Don’t believe me? You think those snooty French can’t get down with some sliders and a cold one? Well, just ask Hubert Keller, a French born pastry chef who opened the Burger Bar at Mandalay Bay on the Vegas Strip. The Burger Bar gained notoriety during the let’s-see-who-can-pile-absurdly-expensive-ingredients-on-a-burger war a few years ago and will forever hold a place in my heart. Besides serving up delicious and juicy burgers with a smorgasbord of toppings spanning every grocery store aisle (plus foie gras and black truffles for good measure), Burger Bar has some one of the best beer selections I’ve ever seen. The place is in the shopping mall between the Luxor and Mandalay Bay Casinos, but like everything in Vegas, you let your normal discriminations, morals, ethics, beliefs, good judgment and common sense go and give it a shot. Unlike everything else in Vegas, however, I didn’t regret my decisions afterwards.
After being seated, I was handed a red leather bound book engraved with the Chimay logo. The first page lists over thirty fine beers and those are just Belgians. A few flips will reveal a drool worthy sampling of some of the finest brews around the world. After reading through the menu my sentiment towards Burger Bar are best described by a rotund, middle-aged Caucasian male who was sitting at the tables with me yesterday. He exclaimed that he felt like a “virgin in a Vegas whore house” to his young, African-American prostitute after hitting two Blackjacks in a row and it is safe to say that this was the feeling worming its way through my body while I perused page after scintillating page of beers awaiting my glass. Overwhelmed as I was, my balloon of anticipation was pumped up even more when I noticed the end of the leather bound beer gospel before me—notes, explanations and histories of each of the breweries and beers offered. It was as if the Burger Bar foresaw all of my inquiries and had composed and a hardcopy encyclopedia to answer my questions. After requesting “a few more minutes” from my waitress several times—and receiving my fair share of disgruntled sighs—I rambled off the names of fives burger worthy ales and returned to my novel worthy menu.
I was waiting as patiently as an eight year old waits for Santa Claus when my sampler finally arrived at the table: Burger Bar Ale, Sin City Amber Ale, North Coast Red Seal Ale, GrünbergerDopplebock and Deschutes Jubeale. I attacked each beer like that whorehouse virgin until my burger was brought to the table. A stark white, oval shaped plate was piled high with fried zucchini fries and one of the most gorgeous pieces of meat I’ve ever seen. Bulging between toasted onion buns was a juicy org of blackened Angus beef, sweating with flavor while balancing a mound of sautéed portobello and oyster mushrooms. I attempted to hold back a tear while sipping my two-ounce beers and brainstorming my plan of attack.
The burgers were far too large to take head on, and I didn’t want to risk blowing my red onion, lettuce and tomato ratio out of proportion by squeezing the thing together. Throwing aside my fears of looking like a ninny, I pulled out my knife and cut the beast in two. Yes I was cheating—real men eat their burgers whole—but I felt cheating my macho idealisms was better than short changing Mr. Keller’s masterpiece that graced my plate. After completing my culinary surgery I commenced eating.
You don’t need a degree in culinary arts to understand how tasty my Angus masterpiece was. The ketchup and mustard bottles sat disappointed and untouched on the table as I made my way through each juicy morsel, washing down the grass-fed goodness with a swig of beer. After finishing the behemoth there was nothing left to do but wax romantically about the flavors dancing on my taste buds and get back to my literature in order to pick a dessert. A bottle of Troubadour Obscura, a Belgian mild stout, caught my fancy and after accepting my invitation to the palate party, I made my way back to the casinos, smile on my face and leather bound beer tucked clandestinely under my shirt.
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