I’ve missed my kitchen.
Boy, have I missed my kitchen. I’ve missed a lot of things over the past week – my tree house, my pillows, having an air conditioner that doesn’t dry my cuticles and make my nose bleed, my view of the Hancock Building and (thanks to a demanding production schedule that kept me in the Orleans showroom for nearly five straight days) my lovely wife, mL’.
I just got home this morning from a week as part of the production staff for the Burlesque Hall of Fame weekend which was filled with glitter confetti, near naked carnies, strippers, and much whiskey. I had a fancy pants suite so that we could also produce Naked Girls Reading, but sadly no kitchen. And when I’m staying in a hotel whose nicest culinary amenities are TGIFridays and the Rucker of Fudd, man did I miss my kitchen (did you notice that in my despair, I’ve grown from a boy to a man?).
To make up for not being able to zen-slice veg for a few days, my oldest friend Jonathan invited us to a new little joint where he cooks called something like Gordon Ramsay’s Steak at Fake Paris. I should mention at this point that we could NOT get a reservation because they were super busy. I played the “my friend is a chef here” card and he actually came out and convinced the hostess to squeeze us. I mean squeeze us in. So, yeah, damn. Clout, baby. Dripping with it.
So, I gathered a little cadre of eaters and strippers and we decided to give this unknown little hole-in-the-wall a shot. Along for the ride were ecdysiasts mL’, Ginger Valentine and Melody Mudd along with lesser halves Chris the Meat Dude and J.D. Oxblood.
When we pulled into Fake Paris we were greeted by a humble sign near the taxi stand showing us that indeed we were in the right place. Phew – sometimes new little eateries are harder to find! Truth be told, I was already beginning to salivate at this point. mL’ and I had been broadcasting our Beef Wellington intentions forever and I was glad that we’d be able to pull this off at the home of Mr. Beef Wellington himself. Signature dish, baby.
We entered through the Chunnel and went straight from Fake Paris to Fake England, complete with a gigant-ass union jeezy brooding over the entire restaurant. Was kinda cool, kinda. I mean, Vegas isn’t known for it’s subtlety so I kinda expected a little eye-sore-ishness. But really, compared to a lot of stuff in the that town, it was elegant and understated.
Anyway, long story short…Pimm’s Cup = yum num…iPad winelist = kinda bullshit…six different waiters for our table = overkill but I’ll take it…Ramsay’s official “meat trolley” = seriously? = a meat trolley? = effing sexy. The cuts themselves were stunning, but the fact that this specially designed meat trolley had mirrors which enabled you to see the marbling as well as the thickness was just sick. The good kind. Points for presentation. It was kind of a steak brothel. And the “meat waiter”, whom at this point I’ll call the “meat madame”, was knowledgeable, if a little creepy about said knowledge. Maybe he was just thinking, “an effing meat trolley!”
At this point, Jonathan had a – ahem – selection of appetizers sent up. Yeah, I said “up”. We were upstairs in a private dining room, baby. The apps ranged from English Muffin with Jam and Foie Gras, Pork Belly, Chorizo Stuffed Lobster and Bone Marrow. The foie was insanity – it all was, really. It was the first time I’d ever had marrow. I can die now. I might…of a heart attack. mL’ and I shared a wellington which went so quickly I neglected to wield my unwieldy camera at it.
We were all so stuffed that we weren’t going to order dessert. Didn’t matter. Jonathan sent up the dessert menu at his own behest. I don’t mean he sent a piece of paper (or a kinda bullshit iPad) with a list of desserts on it. I mean he sent up THE ENTIRE DESSERT MENU. Everything on the list. PLUS, ice cream sandwiches that chef makes just for the staff. Good thing we shared a wellington.
Overall, C4S’s rating for this new eatery is a very respectable four pasties – our first and highest rating ever. Trust me, this is gonna catch on.
Friday afternoon, I snuck away from Fake Nawlins for lunch at the Cosmopolitan Overlook Grill – a newly christened two pastie restaurant. mL’ and I met Chef Jonathan there because he promised the waitstaff would be in bikinis. They were not. Way to lose one of your pastie ratings girls. You could have been a three pastie joint.
We split a cauliflower app and I had the fish tacos and a Wild Turkey (my production partner). At this last bit, Chef Jonathan replied, “You can take the boy out of Texas, but you can’t take the Texas out of the boy.”
And the strippers?
Glad you asked. It was definitely a whirlwind and when it was all said and done (15 1/2 hours of takin’-it-offness) my dear friends Frenchie Kiss and Jett Adore took home “Best Duo” (yay!) and Stripper’s Holiday Eatin’ Alumnus Ruby Joule won “Best Debut”. I’m kinda like a proud papa.
Frenchie, I promise I’ll cook for you really soon.