This Post Took Weeks to Write, So I'm Not Going to Sweat for a Witty Title and Just Hit "Publish"

If you name your establishment The Barrymore, you're nodding to Hollywood Art Deco chic, an era before even what passed for swank in Las Vegas existed. You have to be talking about John; sorry Lionel, Ethel, and of course Drew, who might fit in again in that everything that goes around is hip once around again way. That's John romancing Lombard On the Twentieth Century, oddly avuncular to Claudette Colbert in Midnight, but an ever-elegant, witty, well-cleaned-up lush. As something to aspire to in Vegas, you could do much worse--if Barrymore sang (even a bit--right Deano?), and lived past 1942--he'd have made for an apt Rat Pack granddad, teaching Sinatra et al. some class.

This kind of "just being a little bit off it's on" is at the heart of The Barrymore, which isn't even Downtown, let alone on The Strip. If you walk there from what seems like civilization (down Caesar's way) you get into that creepy convenience store no man's land of Las Vegas Blvd. and Convention Center Drive where you half expect some meth heads to burst out a store's doors, trailing bills they've pilfered and peeling out in some ill-kept hot-rod. And The Royal Resort, the hotel that houses The Barrymore, is one of those motor lodge fixer-uppers that from the outside appears only to be a Days Inn with hipper lighting on its balconies.

Luckily, the Barrymore's got better things in store for you to the left off the hotel's lobby. You walk into the bar that's somehow both dim and glittery (they've got their lighting down). It's marble-topped, backed by a mirror (and booze of course), and the stools are leather and plush and you might even consider just stopping there. Particularly in December (sorry, I'm way behind in writing this entry), as there's an aluminum Xmas tree in one corner, ablaze in a rainbow thanks to that essential spotlight with its rotating color gels of magenta and carrot and lime and blue Yule cheer. It's worth heading into the dining room, though, with more mirrors with lamps bursting through to provide the perfect reflected light for you and your equally glammed out date. And the ceiling, best of all, is covered with 35mm film take up reels, just enough odd and even more so Hollywood.

That bar, by the way, isn't just for show--they've got an incredible cocktail program, one with respect for the classics and a yen for innovation (you can get a Bloody Mary with beef brisket infused vodka, a Margarita with St. Germain). I had a Barrymore--Gentleman Jack, Solerno Blood Orange liqueur, orange marmalade, Cocchi Vermouth di Torino, orange bitters, orange zest--which sounds like too much but melded wonderfully (especially on a chill desert eve) and Chryss enjoyed the cleverly billed Basil ²--Basil Hayden, Dolin Dry vermouth, fresh sour, basil, and lemon syrup. 

Your server--perhaps you'll be lucky enough to get someone like Kendra, who waited on us--will be quick to figure out what you want and how that matches with what they have. That menu, if you look at the website, is relatively focused, but based on our admittedly just one visit, they like to augment that with specials perfect for the season.

And then we ate a ton. This is now a meal over 2 months ago, and while it was memorable, aren't even good meals more about moments than precise recall? And, of course, I remember my food more than my wife's, even getting a taste of everything she ordered. For instance, freed from California's stupidity about outlawing a food, I started with foie gras. A lovely lobe, pan seared,  atop some sweet potato pudding, and drizzled with maple glazed pecans and whiskey gastrique. Think of it as liver perched between dessert and Thanksgiving and enjoy it with a Sauterne by the glass. Chryss had a salad with a twist, featuring puntarella, which reads more suggestively than it tastes. She followed that with Mediterranean Sea Bass all done up for fall/winter, with crushed potato, roasted brussel sprouts, leeks, and a horseradish vichyssoise that was less soup than a fancy saucing. I ordered off menu, enjoying a homemade pasta with oxtail ragu and truffle, a dish so deep Carlos Castaneda might have been buried in there, tripping. It could have heavied-out, if you know what I mean--carbs with so much richness--but managed to hold the line at full of flavor without making me just full. The Altos Malbec might have helped--consider it, in this case, and as a compliment, Cab-light traipsing in with its Argentinian dust. We ended with a creme brulee for free as it was my lovely wife's birthday. So thanks, Barrymore, a class act that manages to ape an era without any irony.

Certainly Yes at Serrano

Our baby Batali experience at Otto wasn't our only attempt to sup supremely at Vegas' ample chef-ly teat (more tasty than any showgirl's, plus there's no rhinestones in the way and you don't get pummeled by a bouncer); we also skipped Picasso at the Bellagio and its at cheapest $113 per person, no liquor, tax, or tip prix fixe and instead visited Picasso chef Julian Serrano's new spot in the new Aria, named after his old self--Julian Serrano. (Note on that website that while Serrano is the star of two videos, the chef is Jose Picazo--no man is ever really in two kitchens at once.) Sure enough, it's a mid-priced bargain, for we feasted--shared 3 tapas, 1 paella for two, both had cappucinos, and then shared a churros and chocolate dessert, oh, plus a bottle of Vina Nora Albarino--for $134 pre-tip. Not cheap, but totally luxurious.

