Writing at The Awl, Brent Cox considers the enduring appeal of the mighty steak dinner, following in the footsteps of former New York Times food critic Ruth Reichl, who wrote a classic piece on New York steakhouses almost 20 years ago.
A steak dinner for one at a fancy-schmancy Manhattan steak house will set you back anywhere from $50-$100 these days, depending a bit on the place, the sides, etc. The steakhouses remain the province of the One-Percenter Wannabes — the overpaid, overprivileged, overfed middle-aged white men who still really run things in this country — and the menus (and prices) reflect that.
A number of years ago, back when the wolf was not always figuratively, and literally, at the door, Bridget and I indulged ourselves with a dinner at one of Midtown’s long-standing steakhouses, Morton’s. The service and the shtick were worth the price of admission: the waiter actually wheels out a cart full of meat and does a show-and-tell for you so you can pick your own steak*. The dark-paneled walls, the Frank Sinatra on the stereo, the preponderance of older men in very expensive suits, it’s all there like scene in a movie. Whenever I have had one of these moments in life — encountering some situation so stereotypical it CAN’T BE real, and yet there it is right before my eyes — I’ve had all I could do not to laugh out loud, and that evening was undoubtedly one of those moments.
(* Those of you who will recall that Bridget does not eat beef will want to know that they even had some non-steak items on the menu, and, if I recall correctly, she had fish. Alas, they did not bring out a cart full of whole fish for her to choose from, more’s the pity.)
