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competent server began to lay on the food, making frequent mention of the Maximum Leader.
    "Bobby Flay's Spicy Tuna Tartare" tasted like everybody else's tuna tartare these days, which is to say, perfectly respectable, in a south-of-the-border kinda way. A "Smoked Chicken and Black Bean Quesadilla" was a gussied-up smoked chicken and black bean quesadilla. Our margaritas were replenished. Our server presented "Bobby Flay's Tiger Shrimp and Roasted Garlic Corn Tamale" as if repeating the name would add
    something to the experience—and, in fact, it was the best of the offerings: pretty, in its artfully opened pocket of corn husk, and flavorful. A very well-conceived dish which, unlike the quesadilla, compared well to the more rustic Mexican versions. "This is as good as any tamale on earth," I offered. "This is great. You could go looking for the perfect tamale in any mercado in Mexico and not find one as good as this. Unimprovable."
    "The kitchen does a good job," said Ruhlman, begrudgingly. "Just don't look out the window."
    A "Northeast Lobster Out of the Shell with Red Chile Coconut Sauce" masked a perfectly cooked lobster with a fairly insipid and cloyingly sweet sauce, and the Brussels sprouts (which I liked) made absolutely no sense in its proximity. "Sixteen Spice Rotisserie Chicken" was, again, perfectly cooked, but it would have been fine with about eight spices. "Coffee Spice Rubbed Rotisserie Filet Mignon" was also flawlessly cooked, though decorated with the same squeeze-bottled orange sauce as the chicken. The kitchen crew did everything right, cooked everything perfectly, with dead-on technique, but I found myself carping about the conceptual disconnect: "The same damn squeeze bottle stuff. All these years later—"
    "The kitchen is doing a really good job," interrupted Ruhlman correctly (if uncharacteristically).
    "Why put your personal 'imprint' on this stuff? It's gilding the lily," I griped, wondering why a nice piece of lovingly cooked filet mignon would be in any way improved by a rubdown with coffee.
    "They don't come here for a steak, Bourdain," muttered Ruhlman. "They come here for Bobby's steak. Taste the magic, man. You're not buying a meal. You're buying a personality."
    "But the food is fine. The food is good. Why wrestle it into submission?"
    "The food is good. They do a good job here," said Ruhlman, looking nervously around for another margarita.
    The desserts at Mesa Grill were outstanding. A "Coconut Custard Brulee Tart" with fresh fruit struck exactly the right balance between Flay's "signature" style and eating pleasure. A "Warm Chocolate and Dulce de Leche Cake," which could easily have been yet another ubiquitous "fallen chocolate souffle," was extraordinary, and was served with pecan ice cream. The two desserts (and the margaritas) helped put us both into cheerier moods. You could do a lot worse than to eat at the Mesa Grill. It's a hell of a lot better than it has to be. Looking outside the thin glass partition and around the room, one gets the impression that the customers here would be just as happy with a well-prepared burger, as long as it was "Bobby Flay's Burger," served under Bobby Flay's omnipresent, smiling face. That the kitchen clearly works hard to get it right, and that the chef appears to as well (Flay was in town only a couple of days later), speaks well of the place. Now if all concerned could be less insecure about changing with the times, maybe let the ingredients speak more for themselves, it could be pretty damn impeccable. Though I'd suggest tinting the windows. The view from the tables is a little dismaying.

    It took a while to locate Todd English's Olives in the gargantuan Bellagio. If anybody's got a right to phone-it-in, crank-out factory food, it's English. He has restaurants all over the world these days, and a chain of airport pit stops (Figs). But I spend a lot of time in airports, often moved to murderous rage by the usual overpriced, not-even-trying gruel