EmVes's Vegas

Emili has a nicer digital camera and a more twisted sense of humor. Check out her version of Vegas.

Guy Savoy (aka Gi Savwa)

A trip to Las Vegas wouldn't be complete without a fancy schmancy dinner consisting of at least four courses and an amuse bouche or two at a restaurant named after a chef who's earned three stars from the esteemed Michelin guide. Two nights ago, I noshed at Joel Robuchon's casual eatery, L'Atelier. But that experience didn't compare to Guy Savoy's eponymous restaurant in Caesars Palace's Augustus Tower. Monsieur Savoy's son, Frank, and his daughter-in-law, Laura, who had handled my reservation and menu requests, stopped by to introduce themselves and exchange pleasantries and business cards with me and my dinnermates.

I think Savoy's three-month-old venture in the land of togas and laurel wreaths was the perfect hybrid of low and high culture. Just take a look at the bear sculpture created by Frenchman David Mach out of colored match sticks.

Bernard, the super-nice maitre behind the champagne bar, entertained Emili and me with tales about his 25-plus years working at various restaurants in Los Angeles, starting wtih the original Spago and ending with his difficulty in securing a reservation at Wolfgang Puck's new steakhouse, Cut, in the Beverly Regent Wilshire Hotel for Robin Williams' manager. After recommending a rose champagne by Bruno Paillard (superb!), he offered shots of tomato gazpacho, teeny tiny foie gras club sandwiches impaled on silver toothpicks and olive brioches. Since Adam and I were the only two members of The Foie Faction present, it wasn't an official eating meeting of our pro-foie gras political action group. Still, it wasn't a bad way to represent.

After the rest of our party of eight joined us, we were directed to our round table in a private room with a view of the Barbary Coast's neon lights. If only Missy (left) and Emili had eyes behind their heads.

Our eyes were not the only ones treated to such spectacle. The amuse bouche of fennel, shallots and cold carrot soup hid a surprise for us. Under the double-ended cups was a pyramid comprising a parmesan crisp, half of a cherry tomato, sliver of prosciutto and a dime of a blood sausage.

Yum!

Our first official course was a slow-cooked wild King salmon with licorice, star anis jus and foam. The bread man suggested a ciabatta to go with our first course. I had to rebel; I ordered a bacon roll.

The second course, Mr. Savoy's signature artichoke and black truffle soup, was served with a specific baked good: a toasted mushroom brioche smeared with black truffle butter.

In lieu of the veal shank, I had requested a substitution of chicken, since some dinnermates had objected to veal for humanitarian and dietary reasons. The chef cooked a whole bird for us. Halfway into our feasting on the unbelievably tender breasts of poached poulard, we were offered extra morsels of the dark meat. I was one of the few at the table who accepted the additional pieces. The brown basmati rice was cooked al dente. The cabbage was stuffed with carrot cubes.

To clean our palate, we scooped up a round of mint ice cream nestled in a fortress of diced plums.

Our dessert was a chocolate fondant decorated with crunchy praline headpieces that would make a showgirl proud. Many of the dishes and silverware were custom-made for Mr. Savoy. I wondered which came first: the rectangular plate with a shallow crevice on the right-hand side or the chicory cream.

I loved the square teapot in which my mint tea was steeped. It was ingenious that the tea ball was attached to the bottom of the heavy ceramic-coated iron lid. Although Mr. Savoy didn't offer each of the ladies a giant brioche as Joel Robuchon's peeps had at the end of our multicourse meal last February, I walked away with a copy of our special menu and a box of caramels.

A Hard Day's Night

It's been a hard day's night in Sin City, and I've been working like a dog. That's why it's important to get some R&R, namely a fine French dinner of foie gras at Joel Robuchon's L'Atelier and the new show from Cirque du Soleil, "Love," which is based on all the great tunes from The Beatles. Here, my evening in pictures.

I ate at L'Atelier in April. My co-worker Adam said he never swims in the same river twice in Las Vegas. That's because there is a plethora of new restaurants to try. I'd jump into any river in order to get to the other side and taste the foie gras that Monsieur Robuchon always fabulously prepares. For my second visit, I sat again at the bar, between two co-workers.

