Vegas, Baby!

Sat. 27 Jan.
After a morning of papers, we headed off to lunch at Canaletto in the Venetian, Jon's treat (Thank you, Jon! Thank you fully-endowed Novak professorship!). Pleasant time talking with Helmut, John, and Mary, over the caterwauling of authentic Neapolitan songs and a soprano in her death agony (one could but hope) attempting "Nessun' Dorma" for some bizarre reason (Holt has plans for the Queen of the Night's "Der Hölle Rache" as a bass aria).

Dinner with Jon and Lois at Alex in Wynn. A stunning room with generally impeccable service (it's the sort of place that offers women miniature sofas for their purses), except for one surly waiter (out of a dozen) who not only could be pecced, but seemed to need regruntling.
We started with marinated Maine crab with grapefruit and avocado—bright citrus—and a sweet sushi-style minced shrimp in a long fluffy line. Then little Kumamoto oysters in the shells over creamed leeks with Meyer lemons and osetra caviar, which, unfortunately masked the oysters.
Saddle of rabbit stuffed with Swiss chard and chickpeas. A little fully frenched "rack of rabbit" (something we'd already seen at The French Laundry) served with a sliced roll of the stuffing, and preserved lemon (Preserved Lemon, by the way, is Holt's blues name). Then veal tenderloin, very rare, wrapped in pancetta, with a side dish of "mac 'n' cheese" in a very rich cream fontina sauce topped with truffle shavings.
For dessert, a tiramisù layered in a goblet, plus a chocolate "napoleon." As there had been throughout the meal, endless amuse-gueules, candies, and a little bag of more sweets to take home.
Another brilliant wine steward, kind, smart, professional, who, it turned out, had worked for one of Jon's favorite restaurateurs in Tucson. Jon just asked him for his own personal discoveries (under $***), and he happily shared a couple of new favorites, not yet, I think, on the carte. Alas, I don't have the notes on that evening's wines. I'll post them if I can get them.
Took a cab back to the hotel around midnight . . .