Time to Say When

You know when enough is enough, right?

Six days in Las Vegas made for a very long week. Sitting in straightbacked chairs for hour upon hour and listening to talks on acute renal failure, sexually transmitted disease, surgical wound management, malpractice issues, and ovarian masses can be exhausting. Each evening the temptation was to hit the personal pan pizza stand and melt into the king sized bed with television remote in hand. I can only take so much of the Discovery Channel. I made a pact with myself to enjoy a nice dinner out each evening - even if it meant I'd be eating alone.

When I first started traveling to Las Vegas (*cough* 30 years ago *cough*), the all-you-can-eat buffet was King. Not so much anymore. Thank goodness. Today there is a fierce battle being fought for restaurant royalty and the dining patron is benefiting from the fight. Many so-called celebrity chefs have opened up shop along the strip. I have a few favorites that I've accumulated over the years, including Michael Mina and Emeril Lagasse.

This trip I tried Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill. Holy Chili Pepper! What a wonderful meal I had. My only regret is that I ordered a glass of wine and not tequila. Next time I'll know better. The chili relleno was the best I've had but the fire really needed the sweet and sour of a margarita for balance. What impressed me about the food at Mesa was that the spice was all full and forward. It didn't linger and scald. It didn't ruin the next bite.

For my last dinner I went to the Venetian and asked for a table for one at B&B Ristorante, a Mario Batali establishment. It wasn't late, about 7:30, and there were many open tables to be seen. I was told I could sit at the bar or be put on a list and the wait would be fifteen or twenty minutes. Uh, no. I left and walked over to AquaKnox where I was seated immediately in an extremely comfortable, high-backed, deep-cushioned, luxurious chair.

I was given ample time to peruse the menu, finally choosing the ahi tuna which was barely seared and served over a bed of couscous seasoned with blood orange. If I tell you it was delicious I'm not even beginning to do it justice. I finished my meal, I finished my drink (see above) and thought, "I'm done. I want to go home."

I was tired.

I'd attempted to scout out the best and I'd stumbled onto even better. Mario Batali can keep his pasta and his attitude. I had a simple and perfect meal and one perfect martini along with it. My glass was empty, my stomach full.

I decided the night would best be finished with a walk down Las Vegas Boulevard, through Harrah's casino and onto the Monorail platform to catch the ride back to my hotel. It seemed a shame to take a cab and let it all end so early. Lest I be lulled into complacency and think there was some sort of magic to the night, I happened to witness a full-on fist fight in front of Denny's and I narrowly avoided being vomited on by a woman wearing a bright pink feather boa. But wait, there's more.

I arrived at McCarran airport this morning and breezed through baggage check and security. I grabbed a cup of coffee and made my way toward gate C-2 to wait for boarding. I noticed a young man sleeping - snoring - on the floor. He couldn't be missed because his snores were so LOUD. Oh, and his face was covered with black and red marker. Someone had written all over his face. And his neck. And his arms.

I walked around him and soon I heard a young woman shouting at him, "Jason! Wake up! We have to get on the plane!" Jason wasn't waking up. People around him were looking, nudging each other. A few even got up to take pictures of him with their cell phones. Someone got a wheelchair and then Jason was poured into it. He slept on, snoring like a bear.

You know what comes next, right?

I made my way to the service desk and asked (discreetly) if they were really going to let that young man on the plane. The woman at the counter told me that his flight didn't take off for a couple hours. Holy shit. I'm glad he wasn't on my flight.

That's what I told her. "Holy shit. I'm glad he's not on my flight." Oh, I added. "What will you do if he has a seizure?" She just shrugged and said, "He's just really sleepy."

(If I'd been working the ER, he'd have an IV hanging and his airway protected. No doubt in my mind he was on the edge of alcohol poisoning - if not there already.)

I feel:

old
sad
tired
disgusted


tired.


©Michelle Scofield, June 4, 2011 All Rights Reserved