I watch videos from blogger Norma Geli who leads viewers through Las Vegas restaurants and bars. She’s fun to watch and her enthusiasm makes you wish you were there, nibbling on innovative food fusions and sipping cocktails that blossom with dry ice.
Her most recent blog featured the best steak in Sin City. Her pick is Carversteak, located in Resorts World on the Strip. Here’s a line from Carversteak’s website: ‘A reimagining of the classic steakhouse experience offering dry-aged American steaks from artisan producers.’
Norma began with a martini order. Her glass arrived . . . and so did a cart and bartender who created the cocktail in front of her.
Next, she chose a ‘C’s Tomohawk’ steak, a hefty 42 ounces of beef. She also ordered a side of Bearnaise sauce and a special ‘Pommes Puree,’ made with 50% Yukon Gold taters and 50% butter.
I can’t speak for you, but if a server brings me a steak knife, I’m pleased. Period. At Carversteak, a new person shows up with an impressive wooden box, something out of a medieval dual.
He opens the box and presents an array of knives while explaining the benefit and weight of each. Eventually Norma asks for his advice. So would I. The only knives I can identify are the bread knives and generic steak knives we’ve owned for decades.
My eyebrow arched when the meat showed up – it was already sliced on the plate!
First the bar cart, then the knife box, and had Norma ordered a bottle of wine, a sommelier would have appeared tableside.
What was last, the dishwasher with a soap trolley to wash Norma’s dirty plates? This wasn’t a meal but a performance.
I didn’t stick around for dessert. I had indigestion just thinking about that 50% butter potato puree.
Norma never showed us the bill but mentioned that her martini cost $35 and her steak – without sides or sauces – was $260. Add tax and gratuities. Wow.
I have my own ‘reimagining’ that features a world where I share a delicious meal with my partner Paul, without half a dozen people circling our table, and without a bill that could cover a car payment.
Wait . . . I don’t have to reimagine, I only have to remember.
When Paul and I rolled our little RV into rustic campsites near the Rockies, we’d bring our own steaks and libations. He’d build a fire, add foil-wrapped potatoes, and let the flames burn to hot embers. That’s when he’d cook our steaks to a perfect medium rare. I’d open a bottle of wine and pour into our plastic wine glasses.
On every occasion those steaks were the most tender and delicious I’ve ever eaten. Do I recall the type of knife used? No.
Better yet, did I force my wine-addled head to figure out the tip, and then find a ride back to our hotel? (Hey, if the rooms at Resorts World are as spendy as the steaks, we aren’t staying there).
All we did was watch the sun set and after Paul extinguished our fire, we’d stumble into our trailer. The only one in my face during our meal was Paul. And sometimes squirrels or whiskey jacks who waited for treats.
Paul might have asked for a ‘tip’ for his fire-building and cooking efforts, but with all that wine, who can remember?