The menu, the province of the casino's much-honored executive chef Michael D. Russell, promises to change monthly, and has among it two soups, one salad, five appetizers and a combination thereof, before hitting the dozen or so main courses. Soups are served with bumbling flourish, so just as soon as our server arrives, so does the water boy. One, a thick puree of wild mushroom foresterier, is half piping hot, half cold, around a base of bland wild leek custard, topped with a frizzle of shredded-wheatlike fried leeks and crispy parsnip ribbons, a couple of which have sogged in the soup. Another, more successful, stacks lobster and a bit of truffle atop a jasmine rice cake, then surrounds it with a slurry of vegetable-sweet corn chowder. Much staff congregates to watch, as if it were some sort of high-rise construction.
More crew arrives.
It is the height, not the beginning, of the dinner hour. We start over in another section of the smartly sleek, if anonymous, dining room. I sneeze again. More than likely, I have developed a sudden allergy to Iridescence and all it represents. For the record, our waitress, a different woman, is solicitous and charming to a fault.