THENASTYBITS by Anthony Bourdain Read Free Book Online

What followed was a hilariously frenetic, yet intermittently delicious, trainwreck as food cranked continuously from the various stations without coordination. Our serious yet beleaguered sommelier struggled mightily to match always excellent sakes to a double-time procession of courses, arriving with a perfectly matched unfiltered sake, for instance, only to find another course had been plunked down in the few moments it had taken her to fetch it. Plated offerings and family-style tastings seemed stacked in holding patterns around the table like planes over JFK at rush hour.
    The always dangerously manic-depressive Ruhlman's mood began to swing.
    "I've got The Fear," he murmured, picking unhappily at the "lobster trio," an inexplicably smoked lobster tail which tasted of, well . . . smoke; a lobster croquette that could just as well have been "sea leg," and a "lobster gelee" served in the inevitable shot glass. "Maybe there's a downside to this. If Yagihashi had opened in New York first, before coming here
    ... he would have been killed by the critics. He would have learned."
    Okada's offerings veered between the truly excellent and the sophomoric, but never without enthusiasm and pride. A sampling of skewered robata yaki arrived, a perfect grilled prawn, flawless "BBQ short rib," an unctuous grilled spear of otoro, and a bizarrely incongruous grilled lamb chop slathered with black olive tapenade—a discordant note which thankfully didn't take away from the excellence of the rest.
    But the "Baked Sweet Sake-Kasu Black Cod" was just fine; the sakes were wonderful; and looking around the beautiful dining room, spying a mulleted, shorts-wearing couple in T-shirts, the man in a trucker hat and sandals, the woman in sneakers, both happily picking over their food with chopsticks at a nearby table, I felt decidedly more sunny about things.
    "You miserable, misanthropic, elitist swine, Ruhlman," I barked. "This restaurant is good for the world! Look at this place. Look at this food. Feel it! It's enlightenment! Where do you want these people to go after they've won a few bucks at the tables, in their few moments of hopeful optimism before it all goes down the tubes tomorrow? TGI McFunsters? A steak-house? The midnight buffet at the Riviera? Look at what they're exposed to here—in the middle of this terrible desert, among the mile-high sno-cone daiquiris and mai tais, the dollar-ninety-nine shrimp cocktails, the cynical crap-fest up and down this strip! A taste of the new, Ruhlman. A taste of Asia! New sensations! New ingredients! They'll get drunk on this fine sake and look out at that lagoon and think, 'Maybe Asia would be cool. I like this stuff!' Look around the dining room, Ruhlman. Those are your countrymen—and they're eating well. They're eating new. Now God bless America and order more sake."

    The next morning, Ruhlman disappeared again, leaving an indecipherably scrawled note with the desk at the Wynn. He'd lost tragic amounts of money at the tables, which he'd no doubt have a very hard time explaining to his wife. Though I'd miss his encyclopaedic knowledge of Vegas culinary history, it was none too soon. He needed to hole up somewhere and rest his sushi-bloated body before the final push at Bouchon. Examining the bill he'd left behind, I saw I'd have my own problems explaining to my editor how a man could run up five hundred dollars in "in-room movies." And what had Ruhlman wanted with "1 case of grapefruits," "6 orders of kung pao chicken," "2 cases of Neutrogena soap," not to mention the power tools and lubricants he'd ordered from the gift shop?
    It was a relief from Ruhlman's surly disposition and unlovely personal habits to eat lunch with Tracey, one of the camera persons from the production team. She, at least, would be happy to get a good meal—and was unlikely to abuse the waiter.
    Unlike Flay and English, Daniel Boulud does have multi-stars to protect—four of them at his eponymous fine dining restaurant in