Elia Authentic Greek Taverna — Las Vegas (Restaurant Review)

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Elia Authentic Greek Taverna is a new restaurant located on the west side of Las Vegas, just south of the intersection of Flamingo and Durango.

This location has been quite a tough sell for restaurauteurs and local foodies who fancy trying out new and creative ethnic cuisine.  Previously, the sun-bleached strip-mall storefront has been the culinary graveyard of an upscale seafood eatery (closed in 2008) followed by Gino’s Italian Bistro (which closed last year).  For those keeping score, that’s 0-for-2 — even though both prior places were well above-average restaurants that I enjoyed frequently (though apparently not frequently enough).

Elia likely stands a much better chance for success based on a number of reasons.  First, the local economy is far better now, than a decade ago.  Many popular upscale eateries in Las Vegas shuttered their doors following the economic crash of ’08, which now seems like a distant memory with all the mess going on right now.  The surrounding area has changed also, with the most notable new neighbor being Mint Indian Bistro, which moved in directly behind Elia’s.  Using the magnet marketing theory, the very best thing that can happen to restaurant struggling to create a steady clientele is having another creative dining force located right next door.

More belaboring a proven point, if I may.  This area has been utterly flooded by Mediterranean restaurants over the last decade, at least in proportion to the local population, many who probably don’t know the difference between a falafel and kibbeh.  Directly across the street, a nice Persian restaurant closed-down just three months ago.  Half a mile to the north is Zaytoon, my favorite Iranian market-bistro here on the West Side.  Even Putter’s Bar and Grill, a popular neighborhood pub about 200 feet away serves up tasty Lebanese food.  Yeah, I know — Greek food isn’t the same as Lebanese or Persian food, but many Americans likely won’t see much of a difference in the basic ingredients.  This is what makes Elia’s challenge all the more intriguing.

Elia is small, about what one might expect if vacationing on the islands of Kos or Crete.  White tablecloths, perfectly manicured tabletops, and a sparkling clean interior are most welcoming.  So was the house music, played at the perfect decibel level, which are mostly mandolin-heavy Greek instrumentals — a perfect background for table conversation.  Even more welcoming is the friendly ownership and staff, which greets customers instantly.  From the moment we walk in the front door, we are made to feel like their house guests.

What may be the best price-fixed menu in Las Vegas is available until 3 pm daily at Elia, and this made for an easy choice among lots of temptations to choose from.  For $15, a three-course meal with various options is available.  The courses include an appetizer or salad, a main course with potatoes, and a dessert.  All for 15 bucks.  That’s quite a bargain.

This might seem like a small thing, but it’s really a big thing.  It often foretells of the experience to come, and that’s the bread.  Many restaurants opt to go cheap in the bread, serving stale unimaginative dinner rolls or slices of white bread that are little more than caloric time-buyers intended to stave off customers until the main course arrives.  Not Elia.  Their bread was oven fresh, as good as any European bakery in the city.  Pipping hot, laced with flour, crispy, and accompanied by an above-average ramekin of Greek olive oil.  This was a very good sign.

Then, the first of three courses was served.  We began with Keftedakia, which is essentially Greek meatballs (borrowing from the Turkish Kofta).  Four were served on a platter with mint, onion, and parsley.  I could have enjoyed this as a main course — yes, it was that satisfying.  My three-course meal also included a marvelous Greek salad, though not of the standard creation one is typically used to at many Greek-American restaurants.  Mine was made of immaculately chopped rocket lettuce, topped with a perfect seasoning of olive oil, zesty lemon, and mint, accompanied by a delicious block of feta cheese and black olives.  Yummy.

The main course (e.g. the second course) was also satisfying, but not quite up to the glorious standards of both value and quality set forth in the appetizer (and finished with the dessert).  I enjoyed my home-made gyro sandwich, which is pretty standard at all Greek establishments.  To their credit, the meat wasn’t nearly as salty as I’ve tasted elsewhere.  The yogurt sauce wrapped in the pita was delicious.  Elia also serves fresh, hand-cut fries (not frozen) on the side, which merits applause.  Again, this is a very minor critique, and can certainly be overcome by ordering one of many other Greek dishes available at lunch and dinner ( must return and try multiple items — perhaps worthy of a follow up report).  If the bread and appetizer scored a 10, the main dish would scale an 8.  As for the next course, I would give it an “11.”

Dessert was fabulous.  I wolfed down my rice pudding, served in a cold cup, topped off with a generous dazzle of reddish cinnamon.  Marieta enjoyed her fresh yogurt topped with a coulis of three fresh berries — raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries.  The rich creamy yogurt, which I’m not typically a fan of, was stunningly delicious.  We fought over the last few bites.  The tart topping of berries was as zestfully delightful as any five-star restaurant.  I would call this simple, yet delicate Greek closer absolute perfection.

