Normal people develop crushes on movie stars, musicians, athletes... the attractive, talented and high-profile. Being something of a freak, it takes more than a killer jump shot or glacially blue eyes to make me melt (although if
Gael Garcia Bernal were to stop by one evening, you'd better believe I'd be cooking him veggie bacon in the nude ten to twelve hours hence). Nay, I go all gooey for authors, economists, particle physicists. And, of course, those brave souls who spend sixteen hours a day elbow-deep in giblets, being harangued by cruel overlords in silly hats: chefs.
I fell for
Thomas Keller after he was profiled in Michael Ruhlman's wonderful "
Soul of a Chef". As portrayed by Ruhlman, "the best chef in America" was something of an anomaly: hugely talented, hugely dedicated, yet somehow free of the huge ego which is so often part and parcel of genius. Keller's "French Laundry Cookbook" implanted in my heart further
lardons of admiration. While visiting San Francisco several years earlier, I'd called The French Laundry each morning, pleading and wheedling for a reservation. "Please, pleaaaase," I whined, "I'm pregnant and the baby really, really needs a twelve-course
degustation menu!" Despite my efforts, the fetal J.Q. was cruelly denied ahi tartare (perhaps this is why he currently refuses all foodstuffs not suffixed with "... and cheese"). When I discovered that T-Kell had joined the ranks of uber-chefs opening Vegas eateries, I resolved to finally worship at his truffle-strewn altar.
Getting to the French Laundry is a lengthy (if bucolic) pain in the ass. This makes it all the more disheartening to spend your time in Yountville sitting on the hood of your rental Taurus, gazing pathetically at that cozy little building. Getting to Bouchon (Keller's Vegas outpost) is a comparative breeze. After a stroll through the Venetian's Italia-luxe lobby, you board a brass-heavy elevator, press "10" and - le voila! - you are catapulted to the south of France. Well, after a brief tussle with the reservation-bots, that is.
"Please, pleaaaase," I whined, by now practiced in the fine art of hostess-wheedling. "Thomas Keller is like a GOD to me! And we'll buy appetizers and desserts, promise." "Sorry," said the hostess, "We're really booked tonight." "Say!" I said in a moment of inspiration, "Can we eat at the bar?" This tactic had previously resulted in an
aspic-flinging good time at Philadelphia's finest Frog eatery; it was also a rousing success at Bouchon. "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," I chanted, mounting a stool, "It's actually happening!" "I thought you said he had no hand in the day-to-day operation of this place?" said Em, giving me a pitying glance. "Well, this is technically true," I admitted, worshipfully stroking a Bouchon cocktail napkin, "But it still has, like, the essence of Keller. Um, not in a gross way."
The bread basket - so often an afterthought - set the tone for the entire meal. Fresh, crusty bread, sweet butter in a tiny ramekin, a small dish of warm pistachios. Homey, uncomplicated and delicious. This simplicity extended across the entire menu - there was no grandstanding, no gratuitous use of
foam and micro-greens. Freed from the constraints of culinary pretension, the raw ingredients were able to shine.
The
charcuterie platter brought further crusty bread, thinly-sliced hard sausage, grainy mustard and snappily acidic little pickles. The Provencal huntsman's Lunchable, as it were. Em's braised short ribs were a rich, Bordeaux-scented tangle of tender meat (note: I believe restaurant reviewers are contractually obligated to use each of those adjectives when describing short ribs). My lamb, however, was sex on a plate. "You can have more short ribs if you like," said Em, eyeing my entree. "Back off, bitch!" I said, waving my fork menacingly. Balanced atop a tasty summit of piquillo-laced couscous, this was more than just an entree. It was the Platonic Ideal of lamb. "It's... so... good," I whispered, dividing the last medallion into tiny, flavor-maximizing bites. "Oh, just eat it," sighed Em. "Hey, I can't help it if your entree was merely excellent, rather than an orgiastic explosion of flavor," I said. Or rather, I would have, had I not been busy licking lamb molecules off my fork.
Once my sparkling-clean plate had been removed by our waiter, Em and I indulged in dessert. Our sweets arrived with a complimentary plate of little pastries, the meal's only off note. "I think this is supposed to be coconut?" said a suspicious Em. They were beautiful, tiny and utterly bland - the celebutantes of the confectionary world. Our actual desserts, however, more than made up for their wee inadequacy. "Oh, god," said Em, plunging a spoon into her creme caramel, "This is so, so, so good." "So good. Very, very, very good," I concurred, trying to resist the urge to pick up a drink stirrer and directly snort my pistachio pot de creme. Once fully engorged with sugar and heavy cream, we settled our tab (did you know that well drinks are $12.50 at Bouchon? Neither did we!) and staggered outside. "Wanna go... you know... do something?" said Em. "I know it makes me a total wuss," I sighed, "But I'm freaking exhausted." This was the first ominous utterance of what would become our mantra. "Yeah, me too," said Em. "Why don't we go back to out hotel and crash?" I suggested, "After all, we've got a busy, firearm-filled day ahead of us."