We had a prime view of the kitchen. In the far left corner of this picture is the executive chef. He wouldn't even talk to us after our waiter introduced him. Maybe he was nervous that Mr. Robuchon was planning one of his semi-monthly visits to Las Vegas in late September. I asked our waiter what will the honcho do on his week-long stay in the city. "Critique," was the heavily coded and slightly nervous reply.

For my appetizer, I chose the sheets of sheep's milk cheese served with black cherry marmalade. The raisin nut bread heightened the sweetness of the fruit and cheese combo. Emili, Rachel and I then listed all the pairings of cheese that we like: blue cheese with honey, Brie with cranberries, etc.

I decided to try a different preparation of foie gras at L'Atelier. Instead of the seared foie gras burgers that I had last time, I ordered the quail stuffed with foie gras and accompanied by truffled mash potatoes. The quail was so little that I abandoned my fork and knife by the wayside and picked up the tiny drumstick between my thumb and forefinger. I have to say that the foie gras burgers were a showcase for the full flavor of the fattened livers. Still, the roast quail was not a bad way to feed the body after a long day of reporting, being snubbed by press-shy executives and walking at least four miles on a trade show floor.

I couldn't decide on one dessert so I chose five. From left to right: a raspberry tart, a peanut tart that tasted like a gooey triangle of a Snickers bar, a cinnamon tart, a coconut tart that had a hint of passionfruit and kiwi and a chocolate tart.

The good thing about swimming in the same river twice was that I was prepared for the swift undercurrent. I preempted the waiter from pouring the hot raspberry sauce over the white chocolate sphere housing the dollop of yuzu ice cream. Though my co-worker Rachel ordered this dessert, she let me snap the picture before and after the sauce transformed the perfect globe into an edible Death Star.

How I wanted to geek out and hum the Empire's theme from "Star Wars."

After dinner, I caught the late show of Cirque du Soleil's "Love" at the Mirage hotel. I impressed a bunch of Southern gentlemen by ordering a vodka and Cointreau cocktail dubbed A Hard Day's Night. Sure, it was a girly drink. Because I ordered the large size, however, the cocktail was poured into a "Love"-themed cup the size of my forearm. "Are you going to drink all of that?" one of the Southerners asked me. "I think so," I said, glancing at my co-worker Adam who went to the Cirque show with me and some executives from a licensing company and the Apple record label that manages the Beatles' estate. "It's been a long day."

One of my favorite segments of the show was the fast-pace rollerblading stunt performed on two half pipes to the kinetic song "Help." The skaters wore furry legwarmers that matched their black and white striped suits.

To keep the audience suspended in the imaginary world lived by Paul, John, George and Ringo, the ushers were dressed as Royal Guards and female Bobbies and spoke in faux British accents.

Vegas Victuals

Adam, Missy and I putt-putted to a low-slung, square-shaped shopping complex off the famed Strip between the casino clusters and downtown Las Vegas. Our destination was Lotus of Siam, which has been heralded by The Los Angeles Times, Gourmet and other publications as one of the best--if not the greatest--Thai restaurants in the U.S. Little did we know when Adam steered his bright blue convertible into the parking lot that we had arrived in the epicenter of postmodern multiculti life in Nevada. Lotus Siam was neighbor to a Japanese restaurant called Tokyo, a Mexican restaurant, a wig store owned by someone named Serge, an Indian establishment, a dive bar called Miss Mr. and a Korean BBQ joint that had a neon sign flashing words in Korean and the romanized phrase "U Dong." As Adam was chilling with his two Southeast Asian co-workers, I thought we should order a whole catfish fried with the head and tail intact and topped with chili flakes, Thai basil and red and green peppers. My nimble Viet fingers deftly removed the pleated meat off the skeleton. The fish complemented the flavors and texture of the other dishes, which started with a medium-spicy larb salad of cabbage and minced chicken sauteed with chili flakes. We asked for medium-spicy but the salad arrived super-spicy. Even Missy's Filipina tongue and my Viet genes couldn't handle the spiciness. I had to swish some of my sweetened lemongrass drink around in my mouth to cool off. The three of us joked that the waiter noticed how much water we were drinking to placate our palate from the overload of chilis and told the kitchen to disregard our requests for all the dishes to be medium-spicy and give us the mild treatment instead. The red curry with beef was calming in comparison to the larb salad. The jumbo shrimp, which were removed from most of their shells but remained attached to the tails, twisted into crunchy amorphous blobs in the hot frying oil. After I brought my temperature down to normal, I was able to enunciate to Missy and Adam that Lotus of Siam cooked the best Thai food I ever had in the U.S.

