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| - Dammit, e', you suck. Besides the fact that I still don't know how to pronounce you, you've ruined me. You've ruined any five star rating I could possibly give because none of them will really be able to compete. Yes, this includes the five stars I gave to Popeye's whose chicken is dabombandyoucanallsuckitifyoudisagreebecauseIvebeenknowntoeatanentire10pieceboxinasinglesittingbitches.
Even then, five stars to Popeye'e and five stars to e'? That doesn't seem quite right. Six stars to e'? Wait a sec. Ten piece box of spicy chicken for $8.99? 20 course meal at e' for....a mortgage payment?
OK, I guess things equal out in the end.
Yeah, this isn't an everyday kind of meal place. It's a special occasion, once-in-blue-moon-and-if-that-moon-were-rich-and-crapped-gold-in-your-lap kind of place. We didn't care though. It was my birthday and my wife wanted to see me happy. She sure enough saw me grin through the foodiest douchebaggiest experience of both of our lives and my wife rules.
I won't go into too many details since most Yelpers have repeated them ad nauseum. My dishes were pretty similar to most others with the exception of the ever-changing "Catch of the Day." (Ours was turbot for the record.)
The chicken skin was memorable. The secreto of iberico ham rave-worthy. But it was the "chickpea" stew that made me actually swear a series of expletives into my bowl. I believe I was quoting the celebrated poet Lord Byron when I muttered into my bowl, "You've got to be fucking kidding me" and "I'd eat this shit off of Bin Laden's bloated, decaying corpse."
There are only eight seats, sidled up to a high-top bar. I think that a diner's experience would depend heavily on their surrounding companions. Fortunately, after a few courses (and some flowing wine), we all warmed up to one another. Jose Andres is famous for encouraging diners to play with their food and play we did. Observations were made and notes were shared. "What did you think of this?" and "Could you taste the jasmine in the foam? So did I!"
One of us had the vegetarian option and she described in detail her obviously different experience. My glutarded wife requested the gluten-free option and she did the same for the others. I and one other had sprung for the full alcohol pairing, but after the ninth pairing, what seemed to us a cogent and eloquent discourse in which we deconstructed every layer, aroma, and lovingly created component for our dining companions was most likely, when I think back on it, a couple of guys who sounded like the Hulk and Cookie Monster trying to read a restaurant review out of Parade magazine. None of us cared though because we had a ball. Yes, your individual experiences may vary, so I hope for your sake, you get a fun group.
The service was professional and precise. The staff introduced each meal and fielded questions. They were upfront when needed, stayed in the background when not.
A few final notes: 1) You get to take home a menu, which answers the question, "How do all these Yelpers remember what they ate to put in their reviews?" 2) You also get to keep your golden ticket. We actually never received ours in the mail, but they made sure we walked away with a couple. 3) the coffee is not part of the meal. You'll be charged for it. Nothing in Vegas is free, yo. Stupid coffee. 4) If you're on an iPhone, good luck checking in. Or doing anything on that phone for that matter. This restaurant exists in an AT&T blackhole. If you're meeting friends afterwards, make sure your plans are well-defined beforehand. 5) We never got to sign the guest book. In fact, this last note is my only gripe in an otherwise perfect night. Guestbook, man, guestbook! How can I prove I was there?! I mean, other than the pictures. And receipt. Oh and the menus and golden ticket.
All right, just forget I said anything.
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