Latest news with #OysterBar
Irish Times
an hour ago
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Summer fiction: I Can Do Rude by Maya Kulukundis
It is quite something if a man offers to buy you a fur hat. It is even quite something if a man, with arm twisted, agrees to buy you a fur hat. So, should you find yourself with a man who feels guilty enough and whose pockets you know to be deep, demand it. Say: I want a fur hat and I want you to buy one for me. Sam and I are in New York and today he will do just that. I am not meant to be in New York. I was brought here, a pity-bring, because of what had happened – something common and procedural, about which one must avoid being sentimental – and how it had made me lose my nerve. I had become scared to dress, scared to bathe, and scared, even, to pee, for when naked and looking down at my dipped hips and the downy wisps of my pubic hair, I ached. I had expected Sam to ache too, in solidarity, and hide away with me. For we are lovers, and lovers often mirror one another. But then Sam announced that he was going away, and to Manhattan of all places. He needed to spend a long weekend out of Ireland. To taste again his old American life. But don't you see that I am sad still? I said. And surely you are sad, too? Yes, Sam said. But the world cannot stop every time one is sad. READ MORE I would, however, not let Sam leave me, not so soon, and as his departure day approached, I egged my fears on. I let my bladder fill such that twice, in the middles of nights, it burst, meaning Sam had to wake, carry the sheets to the washing machine, and tell me that I must not be ashamed. Then, eventually, after I screeched and bashed my head against the wall, Sam relented. Fine. I could come. We would stay with his best and cleverest friend, Marcus, and Marcus's girlfriend, Nancy. And it would be good for us; it might even be fun. So long as I behaved and did not make a fuss. Fuss? I said, a bump rising at my hairline. Me? On the plane, emboldened, I pushed for more. And should I behave and make no fuss, what? I said. What do I get? Anything you like, Sam said, tearing his headphones out of their plastic sack. I thought of steely women in extravagant winter clothes, photographs I had seen of Maria Callas, Jackie O. A fur hat, I said. I want a fur hat. I have, in fact, behaved. I have skipped nicely through Sam's old haunts: a corner of Central Park in which, he told me, his ashes would one day be scattered; a cocktail bar downtown in which the hostess hugged him from behind; a fabled deli in the Bronx, in which rotting sausages were strung up like garlands and my nose never quite adjusted, my eyes tick-ticking with the turning meat smell. In every space, the I want has simmered under my tongue, keeping me sweet. And today is our last day so, before we make our way to JFK, the fur-hat-buying has to happen. An oyster grown in sewage would taste only of sewage. But here, you would say it was delicious Yes, Sam said this morning, when I woke and kissed and said, I want. Yes, Sam said, as we followed Marcus into the belly of Grand Central Station, to the Oyster Bar where he had booked a farewell lunch, and I said: I want. Yes, Helena. After lunch, we will go shopping and you shall get. My own fur hat, to have and to hold, a present from my darling beau! An 'abortion present', I clarify, just quiet enough so that Marcus, now sitting opposite us and flattening his napkin on his lap, cannot hear but Sam, next to me, can. He grips my knee under the table: shh, shh. Oysters arrive. We take tiny forks and stab them, teasing each from its shell, severing that fleshy tendon that is like the thin cord on a tongue-tie, tipping our necks back and swallowing. An oyster tastes only of the sea, but here, you should say it is delicious. Delicious, I say. Sam explains about the oysters in New York Harbour, which grew once, were killed off by sewage dumping, but might be made to grow again. An oyster grown in sewage would taste only of sewage. But here, you would say it was delicious. That sounds delicious! I say. I am getting good at New York Talk. Marcus says that he once owned a set of gold-plated forks, all of which, over a decade, had disappeared into people's handbags. And whose handbags were they? He peers at me in joke suspicion, but it is true that I am the outsider here, the stranger who has breakfasted at his breakfast bar and looked up, up, at him offering comments on books – good books, books by Russians- with the hope that he deem me interesting. For that is always the challenge, appealing to the nearest and dearest. But should said dearest be Marcus , whose conversation flips into a glinting shoal of names, many of which, it hits you – is made to hit you through moments of sharp emphasis – are from the depths of your boyfriend's sexual past, stay calm. Change tack. Play the role most easily available to you: meek, sweet, coquette. So now, I fluff my hair, I unzip my purse, I