We are the ones who ate the golden calf

Sir and I zapped off to Vegas last weekend to celebrate a friend – Scuba’s – something-something birthday along with friends, Rocket and his lovely lady wife, Rockette, and Scuba’s equally lovely son, Scuba Jr. and his very lovely wife, Mrs. Scuba Jr.

Scuba had decided we needed to try a steak house we’d seen for many years but had never tried.

We’d never tried it because it had a dress code, and somehow we just never managed to bring the correct amount of bling to frequent it.  But this time, forewarned, we had the appropriate clobber so we knew we would fit right in.

I knew something was somewhat awry before we even went through the door, stopped, as we were, by a gentleman and his entourage on their way out. The reason I just knew something was in the direction of up was that I was rather taken aback by this guys knees, clearly visible as they were beneath his cargo shorts and above his flip flops.  I checked the door, and yep, there it was, the dress code.

“Resort Casual” it said. 

Thinking “Beach Sloppy” might have been the more correct term, we entered this fine establishment at the appointed hour to be greeted by black-clad hostesses and wait-staff who went into extremely busy mode as they hied hither and thither to ready our table.  Obviously our idea of punctuality didn’t quite meet theirs, but looking forward to a fine meal we bided our time.

Finally seated at our table, beautifully bedecked with white linen, fine china plates and multitudinous glassware, we were handed our menus.

Backed with a very solid leather stabilizer the menu proved a tad tricky as it measured about the height and width of a broadsheet newspaper, so it having been placed in our hands it was in fact impossible to put down without causing the Great Crystal Disaster of 2008. 

Our server bustled over, introduced himself and proceeded to clear the fine china and all the glassware. At this point I realize that the waiters had all been hired solely on their ability to look further down their noses at their customers than other wannabe servers, as I swear he was clearing the table in case we got rowdy and started throwing plates.

Taking our wine order he hithered and thithered with a goodly amount of dithering, and returned some time later I swear with exactly the same glasses he’d just removed. Maybe he took them off to count them in case we’d had designs on pinching them and stowing them in our purses.

Now I’m quite a happy diner, and I know this is a pricey joint and I am ready for it. But this place somewhat rocked me as I realized I was not choosing the wine and food by its name, it’s variety or its stature in the World of Gourmet, but rather by the price.

The term “steakhouse” was obviously used rather loosely, as there was a paltry variety of cow from which to choose, but I guess it was a pretty decent cow which had been selected for the evening as I believe its breed was Golden Calf. How else, I ask you, could you justify $98 for a filet if it wasn’t coated in precious metal, or at the very least massaged with vintage champagne, Kobe Beef style?

To further the shock value, this lump of Moo was unaccompanied. Solo, Nigel No-Friends in the accompaniment department. All sides were extra, to the tune of $10 a pop.

We had been advised by our wait-person that the sides were very generous and between the seven of us, we would only need five or so.  How positively generous of him to offer this salutary piece of advice.

There ensued a wait, rather elongated by the fact that we obviously weren’t to be trusted with our own bottle of diamond encrusted wine and so had to do a little foot tapping while standing by for a refill, our waiter having dashed the bottle away to some ice bucket I think some way off the premises. At one point the wait turned into an exceedingly dry argument.

I hailed another server, ours having gone AWOL, to see if she could find our bottle. More waiting, she finally rushed back to breathlessly tell us that “they” were trying to find it.

Trying to find it? What, had they stored it at the cigar shop which had closed for the night? Was it holed up in a love tryst with a saucy little cabernet? Had it run away from home?

Finally located, it arrived back at our table, a little shame-faced I do believe. We assured our server that we were all over 21, and we could be trusted to look after our own bottle, thanks very much.

Our food finally arrived and to say it was the dreariest meal I’ve encountered in a long time would be an understatement. The chef had obviously locked up all the salt, pepper, herbs and spices as none were used in the preparation of any dish, each one being as bland as the next.

Despite all of that, being with friends we all had fun, but we’ve made a pact that we’d first check out our next Pay Check Restaurant for its Pretentious Gauge. 

I guess the guy we’d met at the front door must have had diamond encrusted flip flops and virgin silkworm shorts.