MyFiancee and I have been trying to get HerMom out to dinner for a really long time, because we believe that everyone needs to try our Favorite Little Italian Place Down the Street. So, it was her birthday on Friday, and she consented to join us for what we like to call “the best” Italian (in town). They had lovely crab + asparagus + five cheeses handmade ravioli.

I had a NY Strip with port wine sauce, topped with gorgonzola, sauteed shallots.

I new there was going to be a problem as soon as Franco took more than 20 minutes to visit our table to recite the speciales. He was very distracted, and kept looking over his shoulder, watching the service staff, and the kitchen. Franco, a real Italian guy with tons of energy looked weary. We were to learn soon that this was the first night of service with doubled seating capacity. The worst possible night maybe, to bring HerMom for her first time.

The raviolis were lovely, the ladies said. The service was, although agonizingly drawn out, basically accurate. When we asked Franco politely if we could pay and leave, we’d been there almost three hours. Thank god the chianti was kept filled.

I think I’m going to have to go down there, or call down there or something though, because what I was served as a NY Strip was almost unrecognizable as that cut of beef. I have no idea what was going on in that kitchen, but it must have been difficult enough that the kid at the grill wasn’t able to see my steak. There’s no way this thing would have passed a visual “is this a New York” test. It came apart in three weird sections with barely any meat between great tangles of other tissue. It was almost like chuck steak, cut 3/4 inch thick. Oh, and there weren’t any shallots, anywhere.

The thing is, with all their difficulty that night, it would have taken an additional forty-five minutes for me to try and get a better cut of New York. If I’d had the heart to mention it… If I wasn’t a Minnesota-no-send-back’er.

I hate to think I’m not able to order a good steak at my favorite Italian joint. I’m left puzzled. What happened to the real NY Strip that night?

Sorry Mom.