open it wide and hold it up to Marcus's eyes to say: see? No forks in here! Marcus smirks and Sam nods: yes, Helena, correct. Nancy wouldn't join us for lunch. She is reviewing an opera tonight and can't have a social day if work is involved. Or so Marcus said, raising his eyebrows. My darling critic, Marcus calls her. My little workaholic. Anyway, if Nancy does eat lunch, it wouldn't be with me. I was looking in the bathroom mirror earlier and she arrived – for creams or teeth – but when she saw me, she shucked and twisted back for the bedroom, the heels of her slippers slapping against the floor. Marcus, slumped in the living room with the newspaper, caught me on my way to dress and said, You should understand. That girl is not for the mornings. That girl is not for the evenings either. When we all went for cocktails on the first night, Marcus announced that he and Nancy were engaged. Nancy, wearing a huge woollen cape and hunching to hide the width of her shoulders, hunched even lower when Marcus said it. We have decided that we might as well get married. I said nothing, twirled my olive stick. Sam finished his Negroni, and he said nothing too. It was a bar of hard surfaces, the chatter of one table colliding with that of another – and as the saying-nothing continued, I wondered whether Marcus had announced anything at all. Then Sam, loosened, began describing his Dublin life. And I know his Dublin life, I am his Dublin life, but in his telling it was as if he were looking at the life from above, making it all small and dull and squashable. Nancy, sitting up, said, Surely you'll come back to New York? If it's such a dump? And so Sam started on visa-talk – he would need to procure an American wife- and it was as if he were twizzling a needle into the soft corner of my eye which stung, stung such that I was worried I might glitch, say something I shouldn't. I pressed Sam's palm against burning cheek to mean: stop now, please. By the last round, I had reset. I stood on my tiptoes to kiss Marcus nicely on the cheek and Sam nicely on the lips and I thanked them for the evening. Sam put his hand on my back. Of course, my sweet. A pleasure! Marcus said. Nancy stared at me with sharp, green eyes and swished out into the street. Back at the apartment, Nancy balanced on the windowsill, knees tight at her chest and one arm dangling down. Marcus rushed to the guest room where Sam and I were undressing and said, Come, watch this. We crept into the hallway as Marcus sidled up to Nancy with a spliff and cooed, Pspsps , Nancy-Nancy, here's your bedtime joint. She offered her hand. Marcus slid the spliff between her fingers. She lit it, took a long drag, and shooed us all away. Later, when Sam and I were lying together, I asked why he had not congratulated Marcus and Nancy on their engagement. God, he said. I thought that was a joke. He laughed then, a big laugh during which I could see the brown tops of his molars. Well, well. We'll send them flowers after we leave. I do not see why Nancy deserves flowers for she does not play right. She should know never to glare or to round her shoulders. She should know where it is acceptable to turn her sadness or anger on, and to otherwise twist the tap and shut it off. I am younger by 11 whole years, but already much better at this than her. I felt that Sam and I should have sex then, but we had been told to wait for two weeks, lest I risk an infection, and Sam would not take another risk. So, we lay alongside one another, holding hands. And when I began to cry in short, sharp bursts, Sam held the duvet up to make for me a safe and private hideaway: shh, shh. In the morning, Marcus informed us that we had kept him up with our night-time noises. I apologised; Sam buttered his toast with jumpy strokes. No need to apologise! Marcus said. I'm glad someone's having fun here. Nancy stared into her coffee cup and twice she loudly yawned. Marcus says there is a name in New York for girls like me – willowy, eager girls who leap into an older man's bed and bounce. We are, he says, the 'out-of-town ingénues'. He says this as a tease, but even as a tease it makes no sense. I do not bounce. I am stiff in bed, and with Sam, because he made me shy, I was stiffer still. And I am not from a different town, I am from a different world. And now that I exist here, in this American brand of bright light and blue-lipped cold, my world seems completely fragile – as if, with my back turned, it might have been hacked apart into tiny shards and those shards sucked away. I can't, I said. The hole doesn't open. It does, Sam said, that's why we are here The oysters are over. Shells, empty and turned upside down like stony petals on the plate. The waiter appears with a crème brûlée. I don't remember anyone ordering dessert. I must have been distracted; my thinking splintered. Sam hands me a dessert spoon. I tap once at the thin layer of caramelised sugar; it gives; I scoop out the custard. The girl should