Steak Out

A few weeks ago, I ate steak out twice in the same week.  Since this is a blog and not the Diary of Samuel Pepys (I couldn't resist giving you that link), I will spare you the details of exactly where, how and why.  Let it suffice to say that the first steak was eaten at possibly the most expensive restaurant, whose name in Italian and Spanish translates into "mouth",  in our fair mid-sized Midwestern city and the second was eaten at Ruby Tuesday.  I am going to argue that it was the same menu, although the better experience was Ruby Tuesday and you may think it an odd, strange thing but it was true.  Here is why:

Upon entering the Mouth, we were greeted by Generation Y in tight skirt and shiny blouse with lots of hair tumbling over their shoulders.  "Hello.  We have an 8:30 reservation," said Lincoln, "We're a little early.  Can you seat us?"  Generation Y looked at him blankly out of four fair eyes and said, "We will seat you at 8:30."  Lincoln prompted, "Then we will sit at the bar?"  Generation Y pointed to the bar.  We were a little taken aback, to say the least.  We ordered expensive drinks and were seated at exactly 8:30 in a terrible corner that made me feel like I had tunnel vision all evening.

Our waiter, however, was lovely.  He recited the evening's features in dulcet tones and left us with the menu.  The menu at Mouth is divided into three sections by discreet little asterisks: * an appetizer/salad, ** a first course ***a main course.  There were no prices.  At first, I thought it was a throwback to the days when a lady was given a menu without prices to spare her knowledge of the price of her meal.  Then, I read further.  The entire menu was prix fixe, sort of.  One could order a choice of two courses and dessert ($55) or three courses and dessert ($67).  But, if one desired veal there was an up-charge.  And if one specifically desired steak, there was a serious up-charge to $88 because * it was a 32 oz. New York strip ** it could only be ordered for "the table" and *** therefore it became the main course for everyone who would partake of it (in this case, Lincoln and myself). I was quite aware of the price or potential price of my meal. 

Quickly checking to make sure I was still in a restaurant and not a Volvo dealership, I did the math and decided that the best deal going was the steak.  The steak, after all, came with a salad/first course and three sides.  By splitting a salad and first course and the steak entree we would spend less than say, Mrs. Obama visiting Spain. We had an excellent wine but the steak, although ordered medium rare, arrived so bloody and undercooked Mr. Andrews would have fancied it (I won't make you look that one up in the diary, the excerpt is provided below in footnote 1]).  The sides were nicely-sized portions and completely unmemorable.  We walked out of there for around $200 with a doggy bag of steak.  And merry we were.  But not really.

Later in the week, I found myself at Ruby Tuesday with Bartleby and She Who Is Not Named Phoebe and my parents.  Everyone, also named Generation Y, greeted us nicely.  There was a table ready, no waiting, no tunnel vision.  A sling was brought for the baby's car seat, as it was observed she was snoozing.  Our lovely waitress described no specials, but happily took our drink orders. I opened the menu to find it blissfully asterisk-free. Although there was an up-charge on certain of the Signature Sides, including Lobster Macaroni and Cheese, which I noticed because Mouth's menu had sensitized me.

Despite our earlier steak feeding (or maybe because of it) I was craving steak.  Perusing the menu, I determined that the steak was also the best deal on the menu.  I ordered the nine-ounce sirloin, medium.  It came with a basket of cheddar biscuits reminiscent of the endless cheese puffs at Fogo de Chao (where everything, including steak, is endless and never served bleeding rare), but slightly sweeter.  I selected two "Signature Sides" - creamy mashed cauliflower and fresh grilled asparagus (new!) that came with my meal. I did not want lobster macaroni and cheese, so no need to pay the up-charge for that, but it wouldn't have broken the bank had I desired it. 

She Who Is Not Named Phoebe woke and ate almost all of the mashed cauliflower. Bartleby enjoyed some of my thin, toothsome grilled asparagus along with his hamburger and a cheesy biscuit or two.  I walked out of there for $15 (with tip).  No doggy bag necessary because we ate everything.  And I WAS merry.

Now, you may be saying that Clever Gretel is getting old, has lived in the suburbs too long, is loosing her edge etc. but I think what is happening is that the lower end is watching the higher end, capturing the best of it and throwing out the rest.  So there was no Maldon salt on the table and Ruby Tuesday's wine list probably lacks an Aglianico that would bring down the house, but give it time.  Keeping it real is what keeps people coming back. 

So, home to supper and to bed.  Just like Sammy.

***

[1] "and merry we were, but it was an odd, strange thing to observe of Mr. Andrews what a fancy he hath to raw meat, that he eats it with no pleasure unless the blood run about his chops, which it did now by a leg of mutton that was not above half boiled; but, it seems, at home all his meat is dressed so, and beef and all, and [he] eats it so at nights also."  The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday, October 17, 1667