Foodgasm

Somewhere just past indulgence, but before uncomfortable gluttony comes a meal so profoundly over the top, so historically significant to the gourmand, it can only be captured with a flutter of the heart, perhaps skipping a beat, gentle sweat across the brow and trembling to the toes. A raised hair on the back of the neck is not out of the question. Somewhere around foodgasmic is apropos. On a recent foray to Las Vegas, I made my way to the MGM Grand to be in the presence of some of the greats. Tom Colicchio’s got a place there. So does Emeril. But I was after Jöel Rubuchon. L’atelier is the adjoining venture to his namesake restaurant recently bestowed Three Stars from the Michelin guide, to add to the Five Diamonds from AAA and the Five Stars from Mobil. There is some great eating in Vegas, but none as acclaimed as this. I was in Sin City and I needed something for which to repent. The guy came out of retirement to bring this place to the Americas. It has got to be worth a shot.
I was in Vegas for a culinary educators’ summit, so it was only right that a few of the guys head out on the town for an adventure. The view of the fountains at Bellagio is magnificent; the melodic ebb and flow of Claire de lune trickled through my head. But, the gastronomic adventure was what we were after. We sampled some amazing tempura at Nobu over at the Hard Rock; if I were really wealthy and extremely good looking, I would probably do very well spending the rest of my years flouncing around this denizen of very, very beautiful people. We even took a gander at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon; very elegant and refined, as you would expect of a Keller restaurant. I had read a good deal about Les Artistes at Paris, so I lifted the menu from the display table in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. But, I was after the golden ticket at MGM. Rubuchon’s Discovery Menu was that which we had set our sites - ten courses of superior French food to be prepared right before our eyes.
The night started with an 8:30 reservation at the ‘counter.’ From this vantage point, the black-clad brigade was center stage. As a matter of fact, the entire place is black with dazzling splashes of red accents. A red water glass. Red piping on the crew’s uniforms. Very dramatic and very refined. The counter seats were the ticket, as we discovered. We made quick friends of our neighbors and were able to take in the grace and elegance of the kitchen crew moving through their respective domains.
We unanimously opted for the Menu Decouverte, a menu of discovery. At $135 per guest, this is not a profound amount of money to spend for such opulent offerings. While my dining guests opted for martinis, I chose to kick the night off with a bit of a celebratory offering in a Kir Royale. I am a big fan of the classic Champagne and raspberry liqueur combination. This specimen was of particularly good quality. No Freixenet cheap sparkling wine at this establishment. No, I was treated to the real thing at $19 a pop.
Before I get into the food, a brief digression. I have eaten in some really amazing places in Chicago, New York, Philadelphia and more. And each time, there is always some consternation, a nervous, virtuous air that precludes every meal higher on the gastronomic evolutionary ladder than, say, Morton’s. A teenager’s first kiss. Deep and throaty, tingling to your toes; sweaty palms, a gentle pulsing in your head, either from the Kir Royale or the beer that was consumed in order to get that first kiss. Either way, there is always a trepidation, some energy that misguides and sometimes dazes you into the nether reaches of truly fine-dining. Think: First date, new girl. She is pretty cute and you know very little about her. You want it all to be perfect and, at the same time, have a great night. Dining of this magnitude does the same for me. I look around and I see people eating, not sure if they are accustomed to this place or this style of haute cuisine. Maybe they have all lost their virginity on a prior visit and now they can relax in the company of such great food. Or, perhaps, they share the same nervous energy that has crept up and down your spine making you feel like you are being watched from all angles. Or, perhaps, a dining experience to me is completely different than it is to everybody else. I do not know, but I rather enjoy the gentle buzz I get from holding the unfamiliar hand of the new girl.
L’Amuse-bouche is unbelievable. Really. This Foie gras parfait is layered with port wine and a lighter-than-air parmesan foam. It is gently warmed and, we are told, to enjoy this delight all three layers at a time. Yes, it is indeed magical. I could have retired to my east coast cave, content in know that food like this exists. Forget the remainder of the courses, this was a standing ovation before the concert even began.