Our two three-course meals, with a drink and tip all came to $42 — a steal.  Dinner prices are equally competitive, but are assuredly an even better value given all the alternative mediocre food served elsewhere by run of the mill chains which charge considerably higher prices and then cut on the quality.  Give this place a try.  Skip the stale old Applebee’s or abomination of Friday’s for a night, and live a little.  You’ll be glad you did.

Elia receives my highest possible restaurant rating based on fast and friendly service, a comfortable atmosphere, authenticity, quality, and more than enough menu choices to keep me (and hopefully many readers) returning for more.

ELIA AUTHENTIC GREEK TAVERNA (OFFICIAL WEBSITE)

Restaurant Review: Gilley’s (Treasure Island — Las Vegas)

If you’e on the prowl for shitty barbecue, may I respectfully suggest the ghastly catacomb of rotting animal flesh which fronts the Treasure Island Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, better known as Gilley’s Saloon, Dance Hall, and Barbecue.

This might be the worst restaurant on The Strip — including the hot dog hustler parked out in front of Pawn Stars 24/7.  If there’s a more dire dive of disappointment in this city — I’ve yet to succumb to such culinary depths.  Virtually everything about Gilley’s sucked — from the utterly flavorless incarceration masquerading as a main course, to the scatterbrained service staff which can generously be described as uninformed and indifferent to every customer necessity and desire.  Did I mention yet that I didn’t particularly care for the place?

I’m just getting warmed up.

Allow me to elaborate, and even go on a bit of a rant.

Two of us wasted blew spent $110 (with tip).  Still, we left hungry as toothless wolves.  Mind you, we weren’t enticed by any more of the tasteless travesty plopped upon our table at Gilley’s — just famished for anything for fucks sake, even that stale hot dog down the street that sure as shit would have hit the magic spot after 90 minutes inside Gilley’s pushing my food back and forth across the plate like I was playing chess.  We ordered one adult beverage each (one domestic beer and a house margarita).  So, subtract standard gratuity and two drinks, and the food still came out to about $35 a piece.  For half that figure, a five-minute drive could have landed us instead at Rollin’ Smoke Barbecue, a heap of picnic-tables nestled on an industrial strip crammed under a busy interstate, which are the local experts at feeding the hungry for $16 a lip-smacking plate, complete with all the delicious trimmings (and no tipping required).  Live and learn.  Sometimes, you don’t get what you pay for.  Sometimes you just get fucked.

Seriously.  How do you royally screw up good ole’ Texas barbecue, when that’s supposedly the house specialty?  You’ve got one job, people.  Do your job.  Good grief, how can someone actually put his (real) name on this place?

Of course, Gilley’s was never known for the food.  It’s more like a poor-man’s pick-up joint for shit kickers driving Chevy trucks worth more than their mobile homes.  Long neck beer bottles, $24 t-shirts, mechanical bulls mounted by drunk girls wearing thin-string bikinis — a sort of contrarian “we don’t give a shit” Times Square-South tourist trap where you expect to be fucked in the ass without the grease and pay twice the going rate for the privilege — that’s Gilley’s in one sharp spur of a sentence.

Gilley’s was created by country-western singer Mickey Gilley (who apparently is still alive according to his Wikipedia page and deserves to be charged with crimes against humanity for opening this abomination).  The bar and saloon first achieved fame in 1980 as the filming location for the hit movie “Urban Cowboy,” starring John Travolta, back when he was still the cute feather-haired Kotter kid and long before he turned into a psycho for the cult of Scientology.  The Houston suburb of Pasadena instantly became the Gilley’s flagship property and turned the notoriety of a brawling backroom brimming with barstools into a bustling multi-million dollar business, ala a Hard Rock Cafe for the country music crowd.  Years later, the (now imploded) Frontier Hotel and Casino housed Gilley’s initial venture into Las Vegas.  Then, following a six-year void when Gilley’s was demolished into dust and the last remnants of the mechanical bull had been trucked off to a garbage dump in Pahrump, Giley’s rebooted and 2.0 opened just as short walk away, at TI.

Our first hint of the disaster to come should have been as clear as the gorgeous 75-degree day.  Gilley’s front room was only about one-third filled to capacity during what should have been the busiest time of the week — 6:30 on a Saturday night.  When it comes to restaurants, if empty tables in prime time could talk, they usually scream — this place sucks!

Gilley’s is divided into two sections — a honky-tonk dive bar corded off towards the rear with a giant concrete dance floor and the famous bucking mechanical bull.  All this looked about as appealing as standing out in a parking lot watching someone change a flat tire.  I can’t imagine the unfathomable experience of spending a Saturday night (or any night of my life) sardined in-between line dancers of cowboy-hatted and belt-buckled yahoos guzzling Coors Light like it’s tap water at $7 a pop with a line stretching to the flooded urinal like Garth Brooks was playing a free concert inside.  Not my thing.  Then again, I didn’t come for the bull.  I came for the pork.

To be fair, Gilley’s does have at least one redeeming aesthetic quality, which is it’s ideal location.  It’s perfectly situated near the corner of Las Vegas Blvd. and Sands Blvd. — across the street from the Wynn, the Venetian (which continues to be boycotted), and Fashion Show Mall.  Giant plate-glass windows looking out onto The Strip makes for prime people watching, although by the time I’d begun ingesting my sad excuse of a meal, those on the outside had become the object of my envy.