take the first bite before the men start eating, that's the rule. And isn't it strange that I know this, that I have learned this? It was never the rule at home. Suddenly, I want to stand; I want to press my forehead against Marcus's and to spit, low and fierce, I don't need your forks, whatever the value. I have my own and they are good enough. But I know not to be low or fierce in an oyster bar. It is true, though, that I have done things that I know you should not do. I know that you should not miss pills, or leave gaps longer than 12 hours, but I did. I skipped. I knew that you should track cycles and that there were ways of being careful, but I wasn't. I disconnected. And I knew it was a mistake and mistakes are a source of great stress but when, 10 weeks on, I was shown the images by a so-sorry technician, I felt neither panic nor disgust, but a calm and easy recognition. Like coming upon a favourite jumper at the back of the cupboard drawer. Oh, I thought, so there you are. So, there you are, I sang, on the bus, in the bath. So, there you are; you are there. But for Sam, it was no easy feeling. He drank one glass of water quickly, then another. He opened the fridge and stared inside, at the eggs and the milk and the container we keep for the odd knobs of Parmesan cheese. You are so young, he said. It would be the wrong time. And I suppose it would be silly to have a child instead of living a full life. In bed, Sam was helpful and kind. He sat with me until I moved my chest up and down like a person asleep, whereupon he slipped away to read. Alone, I put my hand on my stomach and pressed in, in, trying to find the beating thing. So, there you were, I whispered. There you were; you were there. We went private and it was all so quick to arrange. In the hospital, Sam was helpful too. They gave me a pill to push into myself to begin loosening my cervix, but I did not understand how to do it, so the woman had to demonstrate with an upwards swoop. She left the room to give me privacy, but I did not want privacy. I wanted to leave. I should not, I began to say, to sob. And Sam was nervous, saying, don't say that. It'll cause problems. In his nervousness, he was sharp, so I tried; I put my fingers inside and pushed but was met by a warm, hard wall, as if I were bringing a vegetable to the mouth of a toddler and smashing, smashing it against their stubborn gums. I can't, I said. The hole doesn't open. It does, Sam said, that's why we are here. I'm not doing it, I said. You have to do it, not me. Sam hesitated. He walked to the door and locked it. He stood over the bed. He took the pill from me. I held my blanket over my nose and mouth and breathed through him – I have slept with this blanket every night for 22 years, he, he was always a 'he', has faded from blue to grey and his corners have worn away from rubbing against my knuckles – and Sam stroked my upper thigh, and then began circling, circling my clitoris with his thumb. He waited for my breathing to slow and to deepen, and then he slid one finger into a space that I myself have never known, and lodged the pill there, where it began to dissolve, prising apart the tight threads of me – I could feel the unlacing, it was a burning like a stitch – and opening my body wider, wide enough so that it would do the thing I couldn't, wouldn't otherwise do: let go. Afterwards, when I came up on a wheeling bed and was instructed to pass urine, Sam hobbled me to the loo. He eased down the gauze knickers that had appeared upon me, and, afterwards, he placed my chin on his shoulder as he ducked, wiped clean the seat and lip of the bowl and flushed, all so that I was not witness to the blood. * The lunch bill arrives in a smart, black jacket and Marcus slips some cash inside. He must be getting on. He has a function to attend. What, I say, is the function of a function? Marcus laughs, ruffles my hair. I duck. Shake him off. Perhaps you should be taking this one along to 47th Street, Sam, he says. What is 47th Street? I say. The Diamond District, Helena, Sam says. We'll save that one for another trip, eh? Marcus unhooks his coat, wishes us a pleasant flight home and makes for the door, trousers bunching under the fat of his buttocks. He is sweating. We all are, having been pummelled for the last hour by the station's central heating. I am excused; I go to the bathroom. My pad is wet through and smells of pennies. I hold it close to smell the penny smell and to check, but, of course – and I am no simple girl, but sometimes the mind plays tricks, it imagines souls where there are no souls, cells where there are no cells – there is nothing there. But even so, I want. I lean against the stall wall and I want. I roll the pad up, bin it, replace it. When I return, Sam is holding out my coat. I am threaded through the sleeves, the I want pulsing in me as little, precious shocks. I shiver into them. For to know that you want, that you can want – wanting being the fullest