven’t lost their fastball. Gaya — his cozy seafood refuge, tucked into a Left Bank neighborhood —  remains a stunner, toggling between tradition (impeccable Dover sole, below) and innovative takes on things that swim:

(Pisces perfection)

Another eye-popper is the over-the-top Le Clarence — ensconced among the sconces in a re-tooled 19th Century Golden Triangle mansion. Renowned for its elegant cuisine, Chateau Haut-Brion collection and chariot de fromages, this joint is so fancy, you can be excused for thinking the staff is looking at you as if you have a bone in your nose or a papoose strapped to your back.

Arpège retains its 3-star status, with many glorifying its exaltation of turnips, lettuce and the like. Others claim it is past its prime. We are firmly in the latter camp.

Le Climats — a perennial favorite for our annual Burgundian bacchanalia — has closed, and Le Grand Vefour (a must-stop for 27 years) seems to have shed its Michelin history and re-made itself into a glorified bistro. Pity.

If we were to chase les trois etoiles again, it would be at Alléno Paris au Pavillon Ledoyen or Le Prés Catelan. Or Lasserre. We’ve never been, but it’s on our short list. Maybe some day we’ll get to Lasserre. In the meantime though, we’ll mostly leave these temples of excess to the nouveau riche gastronauts who frequent them.

You will enjoy yourself much more, and save a little coin, by sticking with lunch at a Michelin 1 or 2-star — where everything is almost as perfect, and what little isn’t is only known to those inspecting the place with a microscope.

Pro tip: Lunch is the right move. After a morning of cultural enrichment, museum fatigue, shopping, or some other waste of time, a proper dejeuner on day two is perfect for your first big deal meal. This is when the big game hunting begins in earnest. Do you want to see what’s new on the gastronomy scene? Visit an old reliable? Surround yourself with luxury? Or try something edgy and out there? It’s time to step up your game and take the Michelin plunge in the last place on earth where the stars actually mean something.

(Ask about their AYCE  Tuesdays)

And don’t leave without at least one meal at Le Train Bleu – still the most visually spectacular restaurant in the world. Be forewarned however, cheap travel and Instagram have turned what was once a beautiful sleeper (attended to solely by lovers of Belle Epoque decor and those waiting for a train at Gare de Lyon) have made it a favorite of the selfie-stick set. It’s probably a tad more breathtaking at night, but tables are easier to come by at lunch. The food is remarkably good for such a large operation. So is the service.

For those not wanting to spend a car or house payment on a meal: most sidewalk cafés have perfectly serviceable set menus (always a fixed price for three courses) which will keep you alive. And don’t underestimate the gastronomic joys of le jambon-beurre or a Breton galette (basically a buckwheat crêpe) — both of which are easily found on the street, food stores or in the boulangeries which dot the city.

(Fit for a Kouign)

Spend a day in Montmartre. But make it a weekday. Weekends are more crowded than Disneyland on the Fourth of July. Go early, grab a kouign-amann at Le Pain Retrouvé (above) to fuel your quads as you traverse the steep streets:

(Today’s menu: lunch, then walk it off)

One full day won’t be enough but it will give you a nice taste of life in the village where Amélie roamed, and one which Toulouse-Lautrec might still recognize. For lunch: duck into Le Coq et Fils – Antoine Westermann’s ode to poultry. It’ll be the best $150 you ever spend on a yardbird:

Hit a farmers market.  This is recommended even if you’re not in Paris solely to eat and explore the food scene. (Quelle horreur!)  The sheer variety of seafood, vegetables, cheese, prepared foods and meats puts eating in America to shame. Since you’re a tourist, you mostly will be gawking instead of buying stuff, so set aside an hour or so to gawk to your heart’s content. The vendors tend to be way friendlier than they used to be.

Visit Père-Lachaise — only if you feel a kindred spirit with Oscar Wilde or Jim Morrison. Otherwise, skip it. The neighborhood is way out of the way, with little to offer but seedy streets until you get closer to Place de la République or the Marais. Plus, it’s full of dead people. Lots and lots of dead people. Underneath mountains of concrete. It’s a Catholic thing.

