Sometimes I can be a bit daft.  When a last minute opportunity to head to Vegas complete with a built-in babysitter/Grandma and a reservation at the coveted Atelier de Robuchon jumps into your lap, the least you could do is remember the damn camera, right? Not I so consider yourself warned: the photos in this entry were all lovingly taken with the very best in iPhone technology, sorry for my forgetfulness. 

It just so happened that last week when Jonas and I were trying to cobble together a plan for New Year’s Eve that didn’t involve driving, hanging with 18 year olds or hanging with 80 year olds, but did involve Grandma’s babysitting assistance, a fair amount of imbibing, and a bit of reveling thrown in for good measure, the phone rang.  A good thing too, as we were in the middle of a heated discussion regarding the merits of an aquarium versus a bowling alley on the biggest amateur night of the year- two options I’m glad we didn’t have to explore.  It so happened that my sisters’ boyfriend of several years had hatched a plan to propose to her in Vegas on NYE (since they live there) and at the last minute he decided it might be fun to have her family around.  I think his secret motive was to ensure she would have a heart attack one way or another- if the shock of the engagement didn’t do it the fact that her sister who she hasn’t seen in a year popping up at their table five minutes later yelling “surprise” surely would. 

Long story short, we headed down to the sleepless city with Grandma and baby-in-tow and got to be the first people to congratulate the couple on their fresh engagement.  The newly minted couple and Jonas and I hit the town hard, making it truly an eve to celebrate and remember.  The engagement night was so much fun in itself that we were pretty destroyed the next day, so luckily our reservations at Robuchon were not until 9pm.  Around 5ish, Jonas decided he couldn’t drum up the intestinal fortitude to get after it another night, so he graciously agreed to watch Bentley so that my mother and I could enjoy the dinner reservation to its fullest potential. Even though I wasn’t feeling 100%, I always seem to find a second wind when truly fine dining and great wine is involved.  It was great to have an evening with just my mother too, since we hadn’t properly hung out just the two of us since before Bentley was born. 

We sashayed into the joint at 9 sharp and bellied up to the communal bar ring that surrounds the chic and orderly open kitchen.  Five minutes later we were sipping an ’03 Haute Medoc eagerly awaiting the onslaught of courses that comprised our reasonably priced ($85/pp) tasting menu.  I later confirmed that the amuse bouche was in fact an indication of how deliriously my palate would be tickled all night, but when it was served, I felt nothing short of utter inspiration. It’s so frustrating when you choose to spend your dining dollars at an untested location and you come away knowing you could have made something five times as delicious in your own kitchen plus had lots of moolah left over to splurge on a fancy bottle’o red. That was certainly not the case in L’Atelier.  The amuse bouche consisted of a fois gras parfait in a port wine reduction with parmesan foam and golly lolly did it make me want to get back to the damn kitchen asap just so I could attempt to duplicate it! 

Post amuse bouche I had opted to alter my changing menu somewhat and replace a mussel course for a torchon of fois gras and the chef generously allowed it with no increased price adjustment.  It was a heaping dollop of delight as far as my mouth was concerned, though I was curious what the mussels were like since I have no problem with them, just wanted something more of the terra since in Seattle we have such an abundance of la mer. 

Next up were the lovely langoustines, wrapped, fried and perched at a jaunty angle on a rectangular plate with not a small amount of plate dapples and daubs of dip.  The presentation was fine, the taste divine, though sometimes I like my food slightly less fussy in terms of plating- shouldn’t the flavor be the true showcase instead of constructing a mini Frank Gehry building on the plate?  About this time we made fast friends with a couple sitting next to us acting equally stalkerazzi with their iPhone cameras angled at their plates.  We clinked glasses over mutual foodie photographdom, but the conversation quickly veered into the late night dining territory of stag parties wherein cars are totaled by tanks, roasting chicken legs on car radiators, and god knows what other cockamamie tales.

Next up, beef cheeks for me, and salmon for mom.  It’s too bad about the iPhone photos, because the beef cheeks were so unctuous and succulent you’d never know it looking at that brown blob in the middle of the plate.  Take my word for it; this time the food stands alone- no fancy droppers or foaming wands needed to adulterate the superb quality of the food on this plate.  My only teensy observation: there were bacon lardons in the sauce, cut to perfection, but savory bacon with a smokier flavor would have better complemented the umami richness of the dish as opposed to the cloying hints of mild maple that kept creeping through.  

The world-famous pomme puree accompanied our main courses, served in the traditional little Staub coquettes. There is a reason these potatoes are known around the globe- they are induplicatably delicious beyond your wildest potato dreams, oh yes, baby! 

Now we have the cheese course, and as my glass dwindles down to the dregs I begin to ponder which substance I will choose as my digestif.  I stray from the French and order a 20 year tawny, in this case I have to play favorites hoping it will stand up to my dessert of tarts.  The standout cheese was a young goat coated in billowy ash; unfortunately I could only take a few meager bites as complete gustatory satisfaction had already settled in.  Same thing with the five-tart dessert course- all plated and prepared to perfection, but wrapped straightaway to bring upstairs to the boys so that someone with more room could enjoy it in its entire splendor.  My 20 year tawny treated me well, however, and was a pleasing end to my only Michelin-starred dining experience of the holiday season.