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that seems to be the norm, and I'm always happy to see Figs. He's made my world a better place already. English does not suffer from the burden of too many stars, or a signature style. No one expects to walk into an Olives and find Joel Robuchon. The exterior of Olives at the Bellagio only reinforces that sensibly lowered expectation. It looks like a one-time Bennigan's, without the faux Tiffany lamps. Once one steps inside, however, things only improve. There's a lovely terrace overlooking a huge, man-made lake which one could easily mistake for European—if there weren't casino hotels in the background. With a little willing suspension of disbelief, one could spend a delightful few hours there. As

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    Ruhlman was MIA for the afternoon (probably squandering his kids' college funds at the crap tables), I dragooned my assistant producer, Nari, into joining me for lunch. The service at Olives was supremely confident, and casually, enjoyably efficient. When we ordered three appetizers and two entrees, our server asked, "Have you eaten with us before?" When I said no, she warned that, "They're large portions."
    It was a completely unneurotic meal. English specializes in big servings of very decent, casual Mediterranean, and that's what was delivered: The bread basket, with freshly baked and well-seasoned focaccia and carta da musica, was of way above average quality. A flatbread pizza of white clams and broccoli rabe pesto was terrific. Sweet pea ravioli with pea shoots was just right, and a gnocchi with sausage was a bit tougher than it could have been but tasty. Halibut with mascarpone polenta was fresh and correctly cooked and tasted of what it should: halibut and mascarpone polenta. The "Crispy Yellowfin Tuna" was a clunker, deep-fried to rare yet unpleasantly dry and deposited on a perfunctory salad; and the desserts were of hospital quality; but Olives manages to exceed expectations rather than bloat them. It's a welcome counterpoint to the excesses of the casino, a casual, fun, and filling respite from the madness outside.
    "This is what's great about Vegas," babbled a momentarily ebullient Ruhlman, well into his fourth sake. He was talking about Okada at the new Wynn Las Vegas, a "combining [of] the French and Japanese worlds" from chef Takashi Yagihashi.
    "I mean . . . look at this," he spluttered, "the guy [Yagihashi] goes from a sixty-five-seat restaurant in the suburbs of Detroit to . . . thisl It's amazing."
    And Okada is amazing. The spanking new, two-hundred-thirty-seat restaurant opens onto an artificial, yet stunningly beautiful, bamboo- and tree-lined lagoon. Water falls over rock shelves through what appears to be a dense, Asian jungle just outside. Marginally familiar with the chef's previous venue, the well-reviewed Tribute, I had to admit it was quite a transition. This was what Vegas has to offer: a new life for talented chefs like Yagihashi. Private dining rooms; a sleek, new, stylish, multimillion-dollar main dining room; a large sushi bar manned by "traditional Edomae sushi master Miyazawa." An open kitchen serving robata yaki (marinated skewers grilled over Japanese charcoal). An open kitchen serving "caviar tastings," braised short ribs, and bento boxes, among other fusion offerings, along with tempura and teriyaki—a scattershot potpourri of mix and match, and a vast selection of sakes.
    All right, so the sushi wasn't so hot: The rice was cold and gluey, the uni (sea urchin) not the freshest Pve had. Perfectly good otoro was cut too thick, and across connective tissue. But it's impossible not to be swept along by the enthusiasm of the place. Okada exudes high energy, pride, optimism—and the American dream of a successful future. It celebrates the different and the "exotic" in admirably bold fashion. Our server cheerily explained to Ruhlman and me (two jaded and grizzled food writers if ever there were any) what an omakase was (tasting menu), and we felt compelled to feign ignorance and wonder.