Cultivate a French Connection.We have a friend. Let’s call her Babette. We can’t claim Babette as our own since we met her through close friends, but now she’s part of the family. She’s Parisian, successful, insouciant, funny, thin, beautiful — one of those gals who falls out of bed looking like she just stepped out of Chanel — and always there to guide us to a hot spot, or help secure a reservation.  She also has the worst taste in men since Britney Spears. There have been so many Jacques, Gilles, Françoises and Hervés we can’t keep them straight. Most of them look like they came straight from Central Casting, or were runner-ups in a Jean-Paul Belmondo lookalike contest. Whatever. This steady parade of suitors somehow makes Babette even more charming. It’s all so very very French, right down to the cigarettes, nonchalant melodrama, and scarves the size of bed spreads wrapped around everyone’s necks:

Don’t bother learning the language. My travails with the French mother tongue go back half a century. After failing to learn it at least a dozen times, I’m now simply grateful for Google translate, and for the two generations of Frenchmen who have grown up learning English in school. I’m looking forward to my teenage grandson becoming fluent, ready to serve as my translator and squire me around France in my golden years, as long as I’m paying for everything.

Les Invalides is a must — especially for history and military buffs. Perhaps I’m remembering my visit(s) through a rose-tinted haze, but I seem to recall The Food Gal® being riveted by the intricacies of the French 75 field gun, and questioning whether Napoleon was premature in releasing Marshal Ney’s cavalry at Waterloo.

(The Food Gal® pondering the intricacies of French artillery)

Pretend you’re a Frenchman — which is best done by exploring every inch of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Jardin des Tuileries. Pack a lunch, grab a seat, and watch the world walk by. There are no two more romantic parks anywhere in the world. It’s only about a 30 minute saunter between them, so set aside a day for urban hiking, provision yourself at Marché Maubert or Marché Saint-Germain and go nuts.

Hotel bathrooms are your friend. The one downside of walking for hours on end (and finding yourself miles from your hotel) is you are always keenly aware of your bladder’s capacity. While small cafes and restaurants frown on you popping in just to empty your vesica urinara, larger hotels always have facilities on the first floor, and generally don’t mind if you use them (as long as you are dressed like you could be a guest). I’ve been told public toilets dot the sidewalks all over Paris, but my chances of using them are roughly the same as the Louvre being turned into a Wal-mart.

Eat (and drink) in Montparnasse. Just the way Hemingway and James Joyce did. The cafes – La Coupole, La Closerie des Lilas, Le Dôme, La Rotonde, Le Select —  are legendary. The seafood is impeccable, and the atmosphere straight out of the Roaring 20s. These are the joints that literally created the term “café society”,  and each is an eyeful, generally welcoming, with copious indoor and outdoor seating. This makes them especially attractive for those who haven’t booked in advance. Being a bit removed from the tourist corridor also means you’ll be rubbing knees more likely with locals than cargo shorts. A visit to at least one should be on every foodie’s itinerary.

(Toilet paper and big screen TVs on Aisle 4)

Shop the way human beings were meant to: in department stores. Department stores in America are an endangered species, but Galeries Lafayette (above), Le Bon Marché, Printemps, BHV, La Samaritaine— are shrines to civilized shopping and still going strong in the City of Light. Most are architectural gems in their own right, and whether you’re buying or browsing, it is time well-spent. Added bonus: most have restaurants/food halls/gourmet grocery stores associated with them which are a treat unto themselves, and a perfect place to plan a picnic.

Make a pilgrimage to Poilâne. It’s roughly the size of my closet, and many Parisians scoff at its international success, but this is where it all started — the shop that made the world fall in love again with French bread.