feeling, the only one that will ever ache the whole of you – is a rare and a magical thing. So, if you have had a want, understand it. Own it. Twist it into something real. Sam, I say, taking his hands in mine. I want my fur hat. Yes, sweetheart. Let's get you your fur hat. We walk together. Sam swings my arm in a game and he is chatting to me, freely, happily. It has been good. Good to have me along. He is mine again, now that Marcus has gone. When we reach the Fur District, Sam explains about wholesalers. A wholesaler means that no money is spent on the customer experience. The salesmen and women do not have to be nice to us. In fact, they may be rude. I can do rude, I say. We step down a dip and into a shop. It is dark and dusty. Bare mannequins loom in the window, arms bent into awkward angles as if engaged in timid dance. A man emerges from a basement place and asks what it is we want. We want a fur hat, Sam says. Fox, preferably. Pillbox. The man produces a wooden pole. He hooks down a series of hats that hang high on the wall: hats with stripy tails, hats that are dyed green and purple, fur-lined baseball caps of wrinkling brown leather. Not quite, Sam says. Something plainer, grander. In black. The man grunts. Nothing for you today. Try tomorrow. We fly tonight, Sam says. We will go elsewhere. Goodbye! I say. Thanks for all your help! We climb back on to the street and I am imagining my fur hat. I am imagining strutting through this city with my hat in my arms: black and fox and grand and soft. I will be a woman of great power, with my fur hat. A woman who does not care about cruelty. A woman who looks you in the eye and dares you – just dares you – to throw red paint. Maya Kulukundis Maya Kulukundis recently completed an MPhil in creative writing at the Oscar Wilde Centre. Her publications include stories in Banshee and the anthology Tidings (Lilliput Press, 2024). She was awarded an IWC Duo Mentorship in 2023 and was selected for the Stinging Fly six-month fiction workshop in 2024. She is working on a short story collection
Eater
03-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Eater
‘Top Chef' Star Serves Wagyu Meatballs at His New Las Vegas Restaurant
Fabio Viviani didn't win season five of Top Chef, but as the show's crowned 'Fan Favorite,' he's among the series' most prolific alumni. Now he's making his Las Vegas debut, bringing his signature charm — and a meatball upgraded with wagyu — to Summerlin with Ai Pazzi at JW Marriott Las Vegas. Opening Thursday, July 3, the new Italian restaurant joins a sprawling portfolio of nearly 40 restaurants the chef has opened, co-owned, or lent his name to since his breakout television moment in 2009. 'I love to work with resorts,' Viviani says. 'And this is about the food and building something in the community to feed the Las Vegas clientele.' That food is traditional Italian with touches of Vegas glitz thrown in. Dimpled, homemade orecchiette pasta gets tossed with spiced duck sausage, charred fennel, white wine, and a hint of chile for heat — all savory, textured, and warming. In a frutti di mare, squid ink pasta is served in a briny mix of clams, mussels, and shrimp in lobster broth. Mozzarella is hand-pulled tableside, draped over heirloom tomatoes while soft and warm. The chef's signature meatball — now upgraded with wagyu, ricotta, and rich tomato sugo — arrives juicy and fragrant with basil. Dessert at Ai Pazzi looks like layered jars of espresso-soaked tiramisu and sticky lemon ricotta cake with strawberries. Cocktails include the Montenegro Nights with bourbon, vanilla and caramel syrups, bitters, and a toasted marshmallow. Viviani's own Fabrizio di Rienzo wines — exclusive to his hospitality group — round out the beverage list. The restaurant is part of JW Marriott and Rampart Casino's sweeping $75 million renovation, which also includes a new pizza counter adjacent to the restaurant that will serve Neapolitan slices and an Oyster Bar slated to open later this summer in a new food hall. Vivianni says the Oyster Bar will be like those found in other Las Vegas off-Strip casinos — like the iconic Oyster Bar at Palace Station — but with an Italian twist. He describes it as 'an oyster bar on the Amalfi Coast.' The counter will serve seafood pots, terrines of steamed clams, shellfish-laden seafood towers, and Champagne. Since his Top Chef appearance, Vivianni has become something of a mogul and pitchman — publishing cookbooks, returning for Top Chef: All Stars , fronting San Pellegrino and Dr. Oetker frozen pizzas, and launching Jars, a dessert-in-a-jar chain now in seven states. Ai Pazzi translates to 'to the crazy ones,' which Viviani says he intends to mean as 'crazy as in obsessed.' It's an obsession he comes by honestly. 'I want it to be the best Italian food not in Italy,' Vivianni says. Ai Pazzi at 221 North Rampart Boulevard is open Sunday through Thursday from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. and Friday through Saturday from 5 p.m. to 10 p.m. See More: Vegas Restaurant Openings