VI: … and FirepowerAfter sleeping the sleep of the just, Em and I ate the breakfast of the just (featuring the prosciutto of righteousness) and set out for
The Gun Store. "Yeah, we're open every day," an employee yelled over the din when I called, "Just tell your cabby to take you to the place where you can shoot machine guns!" This is The Gun Store's main draw - the opportunity to wield ridiculous, heavy-duty, compensating-for-SOMETHING weaponry. AK-47s, M16s... you name it. Of course, that seductive new assault rifle will require ammunition. Therein lies the genuis of The Gun Store. As you might surmise, fully-automatic weapons eat up ammo very, very quickly. In "burst" mode (and of course you're going to want to try "burst" mode), an M16 fires three rounds per second. Gun rentals generally include anywhere from 25 - 50 rounds. Short of stuffing it in a g-string or setting it directly ablaze, there's no faster way to burn through cash.
Em and I merely wished to brush up on our handgun markswomanship. Walking into the harshly-lit, wood paneled store, it was obvious that we were in the minority. The testosterone was almost palpably thick. Excited young men were pressed up against every inch of available counter space. Their decades-long Rambo fantasies were mere minutes from being fulfilled. There were signs on the wall indicating that the Gatling guns and shoulder-mounted grenade launchers were "FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES ONLY". Scarily enough, I believe those signs were absolutely necessary.
Like everything else in Vegas, The Gun Store is run like a well-oiled machine (in this case, gun oil). You get in line, you spend about five minutes admiring the 8" saw-toothed hunting knives in the glass cases before you. Then, a burly guy wearing a holster large enough to double as an overnight bag steps up and booms, "So, what will you be shooting today?" Most patrons already have a vivid mental image of their weapon of choice. "M16! M16!" they say, nearly shaking themselves apart with excitement and cinematic bloodlust. Those choosing to fire automatic weapons are handed a box of bullets; those who'll be using handguns are given both ammo and an unloaded gun - a practice which gave Em and I a serious case of the jibblies.
"Er... these people probably haven’t taken any nationally-certified firearm safety classes, right?" I asked, surveying the crowd and making sure my .357 semi-auto was pointed towards the floor at all times. "I really doubt it," said Em, nervously fondling her revolver.
We made our way through the line, paid up and were directed towards the range. We (and our respective pieces) strolled over, donned earmuffs and goggles and waited our turn. Every few minutes, the blue metal door would burst open, discharging a Gun Store employee yelling, "Got a HOT GUN here! Let's MOVE ASIDE!"... as well as one or more dazed young men. Within several minutes, a smiling, crew-cut gentleman led Em and I to the range. His schpiel took all of two minutes. "HERE IS HOW YOU LOAD THE WEAPON. HERE IS HOW YOU DISENGAGE THE WEAPON’S SAFETY. HERE IS HOW YOU AIM, AND HERE IS HOW YOU FIRE. REMEMBER, LADIES, WEAPONS POINTED DOWNRANGE AT ALL TIMES. ENJOY!"
Em and I entered adjacent stalls and proceeded to spend a satisfying half-hour discharging .357 rounds into hapless paper targets. Em had chosen "Ambiguously Menacing Gentleman"; I had chosen the least-humanoid target, a person-shaped blue blob. "Oooh, that must've stung, Blobby," I said, unloading my last round. We were relived of our weapons, handed our tattered targets and ushered out the door. Standing in the lobby, wiping the sweat from our brows, I turned to Em and said, "DUDE! The Gun Store employees have gotta get laid ALL THE TIME." This was followed by a brief burst of laughter from behind the counter, and your narrator flushing and jumping behind a speed-loader display.
"Sooo... want to go get some brunch?" said Em, brushing back her hair (Em has long, lustrous, naturally curly hair. On more than one occasion, I've been tempted to stick a wad of Bubble Yum in it. You know, just because).
"Not yet," I said, "There's one more thing I've got to do."
I got back in line. When my own personal Nugent stepped up and asked, "So, what will you be shooting today?", I pointed. "Shotgun." "Do you want the short-barrel, 'Miami Vice' model?" rumbled the clerk, "Has a lot less kick." "Actually," I admitted, "I'm doing this as a tribute to Hunter S. Thompson. So I'd like the biggest one you've GOT." More employee laughter, another box of bullets slid across the counter. I was quickly led back to the range, implored to, "… really BRACE that sucker against your shoulder," and handed a truly spectacular pump-action weapon. My five recoil-licious rounds were spent within five minutes (making shotgun rental as pricey, minute for minute, as a mid-grade call girl). It was abundantly worth it. A week later, I was still fondly rubbing the faint, bra-strap shaped bruise on my shoulder.
Stepping out into the lobby, I pulled off my goggles and whispered, "Hunter, that was for you, buddy. It's four more rounds
than you got."
Em and I walked out into the bright sunlight and boarded a Strip-bound bus.
"I am so motherfucking exhausted," I said.
"Tell me about it," said Em.
"I think this place is, like, actively sucking the life out of me. The stimulation, it's just... nonstop."
“Yuh-huh,” said Em, resting her head against the seat.
We sat, quietly reflecting and clutching our rolled-up paper targets.
"Dude," I whispered, "Everyone knows what we were doing today. Either that or they figure we were attending an architect's convention that got a little out of hand."
We disembarked mid-Strip and ambled towards the fabulously depressing Riviera. It was time to scrub off, gussy up and venture forth into something more dangerous than a frat boy with an Uzi.
A wedding.
To Be Continued... 
