THENASTYBITS by Anthony Bourdain Read Free Book Online Page B

proper jacket and some clothes. We've got a scene to shoot in the desert. And then Bouchon. Remember Bouchon? Thomas Keller? The guy you wrote those books with?"
    The mention of Keller seemed to have a positive effect on my tormented friend. He stood erect, eyes focusing for what was probably the first time in hours, and wiped an Oreo crumb and a crust of what looked like dried blood off his cheek.
    "Yes," he said. "Bouchon. Of course. You're absolutely right." He handed me back the money and strode with new strength and determination toward the elevator bank. "Don't know what I was thinking there for a while. Lost the plot momentarily . . . No matter. All right now, back to business. After all . . . we're professionals."

    When you talk about expectations, none were higher than those surrounding Thomas Keller's much-anticipated Vegas version of Bouchon. The knives were out for the chef whom many consider the best and most respected in the world. That a chef of his unquestioned caliber and integrity—whose French Laundry seemed the very antithesis of everything Vegas stands for— would open a restaurant in the bizarro faux-Renaissance Venetian hotel/casino/resort seemed to many an abdication of greatness, even a betrayal of principles. Plenty of food nerds wanted to see him fail— preferred, from the safety of their desktop computers, to see him fail—as a punishment for daring to bring good food to what they see as The Worst Place on Earth.
    Keller, by this school of thought, should be punished for thinking that gamblers and vacationers from middle America and the South, in their ugly shorts and their socks with sandals, might recognize and appreciate sophisticated, properly cooked French food. To them, it was pearls before swine, a "sellout," an insult to the proprietary instincts of the metropolitan dining "elite." Ruhlman had made a good case, on a foodie Web site, that this was pure snobbery. Why shouldn't the masses have access to fine food? he argued. Why shouldn't they be invited to the same table we—New Yorkers and San Franciscans and world travelers— see as almost a birthright? Isn't that a great chef's ultimate responsibility, to change things for the better? To seduce, coerce, and induce people to eat better, try new things, experience joy, even enlightenment?
    I thought Ruhlman had made an unusually cogent case. In fact, it was this plaintive argument that had won me over, convinced me to put aside my own fear and loathing and come to Vegas myself. Was he right?
    To step into Bouchon is to step into a perfectly, seemingly effortlessly recreated French brasserie. The long zinc bar recreates Paris's famous La Coupole. The details are, typically for Keller, without a false note. It's another world, a little bit of France floating free of the grim realities only a few yards away. The menu is surprisingly traditional. Nothing daring about it in these early days. No boudin noir or tripes or even foie de veau or other less accessible brasserie classics; just perfectly—superbly— executed mainstream fare. A "Grand Plateau" of lobster, mussels, seasonal crab, shrimps, oysters, and clams, sourced from the same boutique purveyors used by the French Laundry and Per Se, was predictably awe-inspiring. Rillettes of smoked and fresh salmon could easily have been served at either of the motherships if scaled down and prettied up for their fancier rooms. Beignets of brandade de morue were light and fresh and as well seasoned and flavored as one could hope for. We ordered poulet roti, which is, as most professionals know, the measure of a cook's ability. You can tell almost everything you need to know about a kitchen by how they roast as simple a dish as a chicken. It was better than good. It was the best chicken ever. Moist, flavorful, inspiring in its simplicity. A flatiron steak frites made me miserable with its virtuosity. I had previously been comfortable with the idea that I served the best French fries in the