Eater
18-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Eater
The Standard Hotel Is Flipping Into a Diner for Summer With Frozen Dirty Shirley's and Popcorn Soda
The Standard Hotel Meatpacking is launching another seasonal pop-up, this one dubbed the Standard Soda Shop. Think: popcorn-flavored soda, frozen Dirty Shirley's (a twist on the crowned drink of summer 2022), with savory items like Taylor ham breakfast sandwiches, mini corn dogs, turkey clubs, and banana pudding for dessert. It plays into the wider trend we've seen in the city over the past five years, with a crop of new wave diners and luncheonettes. It opens to the public on June 20, per a spokesperson. An East New York White Castle is shutting down, much to the chagrin of locals. The reason for the shutdown? Toxic chemicals and other carcinogens apparently found in the soil beneath the establishment, Gothamist reports (a spokesperson for White Castle denied knowledge of environmental concerns in a statement to the publication). A herring festival will return to the New York icon Grand Central Oyster Bar on June 23, an annual event that the restaurant has hosted for more than four decades. It is considered a premier catch that is 'air-expressed directly' from Scheveningen, in the Netherlands. The event is free for the public to attend, according to a spokesperson. It has long been an event that politicians have placed their hats on, a collaboration with the Netherlands consulate. In coverage about the event from 2018, then-mayor Bill de Blasio said: 'New Yorkers are known for having strong and varied opinions on just about everything, but we can all agree that relishing delicious food is one of life's greatest pleasures. The iconic Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal has served fine seafood to our diverse residents and visitors for decades, and its annual herring festival is a much-anticipated event among culinary aficionados.' See More:
Eater
22-05-2025
- Eater
The Eater Guide to Road Trippin' Nevada
Nevada became a state in 1864 — months before a saloon in a town called Genoa posted a wanted sign for Abraham Lincoln's then-unknown assassin, four years before the transcontinental railroad stitched the state to the rest of the country, and five years before the first major silver strike in the U.S. sparked a rush that built Virginia City nearly overnight. Over the next 50 years, towns flickered to life and blinked out of existence, chasing the veins of silver and metal some 200 feet beneath the desert's hard-packed earth — land long inhabited by Indigenous communities of the Great Basin, like the Paiute and Shoshone, and the Washoe near Lake Tahoe. The boom-and-bust rhythm shaped not just the state's economy but its identity — a place built on promise, reinvention, and stories that survived long after the mines ran dry. It's easy to picture Nevada as a stretch of dusty nothing between Las Vegas and Reno. But the state is more than its desert scrub. There are the spire-like slot canyons of Cathedral Gorge, the snowy ranges of the Ruby Mountains, and the stargazing solitude of Great Basin National Park. Serpentine highways weave past alien-themed diners, larger-than-life cinderblock women, and Day-Glo boulders stacked like cairns. The surreal lives here — tucked just off the next exit. And beyond the haunted hotel rooms and Wild West souvenir shops, there is, and has always been, the grounding presence of a dining room table. The boom-and-bust rhythm shaped not just the state's economy but its identity — a place built on promise, reinvention, and stories that survived long after the mines ran dry. In early Virginia City, saloons evolved from watering holes into community hubs, where mahogany bartops ferried slippery mugs of ale with the same rapidity as the conversation surrounding it. In the middle of the state, where one of the world's largest Basque communities put down roots, traditional restaurants still serve family-style courses of charbroiled steaks and roasted salmon to communal tables. At the southern tip, Las Vegas's most coveted seat is at an 18-stool countertop at the Oyster Bar, where round-the-clock lines wait for thick, creamy pan roasts brimming with seafood. And even today, in a town of just a few dozen residents, one restaurant draws visitors from around the world — strangers who lean over flying saucer-shaped burgers and pies to trade stories of strange lights in the night sky. There's nothing more inherently Nevadan than the open road. Once braved by wagon, then rail, and now car, it's still the best way to cross the state. So take to its desert highways and come hungry. Whether you seek idyllic desert landscapes, the kind of art that only a dust-addled mind could divine, or meals that are worth driving a few hundred miles to enjoy, Nevada has something waiting — and it's worth the drive. —Janna Karel, Eater, editor, Southern California/Southwest Credits