Steak on the Side

Whenever I order a bowl of the Vietnamese noodle soup, pho, I always ask for the raw steak on the side. That way, I can swirl the thin slices of beef in the steaming broth to the perfect pinkness that I like. The waiter at Blossom on Main Street in downtown Los Angeles obliged when I ordered the beef pho as such on Friday night and cheerfully set another small round table next to the two that were already placed side by side to hold the various plates, bowls and cups for me, Eileen and Bruna. Sometimes it's hard to tell if a Vietnamese restaurant is Vietnamese-Vietnamese or Vietnamese-Chinese. The authentic ones automatically bring the steak on the side for pho tai, or noodle soup with thin, rare slices of beef. The Americanized or Chinese-run joints usually dump everything together. I wasn't sure about Blossom because it caters to the upwardly mobile professionals and hip folks who work and live in the high-rises and modern lofts downtown. I concluded that Blossom is Vietnamese-Vietnamese because the waiter understood when I ordered my food in Vietnamese and didn't give me that "you-want-your-meat-where?" look when I had my unusual bout of being a fussy foodie. The shrimp and sweet potato fritters were also tasty, though not as good as my mom's, which always have at least three pieces of shrimp in each cluster. After dinner, Eileen and I headed to her friend's place in Hollywood for some red wine, chocolate, figs and Stilton cheese. Just back from a British tour promoting his new album, Eileen's friend, Thomas, showed us videos of the English countryside and booty-shaking groupies taken on his cell phone. It was a very yummy and entertaining evening.

The Men in My Life

Two new ones in my life: a rollerskating Ziggy and a mammary-endowed doodle from a postcard some company sent me. The caption reads: "This man lives in your walls and he only comes out while you are sleeping. To smoke your drugs. And touch your butt."

I'm joshing with you. They're not real, and I don't keep any drugs in my house. If you believe this Forbes article, no man would ever want to be with a career girl who can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan, as I did with three friends at a Korean restaurant called Tahoe Galbi on Wilshire Boulevard. Highly illogical. As one person put it, after reading the article's assertion that career women have dirty houses:
"But, the thing is? If your bitch be makin' the bank, can't she hire a goddamn maid? Logic is out the window here."

Teuscher Treats

A herd of paper elephants, penguins and dinosaurs bearing Teuscher chocolates from Switzerland arrived in our office this afternoon. They were sent by Katy, a plucky girl reporter who interned in our bureau this summer. At least she wasn't a disgruntled ex-worker. Imagine what she could have proffered instead of truffles, nut wafers and chocolate tubes pumped with marzipan. Her former taskmasters happily munched on the treats and banged away on their keyboards while on a sugar high. Carrying a creamy dark chocolate truffle on its back and a mound of powder sugar-dusted chocolate nibbles in its rump, the elephant is tooting happily on my desk.

The Foie Faction

My friend and fellow foodie Isabel urged me to help establish what might be the first pro-foie gras political action group in California. The Foie Faction is accepting members.

E-Cards

I previously wrote about the delightful note cards Emili made. Because I didn't have a photo, my kid sister's sock puppy got all the attention in the earlier entry. Today I snapped a picture of an E-Card that Emili gave to a departing summer intern in our office.

