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.

We travelled to Las Vegas at the end of June, and one of the things I really wanted to do was experience a “fine dining” steak dinner. I’d done a bit of research, and came to the conclusion that we should try to get some steak at Emeril’s old-school updated steakhouse Delmonico, and then a more casual bistro trip at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon. Both joints were conveniently located in our hotel.

What I learned, and what I experienced, sort of came to stand for my overall feeling about Vegas (this was my first time).

First of all, I hadn’t really prepared myself for how expensive this would be. Key point here: the “casual bistro trip” ended up costing the two of us nearly two hundred bucks, and jeopardizing the Big Deal Dining at Delmonico. I wish it weren’t so …
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I love steak. And I like the steakhouse experience–probably because it’s “fancy” dining like we were too poor to do when I was a kid.

So I was traveling for work [in April] in Washington DC and thought I’d treat myself to a proper steakhouse meal. Just 3 blocks away was the DC branch of Smith and Wollensky, which according to the New York Times (and SandW’s website) is, “a steak house to end all arguments.”

Liars.

First, they put me in the corner booth, out of the line of site of all staff. Not that it mattered though, my server had no intentions of paying me any attention. He’s got friends a few tables over and a table of 8 beefy businessmen to help–why bother with a single female diner?

What he doesn’t know is that I love steak and if I get an especially good steak coupled with really good service, I’m a really good tipper. Eh. His loss.

It should be said that the other server working tables near mine was doing a great job.

I’ll not recount all of the details. The pertinent ones are: my steak (a 10 oz. filet mignon that I’d ordered “a bit more done than medium rare”) arrived grossly overcooked and the beer I’d asked to be delivered with my steak never materialized. I sat for a while, assuming I’d get to customary “how’s you’re dinner” but it never came. Finally, I decided I’d just eat it so I could get out of there.

About 3/4 the way through, I caught the eye of a manager, who apologized profusely and finally got me my long overdue beer. He also comped my entire meal. It was an appreciated gesture but it didn’t make the steak good. A steak place should know how cook steak to order, right?

So, if you’re a group of male business travelers with a few spare tires apiece, I’m sure you’ll get great service at Smith and Wollensky in Washington DC. If you’re a steak loving woman, traveling alone, don’t bother.