Eater
22-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Eater
The Cult of Las Vegas's Oyster Bar
What's the toughest table to get in Las Vegas? Maybe it's Mother Wolf, that juggernaut of modern Roman cuisine inside the Fontainebleau, or Stubborn Seed at Resorts World, the latest opening from a Top Chef winner who seems to actually be making good on his potential. One would be forgiven for guessing an old standby like Joël Robuchon, or a newcomer like Gjelina at the Venetian, a Los Angeles export grilling yu choy and other sundry dishes that embody California cuisine. But you would be way, way off. The toughest seat is actually the 24-hour Palace Station Oyster Bar, where devotees are queued up at all hours of the day and night to taste its Cajun- and Creole-style seafood dishes. The 18-seat Oyster Bar, which turns 30 years old this fall, has a fervent cult following and there are no reservations. There's also nothing exclusive about access, nor is there a dress code: It's literally in the middle of the casino floor, where the slots bisect the table games. And although it's certainly not cheap (it's serving seafood, after all), it's not cost-prohibitive, meaning its customers are a mix of tourists and locals. Las Vegas is a city rife with contradictions, so it's no surprise that its most exclusive restaurant is simultaneously one of its most inclusive. It also sits within one of Vegas's most populist casinos, on an expanse of land just west of I-15 on Sahara Avenue, awkwardly positioned between the Strip and Downtown. The location, simultaneously inconvenient and yet a short drive from nearly everything, embodies the term 'neither here nor there.' It's a spot that's so seemingly unremarkable, in fact, that its decades of success don't make much sense to the casual observer. ('People thought he was crazy,' says Lorenzo Fertitta, son of Station Casinos founder Frank Fertitta Jr., referring to the location of his father's venture.) Hopefully, a picture is beginning to come together. You're in Vegas, hungry in the infernal heat, dodging F1 construction and checking out whatever ads or emojis happen to be emblazoned on the Sphere that day. Walking into Palace Station, there's the familiar waft of cigarette smoke. Dragon Link and other creature-themed slot machines call out ( 'Buffaloooooo!' ), but there's a hint of something else floating in the air — tomatoes, cream and... is that sherry? The aromas intensify as you go deeper into the belly of the building. The first thing you'll notice is the marquee: 'Oyster Bar 24/7,' with a little anchor on the side. The faux chalkboard lettering on a half-octagon that wraps around above the bar has a distinctly '90s Bar Louie feel, but don't let that dissuade you. Past the stanchions cordoning off Oyster Bar from the rest of the casino is a long line of people on one side, like theater patrons waiting for the latest hot off-Broadway show. Behind the bar, there is an entrancing performance: Cooks and servers rhythmically rotate behind billowing clouds of steam, pouring drinks and arranging oysters in circles atop crushed ice. Oyster Bar's most popular dish is not, in fact, the fat Gulf oysters as big as computer mice, but rather the pan roast. And while plenty of people get oysters or a shrimp cocktail on the side, or maybe an order of the herbaceous gumbo or heady etouffee, most people come for the pan roast. Oyster Bar goes through 33,000 gallons of it annually. The counterintuitively named dish, which may originate with Grand Central Oyster Bar in New York, conjures an image of a chicken in a pan, roasting in the oven. Put this out of your head. Instead, imagine a bisque — a thick, creamy, shellfish-based seafood soup, a rustic base for huge floating hunks of seafood. Anchored by tomatoes and cream, girded with an aromatic sofrito that tastes of the holy trinity of Cajun cooking, the pan roast has an undertone of garlic and a nutty fruitiness, akin to brandy or fortified wine. It should be eaten with a spoon, but some larger chunks of shrimp, crab, and lobster may need to be forked out. Served with white rice and a basic chunk of bread, the pan roast can also be eaten with a side of noodles. Rice is the correct choice, however, as the surface tension allows the base of the roast to envelop the rice, creating a creamy crustacean porridge. Let's be clear — this is not revelatory fine dining. I remember, after first having the pan roast, feeling even slightly underwhelmed. At the end of the day, it's 'a jazzed-up bisque,' in the words of specialty cook Bob Higdon, who's worked at Oyster Bar for the last 25 years and has a seemingly endless repertoire of droll quips and one-liners he delivers to patrons. But a day later, I felt an unfamiliar tug. The taste had almost instantly grown on me, like I'd been eating it for years. And now, sitting here writing this piece, the slow burn has grown into a bonfire: I want to go back. I can't wait to go back. 