Summer Birthday

Today was Eileen's birthday. Yay! Eight of us feted her with samosas, chona and other vegetarian Indian food at Paru's on Sunset Boulevard. I've driven past Paru's at least three dozen times. It's right around the corner from Jumbo's Clown Room, the popular romper room for randy boys and busty strippers. I've never considered parking my car and ringing Paru's doorbell to be allowed entry past the iron gate into the courtyard and a small restaurant decorated with blown-up photos of the father of Ashtanga yoga. Talk about guru ghetto. The food was delicious and the staff superbly nice, however. Eileen wasn't the only one celebrating her birthday at Paru's. A trio squeezed into a booth in the back was cheering a friend, while a party of 15 horded two round tables in the courtyard. The outdoor party was a little famous, with three Arquettes (Rosanna, David and Courtney Cox) and one Pee-Wee (Herman) in the house. But I thought Eileen's posse was much more interesting, based on her mix of journalists, poets, screenwriters, documentary filmmakers and bons vivants. And we had a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Champagne. Paru's didn't offer kulfi or any other ice cream for the birthday girl, so we cruised by Pazzo Gelato and Baskin-Robbins before arriving at Brite Spot for some cake and ice cream.

The strawberry layer cake was covered with a butter-cream frosting instead of whipped cream. It was an unexpected pairing but nonetheless delicious. Leaving Brite Spot, I spotted a flyer for a local band called Genghis Tron. I thought it was funny that someone combined two childhood nicknames of mine.

Snakes on a Plane, Livers on a Plate

Everyone knows I love foie gras, but I don't think anyone knows that Isabel likes the plump livers more than I do. Walking up Vermont Avenue in Los Feliz, she nearly caught her high heels in a sidewalk crack when I described the foie gras burgers I had at L'Atelier on a trip to Las Vegas in April. We both griped how California was being led astray by fascist foodies who lobbied for the ban of the production and sale of foie gras by 2012 because of concerns about how the geese and ducks were fattened to produce the oversized livers. Geese and ducks don't have gag reflexes, people! To show my support of the foie faction, I ordered a plate of chicken livers sauteed with pears in balsamic vinegar at Figaro Bistrot. The bitter frisee salad provided a bit of crunch that the croutons couldn't offer after soaking up all the vinegar. I also had some French fries. I was surprised that the restaurant didn't serve shoestring fries -- my favorite -- but the crinkle cut ones were crunchy and satisfying. A glass of pinot noir cleaned my palate, just in time for the arrival of Isabel's chocolate souffle.

Isabel didn't like the dessert so much because the chocolate was a little too bitter, leaving a strange aftertaste. A fan of bitter chocolate, I thought perhaps the mint sauce was the culprit for the funky flavor. But Isabel's sensitive tongue disapproved of the dark chocolate.

When Isabel was checking out the graffiti guys staring over her shoulder behind our outdoor table, I sneaked more spoonfuls of the chocolate souffle into my mouth. After dinner, we had a feast for our eyes at a late-night screening of "Snakes on a Plane" at the 79-year-old Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. We were disappointed that the venue was only a quarter full. Still, the anemic audience compensated for the emptiness by whooping and hollering when Samuel L. Jackson appeared on the screen and uttered his infamous lines ("Great, snakes on crack." + "I have had it with these motherfuckin' snakes on this motherfuckin' plane!"). The only thing better than foie was kitsch.

Hungry Cats

Eileen invited me to get a drink at The Hungry Cat on Friday. I never turn down an offer to get some libations and try a new restaurant. Run by David Lentz, the former chef of Opaline and husband to A.O.C.'s Suzanne Goin, the bistro is hidden behind Borders Books in the gentrified Hollywood building pretentiously named Sunset + Vine. The Hungry Cat is known for its seafood and fresh ingredients from the farmer's market. It also took great pains to bring the art of "fusion" to the bar. I thought it would have been better sticking with an extensive beer and wine list and serving classic cocktails. I was a little disappointed with my strawberry margarita. The waiter sold me on it when he raved about how the organic strawberries were muddled. I'm a sucker for a good story about bruising fruit. But the strawberry margarita was a little too acidic for me. It tasted like something between a strawberry fresca and a tequila shot. I might have liked it more if there were more tequila. I would have been better off with a glass of cold beer. Eileen's spiked lemonade was tastier, I thought.

