One night in Las Vegas

The Mandarin Oriental is my kind of Vegas.

When planning my travel schedule, I organize U.S. cities into one, two and three night destinations. New York is a three night city because I need one night for casual hole-in-the-wall dining, one night for trendy hotspot dining, and one night for oldie-but-a-goldie dining. Miami is a two night destination because I need one chill beachy day and one loud party day.  Las Vegas is a one night destination because it's a 40 minute flight away from me and because there is only one kind of day or night a person like me can have there. That is, a person who doesn't like nightclubs, gambling or crowds of any kind.

I woke early to make my 8 a.m. flight to LAS, doing my hair and makeup at home so I wouldn't lose any time getting ready when I arrived in Vegas. Also, I like to arrive glamorous. 

Fast forward an hour, when the Mandarin Oriental house car pulls into its pristine driveway. While most of the strip is already bustling with early birds, there isn't a soul in sight in front of the Mandarin Oriental, save the well dressed bell boys and valets. Across from the lobby, I can see passersby peering down from the bridge walkway as if hoping to spot a celebrity, or at least, to find a way onto the property. 

The Mandarin Oriental Las Vegas doesn't have a casino, a day club or a theater. It has about 1/4 of the rooms most Vegas hotels boast, and only one restaurant-- the three Michelin star Twist by Pierre Gagnaire. After entering through the chic lower lobby, guests take an en elevator to the 23rd floor where the main lobby-- at once opulent and almost completely empty-- offers stunning 360 degree views of The Strip. After checking in or enjoying afternoon tea surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, guests must use a separate set of elevators to reach their rooms. 

The Mandarin Oriental treats all its guests like Beyonce. Wherever in the world I check into a Mandarin Oriental, my room is prepared exactly to my particular needs and idiosyncrasies. I was escorted to a corner suite with windows for walls, a large living room and an impressive dressing area. Per my request, the bathroom had been stocked with extra towels, the bed made with extra pillows, and the assortment of beverages in the mini bar replaced with two-dozen cans of Coke Zero. 

Soon, it was lunch time, and I headed on Tom-Ford-clad foot to Lago, the Italian restaurant by Julian Serrano in inside the Bellagio. Lago overlooks the famous fountain, and a table outside on the restaurant's balcony-- essentially the splash zone-- is one of the most desirable seats in Vegas. I recommend the branzino. 

After lunch, my food baby and I walked back to the Mandarin, popping into Aquazurra, Tom Ford and Dolce & Gabbana on the way. I took a poolside nap without worry of being robbed or harassed by a drunken idiot and hydrated with cucumber mint water.

One thing, though. 

While scrolling Instagram from a cabana I didn't have to pay for, I was distracted from an eyesore that walked over and sat across the pool from me. This was two-too-old-for-this girls in those flip flops with the wedge heels (you remember those, right?), rhinestone ankle bracelets and thong bikinis. Now, I am all about a woman's right to wear whatever she wants, whenever she wants without having to subject herself to stink-eye, whistling, advances from perverts and generally being seen as an object. But. This isn't Marquee or Wet Republic. This is the pool--the only pool-- at the 5-star Mandarin Oriental, and there are children here. And a child's right to be a child comes before a tone-deaf woman's right to wear a thong bikini. All I'm saying is this: If you're going to the pool at the Cosmopolitan, wear pasties for all I care. If you're going to the pool at the Mandarin Oriental, cover at least half of your butt. Just half. That's all I ask. Because there is a really sweet floaty-flouting four-year-old learning to swim in the pool right now who deserves to stay sweet for as long as time allows.

Moving on. 

When in Vegas, you've got to get into it if you're going have a good time, so I embraced my environment and put on an Herve Leger bandage dress for dinner at Bardot inside the Aria. Micheal Mina's restaurants can be hit or miss, but this one was a big, big, big hit. Reminiscent of my favorite New York spot, Dirty French, the brasserie surroundings struck the perfect note of fanciness and fun without stuffiness or cheesiness. And the food was incredible-- duck wings and mac and cheese are must-haves here. 

After dinner, I went to see Micheal Jackson: One by Cirque De Soleil at Mandalay Bay. Having repeatedly been underwhelmed by Cirque shows over the years, my expectations were low, but apparently not low enough. Watching dancers and acrobats give lackluster performances to Michael's greatest hits was not just dull, it was sad. I sat there thinking that I would literally give my Chanel Boy Bag to stop this ridiculousness and just watch Michael for even 30 seconds. 

Toward the end of the show, I almost got my wish when the most convincing hologram I've ever seen moonwalked onto the stage to perform Man in the Mirror. I never got to see Michael Jackson perform when he was alive, so those three minutes-- the closest I'll ever get to watching him live-- were a treat that made the rest of the show almost worth it. 

I returned to the Mandarin Oriental to put myself to sleep with a cup of tea in the hotel's stunning bar. Though the group next to me was on their third bottle of Ace of Spades, the atmosphere was chill, luxurious and far more James Bond than Las Vegas. After taking in one last view, I took myself back to my room to sleep. 

But wait, this day was so fun. I, a person who admittedly pretty much hates Vegas, just experienced two amazing meals, three minutes of incredible entertainment and the best outdoor nap ever. 

An encore is in order.

Because I could, I extended my stay in Vegas another day to eat, sleep and play for another 24 hours. I had my breakfast of tea, Coke Zero and a bento box at the Mandarin, had a steam at the oh-so-beautiful spa, and enjoyed another outdoor lunch, this time at La Cave at the Wynn. It wasn't quite as good as Lago, but there was the added amusement of overhearing at least a dozen tourists pronounce it Cave, as in wave, when it's supposed to be Cave, as in awful. Vegas.

Following an afternoon of pool-chilling and getting caught up on work, dinner was at Le Atelier by Joel Robuchon. This one has just one Michelin star, but it gets three from me for atmosphere. We sat at the bar and watched the chefs prepare our artful dishes in front of us, using tweezers to apply the micro-greens and caviar to our asparagus and langoustine. 

Eight million courses later, my branzino arrived, and having literally seen how much love went into preparing it, I hesitated to tell the server that while flavorful, it was overcooked (Michelin or no, your girl Ashley knows her branzino). A few minutes passed as picked at it, and I finally decided that I had to know what would happen if I sent a dish back to Joel Robuchon. So I did. 

I nervously watched as the manager, Sommelier and chef all tasted the branzino (remember, the kitchen is right in front of me. They are all two feet away) and waited to see if my review of the dish would be confirmed or denied. 

Turns out, I was right. The branzino was overcooked, the chef was utterly repentant and I instantly became the most important person in the restaurant. They were not insulted that I returned the branzino. They were impressed. My well-practiced taste buds were rewarded for their astuteness with not one but five desserts and a private tour of the three Michelin star Joel Robuchon kitchen next-door to Atelier, which is far cleaner than my own kitchen has ever been, and I don't even cook. 

After my fit-for-a-queen meal, I decided to rectify the previous night's tragic Cirque de Soleil experience with a show I knew would be good. I'd seen Absinthe before, but although the show was exactly the same as it had been a year ago, down to the last inappropriate joke, it was still fantastic. My advice: splurge for the suite seats in the back. You'll have a better view, stay out of the splash zone and have no fear of being one of the many chosen objects of the Master of Ceremony's mockery. 

The key to any great trip is to get out while you're still having the time of your life. So after my morning tea, bento box and Coke Zero at the Mandarin Oriental, I was on a 9 a.m. flight back to Santa Monica in time for lunch at The Ivy. The trip had been so quick and easy, no one even knew I had gone. And I still couldn't believe I'd had such a good time in Vegas.