Gordon Ramsay, you owe me an apology. And Bobby Flay, I have one coming your way.
Here follows a recap of my recent visit to two celebrity chef restaurants in Las Vegas - and how each evening resulted in an experience I didn't see coming.
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Some buddies and I recently spent a long weekend in Vegas for a few days of good food and drink, paired with an appropriate amount of only-in-Vegas fun befitting fellas our age. So unlike a similar trip taken 10 years ago, this one was far more focused on enjoying some of the Strip's legendary restaurants and a little less on, well, all that other stuff you can do there.
We enjoyed spicy bloody Marys and a world fusion "street food" breakfast at Tom's Urban at New York New York Casino; a filling brunch at Serendipity 3 at Caesar's Palace, where my Wagyu eggs Benedict with cornmeal-crusted fried eggs, Bearnaise, bacon and sausage gravy piled on house-made biscuits stole the show; and Kobe beef tataki with incredible sushi (even some featuring PopRocks!) at Yellowtail at Bellagio.
But when it came time for dinner each night, we couldn't help be swayed by all of the celebrity chefs shining from one marquee after the next. Names like Mario Batali, Emeril Lagasse, Wolfgang Puck, Thomas Keller, Todd English, Guy Savoy, Tom Colicchio, Joel Robuchon, Guy Fieri, Giada de Laurentiis and the list goes on.
Looking for places we felt would serve really good food in a more casual atmosphere, we landed at restaurants owned by Gordon Ramsay and Bobby Flay for dinner the two nights we were there.
Oh, how both places differed in ways we didn't expect.
Gordon Ramsay Pub & Grill
I don't think Gordon Ramsey is the world's greatest chef, but the man sure seems to know a lot about food - with enough stars and awards to back it up.
And even though his reality cooking shows aren't great television by any stretch, I admit I tune in because I almost always learn something about how to work with a new ingredient, master a new technique or pick up a new time-saving kitchen tip.
Above all, I'm big on quality control and figured his in-your-face, no-apologies style would result in top-notch food and service from the minute we walked in the door.
It was a near disaster.
Excitement quickly turned to frustration when our names were inadvertently dropped from the waiting list (after 45 minutes) only to be given an explanation of "yeah, that sometimes happens."
We got back on the list and waited a bit longer, while the hostess hastily cleared a table and then pointed us to it with no welcome, smile or apology, which easily would've wiped the slate clean. Instead, we waited much longer without service of any kind, even though tables around us were receiving food, drinks and smiles left and right.
We finally pulled the hostess aside and asked if we had a waitress, to which she replied: "Well, you should." One finally showed up a bit later, dropped her notepad and asked - with no fanfare - "What do you want?"
We would've gotten better service at the Dick's Last Resort down the street, where their whole shtick is intentionally treating customers rudely for laughs.
Once the almighty Gordon's food did arrive, it was merely OK. Despite the promise of "elevated British pub food" (and tasty sounding options like Scottish salmon, corned beef brisket and steak-and-ale pie) my braised short ribs were cooked a few minutes over, making them a little chewy, and the risotto they were piled on was several minutes under, making the rice in it almost crunchy. Others at the table reported lackluster meals also.
These are the kind of problems that would drive Gordon Ramsay into screaming rage on TV, but no one seemed to care a bit here in real life.
Maybe Gordon should hand over HIS apron?
Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill
The next night we decided to give Bobby Flay's place a try. Even though he's one of my least favorite celebrity chefs (strikes me as a poser), I love Southwest cuisine and the restaurant itself was gorgeously decorated on a grand scale with vibrant colors, eclectic lighting and giant wood, metal and glass accents.
The menu also looked divine - and my new man Bobby delivered.
We enjoyed blue corn lobster tacos with tomatillos, avocado, pickled red onion and habanero-fennel relish; tiger shrimp with a roasted garlic corn tamale and corn-cilantro sauce; and New Mexican spice-rubbed pork tenderloin with bourbon, ancho chile sauce and sweet potato tamale with crushed pecan butter.
We also impolitely stared at nearby tables devouring mango and spice-crusted tuna with a green peppercorn chile sauce and toasted pine nut couscous; fire-roasted veal chop with horseradish-maple glaze and a chorizo-goat cheese tamale with thyme butter; and pan-seared scallops with wild mushroom hominy grills, cotija cheese and cilantro brown butter.
And the margaritas? Mercy! The restaurant claims to "live and die by the margarita" and I can see why.
Better still, unlike the night before at Gordon's hot mess, the service here was first-rate.
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The moral of this story is this: It doesn't matter whose name is on the restaurant door when you walk thought it.
Whether you're at a local dining spot known for its fantastic chef or a popular big-city restaurant sought out for its celebrity owner or Michelin stars, the food you enjoy (or not) all falls on the shoulders of the cooks who happen to be working the line in the kitchen that day.
I know ol' Gordon and Bobby were nowhere near their restaurants the nights we popped in, so I don't really praise or blame them personally for the successes and shortcomings we experienced.
But if you're going to put your name on something, I do believe you should keep a close eye on what's going on when you're not around.
Steven Keith writes a weekly food column for the Daily Mail. He can be reached at 304-348-1721 or by e-mail at dailymailfoodguy@aol.com. You can also follow him on Facebook and Pinterest as "DailyMail FoodGuy," on Twitter as "DMFoodGuy" or read his blog at http://blogs.charlestondailymail/foodguy.