 “Paris is a place where, for me, just walking down a street that I’ve never been down before is like going to a movie…Just wandering the city is entertainment.” – Wes Anderson

What have I missed? Strolling the Seine. Poking around the Jardin du Palais-Royal. Soaking up the history of the Place de Vosges. Croissant hunting (this award-winning knockout is from La Maison d’Isabelle):

Copper cookware browsing at the iconic E. Dehillerin. Haute couture.  Immersing yourself in the cacophony of the Marais. Exploring the Trocadero, Champs-Elysee, Bois de Boulogne . The Opera House (Palais Garnier), Catacombs, Arc de Triomphe (another shitshow, but give it a whirl), Musée Cluny, the Sorbonne, the Latin Quarter, Pantheon, and a dozen other museums. (One of these days, we’ll get to Musée Carnavalet, the museum of the City of Paris.) It’s all there for the taking, or you can simply stroll around for days, snapping jaw-dropping pictures until your thumbs get tired.

Hemingway called Paris a moveable feast and truer words have never been written. But it is much more than just the best food city on earth. Paris my way will always be the greatest banquet in the world for the intellect, the senses and the soul.

Take us home, Edith:

The post Paris, My Way appeared first on Being John Curtas.

The District of Columbia has neither the history of Boston, the sexiness of New York, nor the cache of Charleston. It is a manufactured city, born of compromise, and possessed (as JFK once remarked) of Northern charm and Southern efficiency. It is an industry town where politics and media converge both to dominate the culture and take themselves way too seriously.

When it comes to restaurants, it may not be in New York’s league (or even Los Angeles’s), but I like to think of it as a large, provincial city with an inferiority complex, always trying to compete gastronomically with the big boys. Sort of like Chicago with better seafood.

My own relationship with Washington D.C. goes way back and is a fraught one. Despite despising politics, I have been strangely drawn here for decades. So much so that I’m just as comfortable noshing around Georgetown, the Penn Quarter, or Dupont Circle as I am navigating the Las Vegas Strip. The obligatory family museum visits when I was growing up led to interning for a Senator on Capitol Hill in 1971, where a big dose of Vietnam War debates inoculated me forever from the disease of partisan politics.

Thankfully it didn’t blunt my appetite for the town, which I think deserves to be more famous for its restaurants than it is.

When I’m in the District (every year for the past ten), I lean towards the tried and true. There’s a whole contemporary food scene with gastro-pubs aplenty, but when I’m there, I enjoy sliding into restaurants that fit like a well-worn blazer, run by decorated veterans who have honed their craft, like José Andrés and Fabio Trabocchi.

(Let’s taco about how great Oyamel is)

If you hang around the Penn Quarter, you can eat very well and never leave the Andrés orbit. Our last trip found us popping into Oyamel for some exemplary tacos (above) and mouth-searing aquachile before we hit the National Gallery. Across the street is the amazing Asian-Peruvian mashup of China Chilcano  (the $70 Peruvian tasting menu is a steal) and down the same block you’ll find the original Jaleo, which, despite its age (circa 1993), remains one of the best Spanish restaurants in America.

Having eaten in all three multiple times, I can confidently state you can close your eyes and point on the menu and still be seduced by whatever shows up on your plate  – whether it’s a soothing huitlacoche quesadilla, a bracing Peruvian ceviche, or the liquified olives “Ferran Adrià.” A remarkable triple threat of authentic, in-your-face-flavors mixed with enough panache to keep us coming back for decades now.

The most popular of all is  Zaytinya — Andrés’ take on Greek, Turkish and Lebanese food, just a couple of blocks north from where it all started. All of his restaurants are busy, but despite Zaytinya’s size, age (circa 2002), outdoor seating, and multi-levels, it has become one of the toughest tables in town. One bite of the hommus ma lahm (with ground lamb and pine nuts), soujouk pide (spicy sausage flat bread), kebab platter or smoked lamb shoulder will tell you why. When they open a branch in Vegas later this year, you can expect it to be mobbed as well.