Le Thon Rouge, tuna with tomato infused olive oil. Okay, I am not a raw fish fan, but this was good. Delicate smattering of the olive oil worked wonders on these paper thin slices of tuna of the highest quality.
King crab nestled in the bottom of a gelee of vegetables topped with classic vichyssoise was course number three. I enjoyed this very much. Whilst in the throws of winter, in the desert it can always be time for a chilled soup, especially one of this distinction. Artfully presented, the flavors smacked of a classic chowder, only much elevated to the discerning diner’s appeal. Had I a straw, the last remaining rivulets would not have gone unconsumed.
L’asperge Verte was a cappuccino of asparagus with a gorgeous dollop of black truffles. A beautiful presentation in itself, the conical shaped stemless martini glass set nestled in a bowl with sea salt. The frothy texture and none too rich creaminess of the cappuccino itself was amazing. The truffles made it even more a tribute to really amazing artistry in the kitchen. I am not sure how seasonal the asparagus was, but it was handled with care to create such an overwhelmingly delicious forth course.
My least favorite course, L’oeuf, was next. I say least favorite in terms that this was a glorious dish of a soft boiled egg over a spicy eggplant stew that was superb. It just paled in comparison, I suppose, to the cappuccino and the soup. The skill of the kitchen in preparing (and handling) this egg is a tribute to the craft itself; a delicate touch and respect for the ingredients.
The “slightly smoked salmon” stole my heart. Really. Garnished with little crispy potato curls, this salmon wore the lightest aroma of smoke imaginable. Yes, salmon is offered on menus from coast to coast. Yes, salmon is often replete with misguided intent. However, this specimen sang from the highest of buildings with an angelic voice that carried an aroma from the flannel jacket of the angel that just got done smoldering the wood chips in the smokehouse. A subtle, sweet smoke that did perfect justice to this perennial fish favorite.
My only choice of the evening was between the foie gras stuffed quail breast and the rack of lamb. Well, I like foie gras. I like it a lot. I like it when it is prepared perfectly and I believe I had already experienced that. But, I relish lamb. I think very well prepared lamb is the litmus test for a kitchen. I have experienced good lamb and I have experienced good lamb. The flavor that lamb brings to the table is the only exception I give to my no read meat clause. Do not ask why, it is just my policy. Lamb is the subversive exclusion to this long standing rule. I made the right choice. Cooked perfectly medium rare, the glistening center-cup chops from the rack were so full of flavor they made me weep. I wept for the four bites that I knew would be the only four bites I would experience. I wept for the degree of expertise that it took to bring them to me from the hands in the kitchen to my plate. I wept knowing that I may very well try a dish as good as this, but none better. I had lost my virginity and, like the other deal, it was over much too soon and hoping to go back to do it again. One of my dining partners opted for the quail. He took one bite, looked at me and, quite peculiarly expounded, “Foodgasm.” That was all he said. We both understood.
The sweet courses are always fun, with little exception. I like the presentation value of good, honest food. I really enjoy the presentation value of extraordinary desserts.
The pear sorbet resting gently on the Banyuls wine gelee with little crunchy ginger bread pieces was fun. A little tart, a little sweet. A very harmonious balance.
To round out the sweet offerings, the hazelnut cremeux with fresh mango followed with the same balancing act, with a little zing of coffee-caramel streusel. The hazelnut garnish was gilded in gold flake and signified a truly opulent and, without sounding canned, gold medal evening.
The espresso made it course number ten. I was done. I could no more. Not that I was an overtly behemoth presence, rather I had consumed the best and it was time to bask in the afterglow.
I have not lost my trepidation with dining of this magnitude. I hope I never do. I enjoy the butterflies, the sweaty palms, the concern of whether I will get it right. The service was relaxed and gently coaxing, like that of someone with infinitely more paramour adventures than I. I knew I was in good hands and that my encounter with this particular food adventure would be gentle, if not a night of somewhat naughty discovery. Foodgasm.