Full barbecue dinners with multiple meat options plus two side dishes range in price from $28.95 up to $55.95 (for fucking barbecue!).  Fortunately, as things turned out, less turned out to be more.  We both ordered the economy portion ($28.95), which was a blessing in disguise since the ribs (and side dishes) were so inexplicably bland, my taste buds seemed to numbed by an overdose of Novacane.  What happened to the flavor?

Indeed, there was something mighty peculiar about the pork ribs I ordered.  They weren’t salty.  They weren’t spicy.  They weren’t sweet.  They were sort of like — nothing.  Like something unearthed at an archaeological dig and tossed into a plate.  The pork ends resembled a grizzled jerky.  The barbecue sauce was so astonishingly flavorless that I did a first — hopelessly attempting to salvage the dining disaster by doctoring the sauce up with a shot of Tabasco.  How to describe the taste?  Think of boiled cafeteria-style ribs where every sliver and ounce of flavor was completely eviscerated out of the poor unfortunate animal which gave up its miserable life for the abomination of this appalling dining experience.

If the pork ribs were a disaster, then the baked beans turned out to be a magic show of disbelief.  Advertised on the menu as marinated in a zesty barbecue sauce and baked in molasses, the (canned?) beans could have possibly salvaged at least a star on my Trip Adviser review had they been the least bit tasty, or edible.  Not that I’m familiar with prison food on a firsthand basis, but those beans belonged in Leavenworth.  Slaves in chains eat tastier fare.  After two bites, and a napkin of mush, I gave up on the beans and pretty much knew the entire meal was a disaster.

One thing you sure have give to Southerners is — they usually know good food.  They (we) especially know good barbecue.  It’s just part of our DNA.  Just like you can’t open up a shitty Chinese restaurant in San Francisco or a lousy cheesesteak grill in Philadelphia and expect to stay in business, how Gilley’s has the balls to bill itself as the place for authentic Texas-style barbecue is jaw dropping.  Then again, if Guy Fieri can bill himself a master chef in this town, perhaps any fiction can be fabricated as fact.

Oddly enough, in some places the food really sucks but the service can partially compensate for a bad meal.  That’s happened to me — more times that I can recount, unfortunately.  Not this time, however.  You’ve got to really hand it to Gilley’s.  At least they’re consistent.  We were seated at the farthest possible table away from the entrance, despite plenty of available seats much closer to the front.  Once the bored waitress dressed in a cowboy hat and ass-kicking boots appeared with an accent that sounded like she was from Connecticut, things quickly went down hill from there.

For starters, I asked our server about a rib recommendation, eager for something that resembled Tony Roma’s — which has long been the gold standard for baby backs.  Well, our waitress had never heard of Tony Roma’s, a terribly bad sign that immediately disqualified her as our resident expert on rib commendations.  Next, when I asked for a baked potato — standard fare in any respectable barbecue joint, especially with a Texas theme — I came up rolling snake eyes.  “We don’t have baked potato,” she snapped.  Silly me, expecting something so goddamned simple as a baked potato to be on the menu.

I opted instead for (jail) beans, plus a side of onion rings.  Unlike the Bloomin’ Onion, a crispy oil-infested heart-stopping delight of debauchery served at Outback Steakhouse which are absolutely terrible for you, but which are about as short-term joyous as a hit of crack cocaine, my Gilley’s onion rings must have come straight from the deep freezer to the heat lamp.  Holy mother of god — even the onion rings were bland!  How is this even possible?  How do you murder the flavor out of onions?  As for other customary accompaniments in many rib joints, no bread was served.  There was no complimentary appetizer.  Nothing.  The waitress even forgot to bring a lemon for the iced tea.

I’m not quite finished yet.  Another bitch about Gilley’s — no bibs.  Baby bibs are typically provided by any respectable establishment specializing in ribs.  That way, the front of your shirt doesn’t end up looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.  Bibs are especially critical in popular rib restaurants where men wear ties.  Every restaurant in Memphis and New Orleans offers a bib to patrons.  Nothing ruins a tie faster than a blotch of reddish barbecue sauce.

After my third rib and second spill upon my yellow shirt, I glanced up at my sad-looking dinner companion and mumbled — “hey, this isn’t very good, is it?”  Wanting to be polite and no where near the asshole I can so often be, he just looked shrugged his shoulders and explained that he was really, really hungry.  I felt like I’d enlisted in the fucking Army.

After this torment of a meal was over, we dutifully paid our check, left a most undeserved 20 percent gratuity, and then bolted for the front door.  Despite walking past several employees who were standing around, including a hostess podium staffed by Gilley’s girls who seemed bored out of their skulls, no one bothered to say, “thank you,” or “please, come back again.”

Then again, don’t bother with the customary salutations.  We won’t be back again.

Gilley’s really fucking sucks.