(Fabio-lous chef)

I’ve never had a bad meal in a Fabio Trabocchi restaurant; indeed, I’ve never had a bad bite. He’s one of the best working chefs in America, and you could plan your D C. visit around each of his eateries and be assured of dining on cooking as polished as any in the country.

Fiola – DC is his flagship, and takes a back seat to no Italian, and        features menus  both traditional “La Tradizione” ($225) and more inventive Il Viaggio (“The Journey” $285). During the week (Tuesdays-Wednesday-Thursday), you can order a la carte and be assured that whatever appears (from the Pappa al Pomodoro to the mixed seafood pasta to the langoustine with stracciatella and limone) will compete with the best version you have ever had, both visually and in the mouth. The wine list is a dream (and full of trophy bottles, natch), and the waiters all look as good as the food. It’s sad that it isn’t open for lunch anymore, but snare a seat at the bar and you’ll see a parade of D.C.’s finest flock in for the unforgettable food.

Moving to less formal waters, Trabocchi’s Fiola Mare (Italian seafood) sits right on the Potomac in Georgetown and wheels the catch of the day by every table for the discriminating to choose, while Del Mar (above) is located directly south of the The Mall at the District Wharf) is an eyeball-popping ode to jamon, tapas, sobrassada, and Spanish seafood. (Historical footnote: this completely gentrified, now-bustling multi-use riverfront was where we learned to gorge on Eastern Shore seafood back in the early 1970s, at the long-defunct Hogate’s.)

Del Mar practically assaults your senses with its primary colors, seafood motif, and endless array of fish and shellfish, both cooked and raw, and its jamon and paella presentations are José worthy. Both chefs now cast a wide net over the D.C. restaurant scene, and over two decades have done as much anyone to bring our nation’s capital into the big leagues of destination restaurants.

But man does not live by celebrity chefs alone, and D.C. remains the American capital of French bistros, even if their numbers have diminished over the years. One needn’t look hard in the NW quadrant to find Gallic gastronomy faithful to the haute bourgeois cooking of Paris. Here it is at its imported best, with more venues ready to provide satiety when cravings strike for ris de veau, steak au poivre, and moules marinière. Three old favorites are Bistrot Du Coin a few blocks from Dupont Circle (where the champagne list is legendary for selection and modest prices), Le Diplomate (a perfect facsimile of a Parisian brasserie, legendary for being packed at brunch), and the jewel box which is  Bistrot Lepic in upper Georgetown. Their menus are about as trendy  as boeuf bourguignon, but when you step through the doors, the warm embrace of wine-infused cooking permeates the room, the food, and your soul.

(Where the love affair began)

The oldest of the bunch — La Chaumière —  features a menu straight from 1976 and is none the worse for it. It had been forty-six years since we first ducked into the white, timbered dining room, and tucked into a Quenelle de Brochet Sauce Homard:

(Gefilte fish with a French education)

….and with one bite we were transported to that imaginary French farmhouse of our youth. When you cut your teeth on a certain type of cuisine you never forget it, and dishes like those dumplings, torchon de foie gras, Dover sole and crême caramel are what made me fall in love with food in the first place.

As comforting as all of these are, even a nostalgic old soul occasionally looks for something new. Which is how, at the urging of a Filipino foodie friend we happened upon the Purple Patch in a not-exactly-tourist-friendly part of town.

To say we were skeptical at first is an understatement. Filipino has always been the Rodney Dangerfield of Asian cuisines. Fried, heavy and greasy, and dominated by flavors neither complex nor refined. To be fair, it is not a single culture, but more like a melange of regional foods (from over 7,000 separate islands) which are usually about as subtle as a  Manny Paquiao  right cross.

None of which applies to what Filipino-American chef Patrice Cleary is whipping up these days in the rapidly gentrifying Mt. Pleasant neighborhood — invoking  precise levels of seasoning and technique not normally associated with this cuisine.