'I tell people all the time,' Higdon says. 'I said, 'You're not going to hate me now, you're going to hate me next week when you're sitting at home and get that flavor in the back of your mouth.'' And he's right. That's exactly what happened. Beyond the pan roast, there are a few things you need to know when dining at Oyster Bar. First, you'll be asked to select a spice level, 10 being the highest. Most people who like spicy food can probably swing a 7 or 8 without feeling like they've made a grave mistake. Otherwise, stick to a 4. Spice can always be added in the form of the off-menu lava sauce — a tangy, chunky mixture of hot peppers that you can feel burning your mouth before the spoon even reaches your lips. You have to ask for it specifically, and it's only for showoffs and true masochists. Second, the entrees are a huge amount of food, especially with the rice. Finishing a pan roast solo is a serious undertaking. The leftovers are worth keeping if your hotel room has a microwave and/or fridge. Third, don't bring the kids. Oyster Bar is literally a bar, and they can't seat anyone under 21. Also, you won't get the exact recipe, so don't ask. ('You don't ask the Colonel for 11 spices,' says Higdon.) And finally, be ready to wait. The story of the wait, and of Oyster Bar, starts in 1976 with Fertitta Jr., who discovered a demographic that had not fully been tapped into: a casino that catered to Las Vegas locals, not tourists. (Indeed, he opened as simply The Casino.) Oyster Bar came along in October 1995. While there may have been a Cajun joint or two around town at the time, this particular style of New Orleans cooking hadn't quite taken hold in Vegas. Emeril Lagasse, he of the onomatopoetic catchphrase, didn't open New Orleans Fish House at MGM Grand until the following month. Today, there are plenty of Cajun options in Vegas, mostly off-Strip, mostly of the crawfish or seafood-boil variety. In the summer of 2000, something had changed. 'That's when I noticed the lines.' Oyster Bar was opened, in part, as an apparent nod to Fertitta Jr.'s origins in southeastern Texas, near the Louisiana border. 'That kind of food is very prominent around there,' says Dave Horn, general manager of Durango casino and former GM of Palace Station. 'I think it's a real easy tie-in that they said, 'Okay, you know what? We should bring this here.'' Interest in the restaurant ramped up slowly. 'It was a cult following at first,' says Horn, who was a valet attendant for the casino at the time. He posits that Oyster Bar's rise in popularity coincided with the rise of online culture in the mid-1990s. 'That's when you have the internet start to come alive,' Horn recalls. '[There's] that five-year period where people can start to talk about things on the internet or Palace Station can put something out there.' By the time Horn came back for his second stint at Palace Station in the summer of 2000, something had changed. 'That's when I noticed the lines,' he says. The line is an amalgamation of different cities, states, and countries, where folks of every shape and size stand and wait for one of those 18 coveted seats at the counter. The line can take as long as five hours to get through ('Super Bowl weekend a couple years ago,' says Higdon). The line is, in some ways, the defining characteristic of the Oyster Bar experience. A blessing and a curse. Okay, it's mostly a curse. Lines are unpleasant. But decadeslong Oyster Bar customers seem to think it's worth the wait — or, at the very least, they've convinced themselves of that truth. Gina Bruno, a flight attendant visiting from the Washington, D.C., area, has been coming here for the past 20 years. 'It's like a camaraderie,' she says. 'You stand in line, you talk about what you're gonna eat, and it's just a whole experience.' But she is also frank about the line, which she and her dining companions had been standing in for about two hours. 'It sucks,' she says, laughing. 'It's worth the wait,' says Barry Bryant, who works in entertainment in Atlanta. Bryant, who also has been coming to Oyster Bar for two decades, says he makes the trip every time he comes to Las Vegas. 'It's not too fancy, it's casual and it's different — it hits different.' Anitra Baker has been a fan for even longer — 25 years. She typically visits from California every year on her birthday. 'You can't get the same taste anywhere else,' she says. 'I can't find it anywhere else. I literally come all the way from San Francisco to get it.' 