Email this feature to a friend

Vegas Trip: Celebrating 50 in Sin City, page three

Posted: Monday, October 26, 2009

When I hear that we’ll be going out with a caddy—as per Wynn regulations—I fear that my embarrassment will be further compounded and witnessed by someone from outside my immediate circle. But the caddy, a nice, local guy by the name of Alex, turns out to be helpful and patient and up for offering a bit of coaching. The beautiful par-70 course was designed by Tom Fazio, with forgiving fairways and easy enough play that nobody’s going to be so annoyed by a round of golf that he will forgo blackjack or craps.

I max out nearly every hole. But guess what? I don’t care. I manage to get off a few good drives, smoke a terrific Montecristo No. 2, dig the beautiful surroundings, and lose only a handful of balls. Glen and Steve, good friends that they are, manage to be completely patient with my far from stellar play. I have enough fun at it that I’m planning on taking a few lessons, picking up the game again (I have a pristine set of clubs gathering dust in my office), and finding a new hobby to get me through the next 50 years (or at least some of them).

The bar in Rhumbar.

Lunch at Encore’s excellent pan-Asian restaurant Wazuzu proves to be a revelation for Steve (at this rather late point in his life, he realizes that he loves hot-and-sour tom yum goong soup) and a feast for all of us. Between bites of sushi and forkfuls of Panang chicken curry (one of my favorite dishes at this place), we’re rehashing an incident that happened some 30 years ago. A woman at the next table, waiting for her beer distributor husband, hears us and seems amused.

She jumps into it, we get to talking, and I steer the couple away from a sub-par restaurant in town and convince her to change tonight’s dinner reservation to Botero, one of the most stylish steakhouses in Vegas. Alas, though, it’s one that will have to wait for our 51st birthday trip.

After lunch we head to The Palms and make an aborted attempt to go to Ditch Friday, the weekly poolside bash that takes place there. Pretty girls, a glass bottom pool, hot music, and alfresco gambling make it worth checking out—especially if you manage to snag one of the poolside villas. But we’re late and the party is winding down early for a private event. No problem. We hit the indoor tables; it’s four-card poker for Glen and Steve and a bit of selective blackjack for me. They eventually gravitate to blackjack as well, but get annoyed by my habit of ducking in and out of shoes, “waiting for it to get good.”

I try to give them advice on how I’ve been taught to play (make of that what you will; or, even better, read this) but it doesn’t work. Slightly poorer, despite my best efforts, we head back to the Wynn to check out the spa.

Las Vegas is a city that does not lack over-the-top sybaritic amenities. You see them everywhere from the guy at Tao Beach whose official title is Mood Director to the steam room at Qua, in Caesars Palace, where ice drizzles down from the ceiling. The Spa at Wynn Encore is something else altogether. It’s a huge, sprawling space, dripping with gold Buddhas that transport visitors to the Far East—OK, a Far East with state of the art rainwater showers, soaking tubs, and steam rooms. I opt for the Good Luck Ritual, which basically amounts to a fantastic massage that’s been infused with herbs. Truthfully, it’s relaxing enough that I sleep through the last quarter of it.

After more steam and a soak in the hot tub, I am ready for dinner at Yellowtail, the newish Japanese restaurant inside Bellagio. Former snowboarder and current chef Akira Back was trained by Nobu Matsuhisa. It shows in the inventive cuisine that gets pumped out of his kitchen. Sitting in the cool, minimalistic dining room, watching the Bellagio’s dancing water outside, we munch on rock shrimp, king crab, Kobe tataki, and my personal favorite: paper thin slices of raw Thai snapper in a little bath of perfectly spiced olive oil. We wash it down with glasses of cold sake and manage a shared dessert of mochi ice cream—a Glen Landesman favorite.

We’re scheduled to go into Bank, the Bellagio’s nightclub, but Glen and Steve feel the lure of four-card poker. Here, I must say, is where the interests of my friends and I diverge. Those guys love to gamble so much that they don’t mind taking the worst of it. I can’t bring myself to play a game like that, one where the odds are hopelessly tilted against me and there’s nothing I can do to change them, unless I’ve got hole-carder James Grosjean sitting alongside me, sending signals on the dealer’s cards. He’s never offered to do it, I’ve never asked, and for those reasons I’ll probably never play four-card poker.

While those guys gamble, I cruise through the poker room, chat with Internet whiz kid Andrew Robl and spend a few minutes kibitzing with Barry Greenstein. Then I feel lures of my own and play a little bit of cheap blackjack until Glen and Steve have had enough of four-card.

The Bank nightclub interior.

Maybe the detour is just as well. By the time we head into Bank, the club is packed and rocking. Our table gives us a great view of the dance floor. Random girls drop by, hang out, cadge drinks. We’re too old, they’re too young, but, hey, it’s Vegas, and we’re happy to share our vodka. Steve wanders off and comes back with a couple cigars. We light up, check out the dance floor, drink more than we should (OK, I definitely drink more than I should). After a couple hours, we head out to valet. En route, Steve reminds Glen that they have an early tee time scheduled for tomorrow (I’ve taken a pass on the second round of golf) and that is why he’s abstained from drinking.

“All the better,” I tell Steve, handing him the valet ticket, pleased that we won’t be needing to take a cab back.

It’s nearly 3:00 in the morning; we’re halfway down the Vegas Strip, with its lightening traffic, sandwiched by the dueling themes of Venetian and Mirage; almost back at the Wynn and I get a brilliant idea. “Screw sleeping,” I announce. “We’re going to Drai’s. The owners are buddies of mine.”

A quick 180 on Las Vegas Boulevard and we’re heading for Vegas’s best after-hours bar. It opens at 2 a.m. and closes at a time when sensible 50-year-olds are hitting the snooze button for a few extra minutes of slumber.

We waltz in, strolling past a big crowd vying for admission. Co-owner Jesse Waits greets me with a dude-hug and has us escorted downstairs. We’re VIPed all the way and provided with the total rock star treatment—seated at a prime table, presented with a bottle of booze, hand stamped for the private room in back, introduced to a friendly waitress in a corset (who, it turns out, is good friends with a local, high-rolling pal of mine). Our entrance draws a little bit of attention, and if we were 25 years younger, we would surely capitalize on it. Of course, though, 25 years ago nobody was giving me the rock star treatment. The three of us take in the louche, red walled club. We groove on the coolness of the crowd, embrace Drai’s slightly illicit feel, and drink way too much vodka.

Don’t ask me when we left. But it was late enough that I found myself wondering whether or not Glen and Steve would make their early a.m. tee time.

 Cigar Aficionado RSS Feed
Copyright ©2009 CigarAficionado.com

All Rights Reserved.
If you're concerned about privacy, click here.