One taste of her vegetable slaw, papaya salad with cured pork (below), crisp, addictive lumpia, or hauntingly savory mushroom pancit announces that you have left the land of steam tables and greasy fried fish, and entered a new realm of sticky-rich lechon, lightly-fried tofu, and ginger-infused sweet-sour snapper, which command attention for their careful cooking, vivid flavors and balanced textures.

The restaurant itself is a confusing hoot: a tri-level maze of warrens, pockets, and hallways carved out of a Mt. Pleasant townhouse. I wasn’t sure we were in the same building when I took my seat in a subterranean skinny cavern of a space. None of which mattered once the platters of the shockingly fresh food start appearing.

(Atchara Papaya and Tocino Salad)

These recipes can hold their own with any Asian cuisine (again something not normally said of the Philippines), and were much brighter and lighter than anything I’ve ever tasted with this moniker attached to it.

It is something of a shame that a Las Vegan must travel 2000 miles east to find such a culinary celebration of this culture. Especially since Vegas is crawling with Filipinos: If all the them  exited tomorrow, there wouldn’t be a nurse left in Clark County.

But travel here we have, twice now, to what might be the best Filipino restaurant in America. An opinion our old friend, Washington Post critic Tom Sietsema (@tomsietsema) probably agrees with, since he named Purple Patch his Restaurant of the Year 2023.

Mabuhay!

(We love to Tagalog with Patrice Cleary)

>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<

Washington D.C. has come a long way since my days of dining at Kinkead’s (closed 2012), Citronelle (2012), Galileo (2006), Jean-Louis (1996), Duke Zeibert’s (1994),, and Sans Souci (1983). The power lunch crowd probably eats at their desks these days, and of-the-moment restaurants  (like Rose’s Luxury or The Dabney) are informal, chef-driven and aimed more at the Instagram crowd than the movers and shakers who once defined the dining scene.

While I have nothing against locavore-obsessed chefs and open-hearth cooking, much of the D.C. restaurant landscape now feels like any other big city  — where you can get everything from top-grade sushi to fabulous pizza to various world cuisines.  (West African or Laotian anyone?).

In 2024, you can dine as well in Washington as anywhere in America, but in the newer joints, you will feel like you’re eating anywhere in America.

Which is why I gravitate to time-worn bistros and old-school chefs. Give me classic Spanish, Italian seafood, or a French bistro any day (or an occasional envelope-pushing Filipino), and I am one happy Boomer, who still remembers the way we were, strolling the mean streets of Georgetown, in 1978.

The post Capital Nourishment – Dining Around D.C. appeared first on Being John Curtas.

If Barcelona was a failed first date that makes you question whether there will be a second, Madrid was an inscrutable beauty who revealed just enough of herself to leave you lusting for more. One week was hardly enough time to get to know her seductive neighborhoods, and hidden delights, and as with her rival city, we barely scratched the surface of her culinary wonders. But, as we do with most large cities when first we experience them, we sought out the new and the old, the better to get a sense of the restaurant scene. But before we dove into the Spanish new wave, we thought it best to start with a sense of history. And aside from Botin (the oldest restaurant in the world, which we will get to), dining in Madrid doesn’t get more historical than at Horcher.

Gustav Horcher started catering to the carriage trade in Berlin in 1904, but a small disagreement between Germany and the entire western world caused him to re-locate to Madrid in 1942. During this little dust-up, Nazis used Spain as a playground, and Horcher became their favorite canteen, retaining its cache (and customers) from its Berlin days, and staying afloat partly due to the largess of the Nazi High Command. After they were Nuremberg-ed, it remained a haunt of the rich and famous, despite the ghosts of some of its more infamous patrons continuing to haunt the premises.

Not being one to let a little Hermann Göering get between me and some jugged hare, appointments were made for our first dinner in Madrid, and it was a doozy.

A meal as irrepressibly old school as Horcher was just the antidote to the inventive gastropubs and formulaic Catalan food of Barcelona.  Walking in felt like entering a time capsule. The thick linens, baroque place settings, and decor straight from the days of “continental cuisine” felt almost like a stage setting for women in Lillian Russell bustles and men in muttonchops.

