Bobi Oates didn’t want to be an airplane mechanic; she wanted to be a cop. And she was … sort of. After getting an associate’s degree in criminal justice, she landed a job as deputy sheriff for a small county in Vermont, where she was raised. This was the ’70s, when, to get to the big leagues of policing, women had to meet the same requirements as men.
Perhaps it was because I’d just tromped into the bosom of Crush after being sheared by what felt like witchy sheets of frigid flying steel weather at 40 mph, but I said it, and I said it with great relief: “NOW THAT’S JUST LIKE CHRISTMAS IN A GLASS!”
A few years back, Brazilian steakhouses were coming on strong with a format that seemed custom-made for buffet-addled Vegas: an unrelenting tableside flurry of meat — lamb, chicken, steak! seared, skewered, sausaged, often bacon-wrapped!
So, yeah: In the manic run-up to this issue, one of the restaurants we were bandying about as a prospective Restaurant Awards winner — just as our collective excitement was needling into overdrive about its inspiring underdog story — closed.
“Just finished your piece in Desert Companion about changing your name,” Erin Timrawi of Las Vegas recently Facebooked to staff writer Heidi Kyser. It was a reference to Kyser’s October “Open Topic” piece detailing her struggle to reclaim her maiden name after getting married.