Planet Dubya

We exited Interstate 80 at the East McCarran off-ramp and immediately turned right past John Ascuaga’s Nugget. We drove another few blocks and turned right again. At the second or third light we turned right, then made a sharp right into the parking lot of this new and much-talked-about restaurant, named after the 43rd President of the United States. Drawing on his father’s legendary skills as unofficial sous-chef for Skull & Bones, the secretive Yale eating club, George W. Bush has reportedly turned the culinary world on its ear with his new eponymous Sparks’ eatery, Planet Dubya—and we were determined to see what the fuss was all about.

We entered the large portico of the free-standing structure (a one-third-size replica of The White House) and, after being strip-searched and signing loyalty oaths, my companion and I were greeted by the hostess for the evening, Grande Dame Barbara, who asked us to wait before being seated. As I was anxious to drink in every detail of the decor, I didn’t mind, nor did my guest.

The first thing that attracted my attention was the lifelike figure of a well-dressed man standing off to the side, hand extended, mumbling words of scrambled syntax to a few select diners.

“That statue of the president looks pretty lifelike, don’t you think?” I asked my guest. “Except for when it opens its mouth, it seems almost real.”

Imagine my chagrin when she pointed out that it actually was the 43rd President of the United States.

Another 15 minutes went by, and I decided to sneak a peek at the reservation list. Noting that the name of U.S. Attorney General John Ashcroft was circled in red with a pair of asterisks next to it, I couldn’t keep myself from asking Mrs. Bush the reason. She told me that Ashcroft’s reservation is always “held indefinitely, without charge.”

A party of four that had entered just before us appeared to be having a problem with their reservation, though.

“I’m Jim Gibbons, and this is John Ensign,” one of the men said. “He’s a U.S. senator and I’m a member of the House of Representatives. We were assured there would be a place at the table for us.”

“I’m sorry,” the hostess said in a haughty manner. “It looks like the Florida delegation has taken all the available seats. Would you like to sit with the French delegation instead?”

Gibbons shook his head angrily.

“It must have something to do with electoral votes,” he muttered. “I’ll tell you, Kenny’s going to be pissed! Where is he, anyway?”

“He’s still out in the parking lot trying to find someplace to park the stretch limo,” Ensign said.

And so the Nevada delegation continued to wait patiently as parties from Texas and Georgia, Romania, Spain and Australia were seated ahead of them.

“The coalition of the waiting,” I thought.

It wasn’t much longer before my guest and I were finally led to our table and seated. Our server politely introduced himself as Colin, and throughout the evening, proved to be an ingratiating and diplomatic presence—often arbitrating disagreements between myself and my date over food, condiments and foreign policy.

Many of the menu items were unfamiliar to us, but definitions were thoughtfully provided—although they were sometimes difficult to understand. For example, what was The Rummie Burger ($23.50)? The menu described it as: “A delightful paradigm of bovine by-products mitigated by unaltered lateral essences of New World Order political strata.” Frankly, I had no idea what this meant, so I asked Colin when he passed our table next.

For the first and only time during the meal, his eyes seemed to harden and his mouth grew tight, “That’s classified, sir.”

Turning our attention again to the menu, I was interested to note that there was a “No Child Left Behind” Children’s Menu listed; however, when I turned to that page, it was blank.

When Colin returned, we ordered the evening’s repast: I decided to begin with a Cheney Burger ($25), and learned it would be prepared in an undisclosed location by a secret “shadow staff” of chefs. I told him it didn’t matter to me—at which Colin appeared obviously relieved. All this talk about Cheney and Rumsfeld seemed to be ruffling his normally unflappable demeanor.

My date had decided to order the Compassionate Cous-Cous ($32.95) but was told that compassion had been off the menu since shortly after the restaurant’s inaugural night. Disappointed, she settled on a Shock & Awe Dinner Salad ($17.25). According to the menu, it would be: “Served by the 42nd Airborne Division, amidst a presentation of Overwhelming Force and accompanied by a side of Regime-Change Smashed Potatoes.”

My date and I were entertained by the lovely chanteuse at the piano bar, Miss Condoleeza. She sang that timeless and sultry classic, “Don’t Give Me No Taxes Blues.”

Don’t tax my stocks and dividends,
Don’t tax my ‘heritence—no!
I’m thinking ’bout my baby’s trust fund,
And the house in the Hamptons—
yo!
Don’t you know about my Bentley?
I can hardly pay the gas.
‘Less we go drilling in Alaska—
If those liberals let it pass!
So, set me free of these taxes.
However will I survive?
I’m just a hard-working scion,
Who can hardly stay alive.
‘Cause all I got are some stock options,
… bonus, golden parachute, bearer bonds
… offshore accounts,
… and some stuff the IRS don’t even recognize …
Oh, yeah!

The applause was sincere and enthusiastic. An Iraqi couple sitting at a back table appeared to be less than enthusiastic, however, and started making noises about filing a complaint with the United Nations. Finally, a trio of bouncers from Homeland Security arrived and dragged them from the room to a military base somewhere in the Southeast. Talk about sanctions!

When it came time to pay the check, I was shocked at the total. I asked Colin about it, and he explained that not only were we paying for our meal, but for that of the table next to ours as well. He called it Dubya’s “trickle-up theory of restaurant economics,” which he’d formulated at Yale. I glanced over to see whose dinner I was subsidizing and realized it was a group of Enron executives.

I paid the sizeable check, maxing out my MasterCard in the process and left Planet Dubya. As before, we were strip-searched—this time fingerprinted. The president (or his lifelike animatronic double) was still standing by the door as we exited.

The Nevada delegation was still waiting patiently for their place at the table.

As my date and I drove out of the parking lot, we reflected on the evening and how things might have turned out had not the Supreme Court used its powers of eminent domain to seize the land on which the restaurant stands.

We finally arrived at the I-80 on-ramp and headed back toward Reno. My date and I sat silent and were so deep in thought that we never even noticed the black helicopters that had been following us since we left Sparks.