The surroundings may have been dripping with old money vibes, but the  tuxedo-ed staff was a mix of old salts and eager youngsters, and from gueridons to the duck presses, you knew you were about to be as coddled as a Faberge egg. Those staff were warm and welcoming, everyone with a twinkle in their eye; and the menu couldn’t have been any less modern if it had a tassel attached to it.

https://twitter.com/i/status/1724734393632092530

Terrine of goose foie gras kicked things off, as did some “Russian style” marinated salmon. From there it was on to two soups, each superb: a sherry consommé and Consommé “Don Victor” — the latter utilizing a press to extract every bit of beef juices from a couple of roasted cuts.

Artichoke hearts were suffused with mushrooms and lobster, and our main courses ran the gamut from beef Stroganoff in Pommery mustard sauce, to the Horcher hamburger (which single-handedly revives the glories of the “Hamburg” steak) to my “Hare a la Royale” — this version being thick rounds of rabbit sausage, so enriched by blood and wine they should’ve been served with their own tax return.

The pommes soufflé were flawless and the baumkuchen (resembling a small tree of layered pancakes, sliced and served mit shlag), was a showstopper — every bite a study in old world richness matching the setting.

One must be cautious in overpraising Horcher. Its style is about as hip as a pillbox hat, and the menu more geared to the stolid appetites of a German trencherman than to those seeking pointless pointillisms or culinary cartwheels. There are no chef visions at work here, and zero tweezers in use. Only classic recipes rendered with care and top-shelf ingredients. Horcher has been doing the same thing so long it would be easy to dismiss it as a culinary relic, but when the food is this toothsome, the service this precise, and the setting this elegant, you would be denying yourself one of the great restaurant experiences in the world.

It’s also a relative bargain, our dinner came to $447.00/couple including three bottles of wine from a list with plenty of great Spanish selections for under a hundred euros.

Horcher was just down the street from our palatial digs (Hotel Wellington) — perched between the tony Salamanca neighborhood and the museum district, was the perfect jumping off point to stroll the city from the El Retiro Park to the Plaza Mayor. It was also convenient to the far trendier Calle del Dr. Castelo, where the joints were jumping (and crowds spilling onto the streets) late into the evening, which is how we found ourselves shivering on an outside table at La Castela late one night to see what the cool kids were noshing on these days.

(You…lookin’ at me?)

 We were freezing, but still wowed by the attentiveness to detail in the dishes flying forth from the kitchen to an eager gaggle of customers waiting patiently for the cooks to catch up with them. Keep in mind, entering these cacophonous tabernas at peak times (which seems to be the millisecond they open their doors until well after midnight, is like trying to order food in a rugby scrum on the floor of a stock exchange. Catching someone’s eye and begging seems to be the way to order, and woe to the tourist who doesn’t know exactly what they want they moment they get their seat.

(Not seen: me waving frantically)

Somehow we managed to corral a waiter,  and the plates that finally appeared were pretty nifty….such as this asparagus/bean stew (lower left) which was so dense with flavor it missed not a thing by containing no meat:

(Bean there, done that)

Others also held our attention: teeth-testing chicharrónes (bottom center), croquetas bursting with béchamel (not pictured), the mandatory anchovies, the best clams of the trip, and an octopus paella (top row right) which were just the rib-sticking ticket on a blustery night.

All of it enjoyed in an atmosphere resembling a subway car at rush hour. La Castela convinced us that Spaniards must love crowds the way a Swede loves solitude, since jostling to get served seems to be their favorite indoor sport.

Our late night snack, which ended up being at least six courses plus wine, ended up costing $80/pp.

(Spaniards enjoying lunch, at dinnertime)

By the time we got to lunch at La Maquina Jorge Juan we were firmly acclimated to the Spanish gustatory customs — which, in winter, treats the midday meal as something to enjoy as the sun is going down. So it was late one afternoon when we whisked to a corner table in a restaurant packed tighter than a conserva tin, and started eating around 3:00 pm.

