Steakhouse
I could still see the flat-screen TVs flickering around the bar from my oversized table. The baseball game didn’t match the opulence of the scene. The view of the open kitchen in the other direction was infinitely more impressive.
A tall tattooed chef was conducting a symphony of cooks, putting finishing touches on plates and sending them off into the audience. A virtuosic ensemble worked in a long line behind executive chef Stephen LaSala, formerly of Searsucker at Caesar’s Palace. (In November, executive sous chef Chad Morgan took his place at the helm.) The composer himself, Scott Conant, was not present during any of my visits, but as they say, the show must go on.
Fronted by Conant, a Food Network personality and the renowned restaurateur behind Phoenix’s Mora Italian, this swanky Italian steakhouse is a study in how a building can seem vast, yet exclusive; crowd-pleasing, yet full of surprises.
The spectacles begin with the first sip
A server walked by carrying what looked like the pain box from “Dune,” filled with a rolling plume of smoke. That’s how The Americano does a smoked old fashioned. But, I was told a more interesting option would be the Glass Trip, a savory sipper made with fortified Madeira wine and a garnish of mushrooms and black garlic. The cocktail appeared in a large wine glass brimming with more of the smoke. Two white enoki mushrooms protruded like bonsai trees creeping out of a morning fog.
A campfire taste was further enhanced by grassy Oaxacan mezcal. I preferred it to the more approachable options like the foam-topped vodka cocktail Versace on the Floor and The Drunken Wifey (tequila with a spritz of the male gaze).
I couldn’t take my eyes off the bright green cocktail delivered to women seated nearby at a grandiose circular table that made them seem unnaturally far away from each other. The drink lit up like a glowstick when placed on the table, thanks to a mini lamp in the bottom of the rocks glass.
That’s The Third Monk, and, according to our server, its ghoulish shimmer comes from spirulina, a diet lover’s supplement made from algae that reacts to the lamp and becomes luminescent. I ordered one and found that it tasted like straight amaretto.
Tableside theatrics and appetizers are good fun
Throughout our meal, multiple servers appeared to perform their own little medleys of tableside theatrics.
“What happens at the table, stays at the table,” whispered one, as he spooned Fontina cheese foam over the top of a rich wagyu Bolognese pasta.
During another course, a server asked permission to perform “a little Americano tradition” adding pot roastflavored mushroom sauce to my saucer of sumptuously creamy polenta.
A third gave such an impassioned, downright rousing description of the restaurant’s Caesar salad that his performance turned out to be the best part of the dish.
Aside from the caviar French fries, which we’ll get back to later, the starters portion of the menu was a parade of woahs and wowzas.
A simple plate of stuffed bread was surprisingly remarkable. The focaccia ripiena arrives at the table in the shape of a bulbous dome cut in quarters and topped with a chunky green pesto. Each piece reveals a cross-section of the
stuffing—soft potatoes and a fresh Italian cow’s milk cheese called stracchino, which enriches the bread with a kiss of grassy butter flavor.
The burrata, with its pick-andchoose scattering of roasted delicata squash, toasted almond crumble and a nduja spread toast was a flavor buffet of sweetness and cream. Every bite was a little different, and I loved the combo of cheese with spicy Calabrian salami spread.
The olive oil poached octopus was served almost like a stir fry, cut up in beautiful little pieces that paired well with the salty capers and olives. Brash and briny, it transported me to a faraway ocean.
The hamachi crudo’s spicy line of sashimi and pickled shallots got a tableside hit of mild tomato water, which calmed the whole thing down and filled the mostly white plate with sweet tranquility.
I could see myself building a meal of these appetizers and still having a ton of fun.
Pastas are great, but not as good as they should be
Conant is best known for a restrained plate of pasta pomodoro, or spaghetti in tomato and basil sauce, which inspired a The New York Times critic to say that Conant was a tomato sorcerer who coaxed better flavors from the fruit than anyone in the business. While I didn’t find this true, as the sauce turned out a tad bland, there were some excellent pastas on the menu.
With its rich Bolognese sauce, the tagliatelle was a supple powerhouse. The meaty ragu is finished with wagyu beef fat, which lends extra depth to the already hefty affair. It’s finished with airy
Fontina fonduta in a traditionally Piedmontese manner, Conant told me in a recent phone conversation.
The Campanelle al gamberi, with its ruffled cones of wheat pasta that translate to “bellflowers” in Italian, had a wonderful chew to it and clung to the creamy Calabrian chile cream peppered with miso. The second ingredient on the menu description was sea urchin, which had me fantasizing about salty dollops of uni bubbling atop a sea of cream. But alas, the sea urchin was noticeably absent. When asked, our server informed me it was part of the butter, only discernable if you take long and introspective bites.
I suspect most people will skip over the mains in favor of the steaks, which are masterfully prepared and served a la carte. That’s the right call.
The entrees were uneventful, a slew of well-intentioned but only half-realized plates, including scallops begging for a sear, roasted chicken that promised but did not deliver truffle flavor and a spiced duck breast served with dense foie gras meatballs.
Likewise, when it comes to the caviar French fries, I’d skip them, unless you want to waste $38 in a garish display of excess. They could have been okay if they arrived hot, but they did not. They were lukewarm and belonged at the bottom of a McDonald’s fry pile. Flat and insipid, their plainness only enhanced the strength of the black caviar, making it taste off and almost too salty to eat. But the fries aren’t a symbol of the entire Americano experience, just its shortcomings.
Even if the flavors aren’t always dialed in, a meal at The Americano is about as fun as an Italian steakhouse can get. It’s a wild romp through the hedonistic side of capitalism, on full display with seafood towers and servers spooning dollops of truffle sugo. It’s like the elusive green light of a neon cocktail arriving at another table. You can’t help but want it for yourself.