After a 20 minute wait, Eileen and I eventually took our seats at the bar. We were directed to the low bar, which is the equivalent of the kiddie table. I was fine with that. Had we sat at the high bar, we would have had to share our table with an extra-large scallop statue that showcased the proprietor's wife's cookbook from her days working at Lucques. Our low vantage point gave us a view of the kitchen's grill and stove that not even the multiple sprays of fresh lilies could obstruct. That triangle glowing in the forefront of the kitchen photo is a slab of blue cheese that the cook kept slicing to feed himself and throw into some dishes.

There was no blue cheese on our salad. I liked the way the boiled egg was finely crumbled atop the avocado and mixed greens.

The showstopper was the plate of shrimp and grits that Eileen and I shared. Eileen and I are both Southeast Asians who grew up in the South. So we have a soft spot for fresh seafood and creamy grits. The cook left the heads on the shrimp, as we Southeast Asians liked it, and cooked the grits in some of the juice from the sauteed crustaceans and chanterelle mushrooms. The shrimp was crunchy, the grits soft and buttery, the mushrooms absorbing all the delicious sauce. This was the best serving of grits I've ever had in California.

For dessert, we tried another traditional Southern dish: bread pudding. The last bread pudding I had was doused with bourbon. The Hungry Cat's version was baked in a round metal pan that had heart-shaped handles. Our waitress advised us to wait until the burnt sugar stopped bubbling to eat it lest we burn our tongues. I counted to 10 and then banged my spoon on the top. My spoon bounced back because the sugar was still rubbery. I waited another 20 seconds. Cracking the crispy top layer, I dug into the warm mound of brioche and hit black gold -- the rich chocolate sauce coating the bottom.


By the end of the night, I was purring with satisfaction.

Sock Puppy

My friends and I like to DIY, or do it yourself. After 20 minutes with some scissors, glue and manila folders, Emili can craft a quirkily beautiful set of cards decorated with flower appliques. My kid sister can make a cute sock puppy out of a pair of socks, buttons, thread and some pillow stuffing. I once made floppy pillows from a bolt of leftover kimono fabric. I don't think any of us will ever give up our day jobs. I got tired of ramming stuffing into and fluffing the pillows that I deliberately made some pillows more floppy than the others. I did encourage Emili to box her cards and sell them for $20 per set. The most entrepreneurial of the bunch is my sister, who took the initiative to think of a name for her sock puppy business (Tu Designs) and open an e-mail account to accept correspondence and orders. She gave me the friends and family discount for what I believe is the third cloth canine she's ever created. I worry that once people catch on to how adorably charming the critters are, I'll have to wait in line and pay full price along with the rest of the hoi polloi.

Bin 8945

By the numbers, Bin 8945 is impressive. Sake list: 16. Sampler set of three sakes: $10. French rose wine: 6 (one's not even listed on the menu). Temperature-controlled wine cellar: 1000-plus bottles.

There was no shochu but the menu offered little nibbles, including roasted yam with ginger butter, fried soft shell crab on a bed of sweet corn, beet salad, tuna tartare with fried sesame sticks, empanadas filled with spicy beef and black beans, mussels sauteed with spicy sausage, fried gorgonzola and roasted quail with Haitian grits.

The owner was the former maitre'd at the now closed Aubergine in Newport Beach, Calif., and a friend of one of my dinnermates. He took care of us and gave primers on Haitian grits and French rose wine. He even asked a couple to leave the table our party of seven had relinquished but then decided to keep because we didn't want to climb back into our cars and drive somewhere else for dinner. It was my fault for suggesting to cancel the other dinner reservation. I was difficult, thus earning the T for "trouble" in my middle name. Yet, it was worth the effort, for the food was yummy and the conversation flowed from fashion journalism and crepe carts in Cannes, France, to "Grand Theft Auto: Vice City" and milk maidens carrying Uzis. I liked the pistachio-speckled pate at Lou's better than the homemade mixture done at Bin 8945. The evening's dessert plate represented the four corners of the world; there was a flambe miniature banana, sushi-style roll of sweet sticky rice and chocolate, coconut pound cake and a brownie a la carte. I don't know whether the green apple jelly bean served with the dessert roll was intended to be ironic or pretty. I appreciated the sense of humor. The evening in West Hollywood ended on a sour note when my friend’s car got towed, however. Three of us fashion reporters had to go to some grungy garage and pick up her car. But I wore a black cape, so it felt like a scene from "Batman" or something.