Unlike most of our other destinations, there was no advanced planning for this meal; we were simply hungry and it was right in front of us and looked good. And boy was it. La Maquina is part of a local chain of “The Machine” restaurants specializing in fresh seafood, and we were happy we stumbled upon the crispiest pan con tomate of the trip:

(This delighted me from my head tomatoes)

Among other things like extraordinary olives and anchovies, spicy sobrassada chunks,  gorgeous, fork-tender artichokes, those langoustines (below), and a snowy halibut fillet quivering between slightly underdone and perfection. It was our most unexpected meal of the trip, and serendipitously one of the best.

(p.m. not a.m.)

All served by a harried staff who nevertheless were friendly, helpful and on their game. As a side note, over two weeks of eating in Spain, in establishments ancient and trendy, large and small, cheap and wallet-bending, we didn’t have bad service, anywhere.

When the dust settled, the damage was $191/couple, the tariff mainly increased by those scrumptious, fresh-from-the-sea Norway lobsters.

As you can tell from these travelogues, when we are in any gastronomic capital, we tend to toggle between trendy restaurants and those dripping with tradition. Which is why we booked it later to that night  to Botin  since it can lay claim to being the oldest continuously operating restaurant in the world.

Botin’s cooks have been slinging roast pork and lamb at customers from the same antiquated ovens since before the United States was even a twinkle in Ben Franklin’s eye.

The food is very simple and mostly pretty good. The star of the show — roast suckling pig — comes out as crispy and meltingly soft as you’d expect from some place that’s been doing it for three-hundred years. But the bread is pretty basic (the Spanish have nothing on the French when it comes to baking); the tripe stew was gloppy, gummy and bland; and the roast lamb more bones than meat. The garlic and egg soup and scrambled eggs (Revuelto de la Casa) were nothing to shout about, either, and as we repeatedly found in España, salt, pepper and spice seem to be anathema to these kitchens.

In retrospect, we had a ton of fun, the wine was reasonable, the servers were great, and a bucket list check-mark was dutifully applied. But I wouldn’t return for the food.

Our bill (with sherry and two bottles of wine) came to $165/couple.

After dining among the ghosts of Goya and Hemingway, it was time for a youth movement. And a tasting menu (something we swore to avoid on this trip). Which is how we ended up sampling ten courses of Canary Island-inspired cuisine at Gofio – an envelope of a space tucked into a narrow street (C. de Lope de Vega) in the Barrio de Las Letras (Literary Quarter) neighborhood, a few blocks west of the Prado.

(From the sardine can school of restaurant design)

The room is tiny (see above); and the food as modern as the streets are ancient. A succession of small plates,  each highlighting a series of flavors central to the islands’ identity, frame the chef’s philosophy. But to Chef Safe Cruz’s credit, most things worked, contrivances were few, and the meal proceeded seamlessly from one course to the next.

One website described the menu as envelope-pushing. There certainly was a fair amount of twee this, gelled that, and platings where perhaps an excess of punctiliousness was employed. But the progression held your attention, which is often the failing of many of these meals in less skillful hands..

Gofio stands for the stone-ground flour used in tortillas on the island(s), but we didn’t see a lot of that, or carbs for that matter. That said, most of our dinner was a delight.  But if you’re looking for a course-by-course dissection of the meal, with dishes described in granular detail, you’ve come to the wrong place. (Besides: by the time you read this, everything will have changed. To a bite, though, everything clicked, the flavors were suitably bite-sized, compelling and vivid.)

(So. Many. Small. Bites.)

And the Canary Island wines were a revelation: a white Malvasia Volcania — aromatic, bracing and citrusy — a perfect foil for the small bites of seafood, while the red — a Taganan Tinto blend — was elegant and ripe, putting one in mind of a slightly herbaceous Central Coast Pinot Noir .

