Another post from my reason for living...

Ix,
You big sweetie. You posted my last note, and I'm sure you haven't even thought about how to describe the Enoteca San Marcos debacle, so here it is from my side of the table.
First off, the disengenuous charm of the Venetian indoor canal, with the poncy shops and faux everything, including elegance. Appalling tourists from all over Europe. You were right, there are more Eurpoeans there than anywhere else on the Las Veas Strip. Better dressed than their Minnesotan counterparts, but equal in bad manners.
We sat overlooking the piazza and stage. Kevin (or Scott, it was one or the other) was a distinctive waiter in that he had more aftershave than personality. Fresh-faced, towheaded with sad teeth, he looked about 17 but was really 28. He spoke with the patronizing authority of a sous chef only without a speck of credibility. I found myself wanting to order something he didn't like just because he lacked even the appearance of judgement. Pleasant enough, if you weren't allergic to the scent. Probably an Italian designer fragrance.
Never mind that, or the busboy who bought himself an iPhone only to have to return it when his mother bought him a Blackberry, what matters is the cheese. First course, they brought a beautiful trio of condiment jars and spooned out our servings of whole cherries in brandy, sliced apricots in white wine with chilies, and truffled honey. Then came the cheeses.
My oh my. First, a young fresh goat cheese, the 2 month aged Coach Triple Cream. Then the rightly called "King of Cheeses", Parmigiano Reggiano, a cow's milk cheese aged 21 months. Lastly, the magnificent Rosso di Langhe, a brine washed cow and sheep's milk cheese from Piemonte, fully aged and perfectly pungent, providing a crescendo of cheesy goodness.
Downhill from there. The nondescript escarole and walnut salad with pecorino. The Fritti Grande, which looked so good on the menu was just fried stuff with too much rosemary oil. Risotto balls, stuffed zucchini flowers, pizza dough fingers, seafood, and the fried mozzarella and anchovy sandwich that you called a "fish doughnut". At least the sandwich tasted good, and not like rosemary oil.
Escape from there, quickly. Because our final stop of the trip was the best of all. Bouchon Bakery, hidden next to the theater which inexplicably houses "Phantom of the Opera". There we each had that little miracle, it tastes like a fresh Parisian croissant opened up and filled with a blob of Chicago-style cheesecake (more caky than New York cheesecake and not as sweet, just right) and topped with two slips of sugared lemon rind--- which they absurdly call a "cheese danish". Your pot de creme infused with wild mint and covered in milk chocolate was just as epiphanically good. So much so that I once again find myself grateful that the most delectable pastry and sweets we have locally aren't anywhere near that standard. Our health and safety would be at risk otherwise.
Ciao bello, thanks for posting.
Flo