Bruna in Bollywood

Greetings from the Taj Mahal! The Food and Music Club has opened its second foreign bureau in Asia. Our roving correspondent is Bruna, an esteemed poet who has roots in Los Angeles, New York, Japan and Italy. She sent this dispatch from Delhi:

"In Delhi, the dinner at Bukhara at the Sheraton was the fanciest -- rated number one by The Times of India -- known for its tandoori preparation, and a meal at Ploof was most contemporary in blue light.

On Independence Day, one of the only eateries open for lunch was Saravana Bhavan in Connaught Place, a chain that serves yummies and is always packed -- evidently there's one in Sunnyvale [in Northern California]. I just happened to take photos of our meals since the lighting was so fluorescent the food glowed. Of course I thought that I was turning into you as I pressed the shutter button.

Featured: Bruna's choice of tomato and coconut uttapam


and John's selection of rava masala dosa.


I should've shot Tulay's serving of rice cakes, but they were doused in yogurt, and she had already dived in.

By the way, those sheaths that appear to be paper under the items are actually leaves."

Our Man in China

The Food and Music Club is going international. We've opened a bureau in Shanghai and our first correspondent is a California-based animator who is spending two months teaching the ambitious youth of the Middle Kingdom how to draw Hollywood-style. Our Man in China works at a company that is helmed by a former live action film director and whose projects include the production of museum-quality fine art glass sculptures that sell for as much as US$25,000 apiece, animation films and haute cuisine restaurants. Our Man in China has this to say about one of his meals with his boss, Mr. Chen, in Shanghai:

"When Mr. Chen is in town, we get to sample new creations for the restaurant (sadly, Mr. Chen has been away on business all this week). Last weekend I got to go to the restaurant, which featured a live performance of traditional Chinese musicians from a famous music conservatory in Shanghai. ... The one [photo] I sent was a goose drumstick, with additional goose meat stuffed in those rings, which were probably made from the goose skin. The restaurant specializes in something Shanghainese call 'fusion,' which is a blending of Western and Chinese cuisine."

I hope that in his next dispatch, our Man in China will address -- in addition to the five W's in journalism: Who, What, Where, Why and When -- the most important question for The Food and Music Club: Was it yummy?

Field Trip to Cardiff-by-the-Sea

I took a field trip to Cardiff-by-the-Sea on Saturday with two friends. "A trip to Wales?" you might be asking yourself. Not quite. Cardiff is a small surfer town located 100 miles south of Los Angeles, tucked between Encinitas, Calif., and a new community called Solano Beach. My friends came along to keep me company on the drive and to help me take advantage of the commuter lane that required at least two people in the car. Unfortunately, the commuter lane was just as slow as the regular lanes, and it took us three hours to make our way from Los Angeles to Cardiff. I had to check out a store for my job. Before I could do so, I needed some lunch and a frozen girly cocktail. Sitting on the second floor deck overlooking the beach, I slurped on a pina colada topped with a slice of orange (or "oranjevo" in Bulgarian as my field trip mate Alex taught me) through a straw. Eileen helped me pick at crab cakes, lobster egg rolls, fried calamari and sweet potato fries. I also had a salad with bay shrimp and hearts of palm, which was the healthy but unphotogenic part of the meal. Cardiff was really cool with lots of baby waves. It was perfect for learning how to surf, Eileen said. But the water was a little stinky because of some oil spill north of the state beach around Camp Pendleton. So I didn't even dare to dip a toe in the water.

I saved dessert for after my interview. Am I glad I did. At Surfside Creamery, I got a giant scoop of malted ube macapuno, which is a lavender-tinted mix of baby coconut and taro. The malt balls gave the smooth globe of ice cream a little crunch. Eileen said she had ube macapuno in the Philippines. Alex, who is 6'4", decided to emphasize even more the silliness of me, wearing a forest green romper, eating a cartoon-like ice cream cone. He stood on top of a bench to snap the photo.