Restaurants like this is rely on so much plating and technique, you leave slightly dazzled but also dazed: What did I have? That seafood soup (bottom center above) was intense, but what was the seasoning? Oh yes, remember course number four….was that the little pasta in a dashi-like broth? The skirt steak draped with crispy jamon (bottom right) was fabulous, especially with that dusting of what was it? And what were those mojo sauces came with the raw tuna?  Where did they come from again? And what was that orange jelly made of? And so it goes.

Slowly but surely, you lose the plot on everything from the sauces to whatever was in that exquisite little dumpling.

So it goes, for a couple of hours and then you’re done with nothing but a blurred memory of tastes which lose their uniqueness in the blizzard of flavors before and after they hit the table. Of course you loved those starters (the crunch, the freshness, what was that?) but four plates later, who remembers them? Tastes memories quickly fade when faced with savories in rapid succession.

Do people eat like this anywhere but precious, Michelin-chasing restaurants aimed at bored gastronomes and award whores? This is chefs cooking for chefs, like jazz musicians playing for each other. In Spain, in 2024, it remains in full flower, and if you insist on eating slightly exotic food in tiny portions, Gofio is the way to go.

There are two tasting menus (95 and 125 euros_ and we opted for the larger one, which, for cooking this precise of ingredients this special, is a flat-out steal. Not to sound like a broken record, but the wines were a bargain, also, and the kids running the joint were a treat.

(“Oh no, there’s a Boomer approaching!”)

Arima Basque Soul is one of those taverns catering to an in-the-know clientele in a trendy neighborhood (Chamberi) jammed with bars and restaurants, all of which are far too hip for silver-haired Boomers simply looking for a good plate of grub. Its owner is from San Sebastián and the inventive tapas are firmly rooted in the Basque catechism which holds there is not limit to what you can do with small bites of finger food.

A long, narrow bar leads past a wall of pickled vegetables to a modern, spotless back room with a giant photo mural of an elderly lady overseeing the proceedings at only five tables.  We didn’t order the txuleta (T-bone) steak and probably should have, but the small bites we did get (charred, piquant piquillo peppers, Beasain black pudding, and some intriguing anchovies served with a green chili emulsion and olive oil beads (below), which is basically a de-constructed “Gilda” — the ubiquitous olive-pepper-anchovy pintxos named after a Rita Hayworth movie  – wherein she plays a character who is by turns salty, spicy and sassy.

Concluding with some beautifully aged Manchego, hauntingly subtle cheesecake) were probably the closest you can get in Madrid to a San Sebastián tapas crawl.

(Deconstructing Rita)

It was also where more reverse sticker shock over sherry occurred: when what we thought was a glass of expensive manzanilla resulted in the entire bottle being placed on the table. As we were waving to our well-meaning waiter, it slowly dawned upon our non-Madrileño brains that the price (around 25 euros) was for the whole bottle. And with that, we had no choice but to congratulate ourselves and polish off the whole thing.

That’s the thing about Madrid; Everything was delicious and quite the bargain. I won’t concede gastronomic supremacy to Spain over France and Italy, though, since it cannot compete with Italy’s breadth of ingredients or France’s depth of technique. But there is no doubt that the gourmet revolution of the past thirty years has taken firm hold here, and Madrid is a playground of traditional tabernas holding their own with cutting edge cooking.

When I  mentioned this to several fellow gastronauts (who bought into “Spain is the next big thing” gastronomic mantra of twenty years ago) they were quick to point out to me that “You didn’t go to the right places” and “Wait til you get to San Sebastián.”

Fair enough, but from where I stood, as wonderful as they are, you can’t build a great culinary legacy on anchovies, ham, potatoes, bread, Manchego and Tempranillo.  Perhaps the Basques will change my mind. In the meantime, there are no real losers here, and the delectable debate will rage on.

Viva España!

The post Spanish Inquisition, Part Dos – Madrid appeared first on Being John Curtas.