'I can't find it anywhere else. I literally come all the way from San Francisco to get it.' I've been to some restaurants where there's a vague feeling that the wait was somewhat manufactured, or intentional. As in, staff could have done more food prep or planning ahead of time if they'd wanted to, in order to cut down on wait times. That's not the case here. Oyster Bar cooks move as quickly as possible, turning all the seats at a rate that approaches once per hour, 24 hours a day. With only 18 people being served at a time, each pan roast, gumbo, or bouillabaisse taking around 8 to 10 minutes to cook, and just six jacketed steam kettles to prepare them, the cooks are limited in how quickly they can serve those customers. The kettles resemble small woks and sit in a row behind the counter in a setup that looks literally steampunk — tubes and pipes wriggling out of the counter to spew cold water or feed jets of hot steam into the containers. There are numerous advantages to cooking with these kettles: being able to boil cold water in about 30 seconds, not having to constantly wash pots and pans, and keeping the kitchen cooler because there's no open flame. But the biggest advantage is the evenness and consistency of the temperature. 'You can let your stuff reduce without it burning the sauces,' Higdon explains. 'The whole surface of our kettle is the same temperature. It doesn't have a hot spot.' No hot spots mean uniform cooking, which means you don't get some pieces of seafood that are perfectly cooked and some that are rubbery and overdone. And no broken sauces, either. 'If you've ever had a scorched cream sauce, you know that's not good stuff,' he says. The cooking method also provides a bit of theatrics, which has been another part of Oyster Bar's lasting appeal. Ordering, preparing, plating, and consuming all happen within a couple feet of each other. 'There's no other setting you get like that besides hibachi, [where] you get to interact with your cook and they cook right in front of you,' says Paul Sanchez, the chef that currently oversees Oyster Bar. Sanchez notes that it takes a special kind of cook to make it work. 'I fell in love with it right away,' he says. 'The style of cooking, being able to talk to people from all across the world, interacting with guests. But a lot of cooks, they don't like that. You know, that's why they're back of the house.' Nothing has been able to dethrone the original Oyster Bar. Las Vegas is a place heavy on mimicry. When something in the city works, particularly in the food arena, imitators pop up left and right. And while that's certainly happened with Oyster Bar — even in the form of places opened down the street by cooks who quite literally used to work at Oyster Bar — nothing has been able to dethrone the original. (Station Casinos also has four other Oyster Bars at its different properties. I've heard they don't match the charm of the original.) Sanchez explains it this way: 'My theory is, in a chef's mind, you want to make things better, always want to take it to the next level. Well, here, it's not about taking it to the next level. It's about keeping the consistency... If somebody comes here from Hawai'i once a year, and this is the place to go, they come and order a pan roast. Next time they come, they want that exact same flavor profile.' In other words, nostalgia and sense memory are powerful aspects of food. And when people fall in love, they don't want a better, flashier version. They want what they had. 'If you try to recreate [the pan roast] and put it somewhere else, it won't work,' says chef David Chang, who has been beating the Oyster Bar drum for years. Chang estimates he's eaten there between 30 and 40 times. Trying to replicate the exact chemistry of a place like that, he says, is a futile exercise. 'Sometimes a restaurant like that works because it's the perfect balance of ingredients, of everything. From the ambience to the cigarettes in the air, everything works together.' 'I don't describe it,' Chang says. 'I just say, 'Trust the process and you'll be so happy.'' Even if that means waiting for an hour or two. Or three. Most of the day, there's no getting around the wait. There is one workaround — well, it's not exactly a workaround, but a path to a shorter wait. If you want a pan roast first thing in the morning, and let's face it, you might not after a night of Jägerbombs, try rolling in around 7 or 8 a.m. The line will likely be much shorter. But aside from that, the best bet is to come as a crew and rotate people in and out of the line. Someone waits while the other people go gamble, go to the sportsbook, or mall-walk the casino floor. Horn even recalls seeing people put in food orders while waiting in line, just to tide them over: 'They'd literally put in a pizza and a drink order... In my head I'm thinking, '[These are] people eating and drinking in the line to wait for a food and drink product .'' But the best thing to do is to embrace it. Give in to it. Come hungry and ready to wait, safe in the knowledge that the entire sensory experience of the Oyster Bar — the visuals of the cooking, the smells of the steaming seafood, the electronic din of spinning slot machines, the sardonic one-liners coming out of Chef Bob's mouth — all combine together in a way that is sui generis in the restaurant world. Like the symphony inside the pan roast itself, there's nothing quite like it. Sign up for our newsletter.
