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| - How appropriate that the half-brilliant food at Picasso should so closely resemble the minor-league paintings, courtesy of the restaurant's namesake, that grace the walls of this mostly adequate fine-dining establishment located "lakeside" at the Bellagio Hotel.
You might think that I'd have felt cheated having been presented with such inauspicious works from an artist who's membership in "The Pantheon" is so rightfully secure. You would be wrong, however, to make that assertion. In my mind, even the least-interesting Picasso still veritably hums with the genius that has conferred upon him the status as a near-consensus choice as the single most important artist of the modern era.
And just as one must, in the course of appreciating the art, ignore the piggish chauvinism that the artist himself exhibited during his reign... one must likewise ignore the missteps that mar the canvas of Chef Julian Serrano's menu if one is to be receptive to the more vivid charms that are in evidence.
The space itself is quite lovely. Rich and sumptuous, with dim lighting that is punctuated by spotlights shining down on both the tables and the million-dollar canvasses that line 3 of the surrounding walls. The fourth wall opens up onto the aforementioned "lake" and its ever-present circus of projectile choreography. As cheap a thrill as it is, I must confess an abiding fondness for this brand of contemporary Vegas kitsch. You would do well to note that the fountains are freakin' LOUD, though... and if you are the skittish type you might ask for a table a little farther away from the sideshow.
Our meal commenced with an amuse of boiled quail egg and smoked salmon on a skewer served with a small cup of leek and potato soup garnished with slivered almonds. The skewer was rich and silky, with the appropriate notes of salt and smoke, and the soup was earthy and luscious, the almonds providing good textural contrast.
My first course was a bowl of butternut squash soup, (a holdover from the fall/winter menu perhaps?) Regardless, it was cloying and unremarkable. It was helped, slightly, by the addition of some tasty bread and butter but on the whole it left me with that arched-eyebrow "Oh Lord, here-we-go" look of disappointment that I sometimes get. Yes, sometimes. REALLY, it's only SOMETIMES!! Stop hitting me in the shoulder, dammit!
Second course found me sizing up a dish of langoustine tails with asparagus in a saffron broth. Sounds delicious, right? Well in this case everything clicked and I'm happy to report that delicious is exactly what it was. A brilliant little piece of chamber music on a plate. A richly satisfying meditation of harmony and balance and if I weren't such a neurotic snob I would have licked my plate clean. In my shame I must confess that the best I could do was to sop up the remaining broth with more of that tasty bread.
For the main course I selected the veal chop and for the most part was happy I did. The chop itself was delicate and toothsome. My only complaint is that the pan jus upon which it rested was lifeless and ordinary. Pan jus is one of those things that, when done properly, can elevate a simple dish toward unexpected heights. Such an elixir should be part of every great chef's arsenal but on the night in question it's addition did little more than color the plate. Pity.
My friends and I decided to supplement our menu with a plate of the night's special meat, an offering of Kobe beef, which we felt necessary to compliment the fine bordeaux and Rioja we had assembled. When it was presented to the table, however, it was distressingly overdone. Not even borderline, mind you, but just short of grey-all-the-way-through. How it even made it out of the kitchen is a puzzle I am sure I will never decode. To their faint credit, the offending dish was whisked away and replaced with a suitably-cooked replacement. That said, the beef was only great, falling well short of the magnificence that it should have shown. What a disappointing, yet somehow fitting metaphor for the overall experience.
One aspect I feel compelled to note is the incredibly gracious treatment shown to us by the Head Sommelier, Robert. We brought our own wines and he really went the extra mile in creating a superb experience. If only the restaurant as a whole had manifest such careful attentions I imagine I would have expected nothing less than the Young Ladies of Avignon to grace the walls. As it was, the wine service was enough to catapult Picasso in my esteem to 4-star status. And if you hit it really big at the tables, ask Robert to open one of the 1947 Cheval Blancs he has in the cellar. Just be sure to let me know what time the reservation is.
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