For, after all, two tickets to Spain are expensive. This wasn't Spain, but had a lively urban hip vibe, just off the humming Aria lobby and filled with bold colors that might seem either tacky or dated but somehow stayed firmly festive without going confetti-riotous. The service did that magic trick of being highly professional and still warm enough--eager to advise, when asked, willing to downsell on the wine list when our first request wasn't available. (Yes, in Vegas.) That Vina Nora was priced at $31, about a 100% markup, but for Vegas, a bargain that would leave Bugsy spinning in his grave, especially given it has a recent Wine Spectator 80th best wine of the year cache. (Do believe the hype, btw.)

As for the food, it was a wonderful mix of the straightforward/traditional--a Spanish tortilla of potato, egg, and onion that was a marvel of full flavor and simplicity--to a tempura Ahi sat alongside a magnificent fine dice avocado salad that was sort of reconstructed guacamole and then a wasabi foam that is the first foam I've eaten that both made sense and didn't seem like drool on the plate.

The avocado rooted the meal in a Spanish/Mexican tradition, the wasabi pulled the flavors to Asia, and then the super fresh Ahi tied it all in a rich fishy bow. A lovely dish. Even those tamari streaks made delicious sense for tempura brushing.

As for the paella, it was particularly striking as the one we ordered was solely fish-filled. My pescatarian partner often has to eschew paella with its traditional chicken and chorizo, but this one was fair game, as it was gameless, you might say. And completely scrumptious to the last grain crusted to the paella pan. Of course those slightly crunchy, crusty pieces are the best to score, as they attest to the transformations rice can go through to become something more than mush. Not that we did anything to avoid the seafood, a perfectly done melange of calamari, shrimp, mussels, monkish, all set off in some roasted vegetables and that saffron seductiveness that is the bright yellow hallmark of paella.

Finally, despite being full, I could not resist the temptation of churros and a chocolate that promised some chili heat. This photo should explain the brilliance of the dish...

Yep, the chocolate comes with a chili in it, a clever hint as to the slow warmth that built from the luscious chocolate (of course a bunch of it got eaten just with a spoon) and then those looped churros, as you might be able to tell, are a bit thinner than most, meaning they're more crisp fried yumminess than most too. So while the dish starts with humble roots, it steps up without showing off or going to inedible places for art's sake.

Julian Serrano is a place for fun and pleasure, what every kind of hot spot could only wish to be.

Otto Out of Dieci

In the last 15 years the invasion of celebrity chefs upon Las Vegas has made it that you can't throw a poker chip without hitting one; if you don't lose your stake at the gambling table, you're bound to spend it at a fine dining one. The good news, of course, is those chefs (who, of course, really merely lease out the honor of their names, for the most part) do know enough to often open up slightly more casual versions of their finer, more expensive spots. (Extended digression: Who the heck supports the top top end places? There's too much money in the world if folks can sustain a place like Caesar's Palace's Guy Savoy--and I know, Michelin stars out the wazoo, real Parisian pedigree--where the "bargain" TGV prix fixe, that gets you out the door in 90 minutes, so more turnover for them and move along you cheapskate, costs $140 per person pre-tax, tip, drinks, and ends with a "grapefruit terrine" that damn well better come with gold nuggets atop.)

So, now that that's out of my system, let's get some pizza. For we're headed to Mario Batali's Otto (like the one he has in NYC), but this one is in St. Mark's Plaza in the Venetian. You will need to ask to find it, partially since it's labeled something else on the directories, if you find the directories. (Be happy, keep wandering and shopping and gambling--the money you spend in Vegas stays in Vegas.) Now, there's even real pigeons, so while it's hokey, it's going for some kind of authenticity and it is charming in that "damn this is fake, but that we bother to make this says something sweetly striving about us as humans" way. You get to sit outside and be indoors.

While the pizza is the focus, there's still plenty of other things to eat, such as a series of antipasti that are worthy of mealdom all by themselves. Especially if you do as we did and order up the Verdure Grande, a bit of 8 different veggie options, all no less then fine, and some simply stunning. And I chose the adverb simply for a reason--this is food un-frilled, direct, pleasing, and delicious. If, at times, surprising--who knew chickpea and tuna were such a good combo (evidently the Sicilians, if the menu can be trusted). The other dishes were all cooked to perfection--lentils still firm but luscious, broccoli toothsome, full of flavor and just a bit of carbonization for a caramel loveliness. Have a bottle of Vermentino with it, and you'll be very happy.

As for the pizza itself, it was good, that classic Italian from Italy style--thin and crispy crust, judicious toppings of highest quality--but while yummy, it's not as good as Pizzeria Mozza, one more hint Nancy Silverton and her ways with yeasty things are better than Mario's. Well, no one's perfect. At least the whole meal, pizza, 8 apps, plus some lovely little fried fish (that were too whole and still fish-esque for poor Circe, but I gobbled them down), plus the wine, tax, tip--you get out for less then one Guy Savoy TGV ride.