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| - "You better shut your mouth," I told him, trying not to sound like Brandon St. Randy. "That has to be a lie."
But no, my husband assured me he was telling the truth. If Yelp was to be believed, there was a Wolfgang Puck restaurant open until 6 a.m. We'd been burned by high-end late night dining before - places closed during dead times, menus more limited than even the limited ones advertised. But still, we are night owls, and we desperately want to believe in something other than cafe fare or Thai at 2 a.m.
"But it's Wolfgang Puck," I dithered. See, we had once watched Puck rather gleefully butcher a duck on a late night talk show. Mike and I love ducks. We don't eat ducks. We had decided right then that we didn't care for someone who could laugh while using a cleaver on one.
But we were also hungry. And, let's face it, all of our favourite chefs butcher ducks. We just don't happen to see them. And we do love trying new places...
"I'm not going to sit in some trendy high stool with my short legs swinging," I told Mike in the car. "And I don't want to deal with a bunch of clubbers talking loudly and importantly about their own awesomeness at the next table," I warned him. "And if it's loud, forget it."
We were shown to a comfortable (if slightly small) two-top in an unpretentious open area where we could watch casinogoers pass by. (Surprisingly, it wasn't noisy.) Even though it was just after 11, we got the full menu.
Mike began with the "Chinois Chicken Salad, Candied Peanuts, Crisp Wontons, Chinese Mustard Vinaigrette." I had a chopped vegetable salad. Mine was very nice, but Mike's salad got frothy adjectives from the first bite until, well, if you were to ask him about it now, I'm sure he could still give a five-minute talk on its virtues. They should schedule him for the next TED conference, honestly.
Mike continued his theme with the Crispy Chicken Milanese, declared to be "really, really good" (because he was out of words after that salad). I had a sort of mushroom Stroganoff with green beans, and I have to say "sort of" because it isn't on the online menu and I'm having to look at photos to jog my memory because my memory just refers to it as YUM YUM NOM NOM.
I didn't scrape my plate clean, much as I wanted to, because everything was so delicious that we had to save room for dessert. (The leftover pasta made a fine lunch the next day. How often can you rave about the taste of the pasta and actually be referring to the noodle, not the entire dish? That's how good it was - I was gushing about the taste of the noodle itself!)
To reluctantly finish what was an unexpected taste bonanza, Mike ordered the caramelized lemon meringue pie (with blueberries). I ordered the cherry cheesecake with pistachios (also not on the online menu). We both then ordered our butler to kidnap Wolfgang Puck and force him to be our personal chef. (Because in the fantasy where we can afford Wolfgang Puck as our personal chef, we can also afford a butler. Although our true fantasy at this point was probably a private chauffeur, then we could've spooned in the back of the limo, basking in the afterglow of such a meal.)
I don't know if I can forgive Puck about the duck, but cognitive dissonance is no problem when your brain's being pumped full of happiness chemicals after a meal like this.
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