(Hoity: $14. Toity is extra.)
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Last Friday night I went out to eat with some friends, to kick of the Christmas weekend. (Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend anyone by saying “weekend.”)
One especially sadistic friend — I don’t talk to her anymore — suggested we dine at a new, rave-reviewed, five-star steakhouse downtown. I’ll give you a quick clue where this is going: the rave-reviewed, five-star wallet extraction specialists unashamedly charged NINE DOLLARS for French fries. They did this with a straight face.
I can’t discuss the price of the actual steaks, because I’d start giggling uncontrollably, which is not easy to do in a printed humor column. But apparently the beef these people serve is harvested from fierce, mutant ninja cattle that have to be captured from an erratically appearing meteor.
And the cows are armed, and they fight back.
One very up upside: the restaurant promised live jazz, seven nights a week. Sadly, though, the Faberge Egg-priced French fry madness even affected the music. On our night, the headliner was a really polished jazz pianist, and he was solid, except when he attempted to cover Handel’s “The Messiah” in a syncopated 3/4 E-minor blues. But the bar crowd sing-along of the “Hallelujah Chorus” was nice.
Like everything else in the place, the pianist was working a la carte. He’d start in on a nice standard, like “April in Paris,” but if you wanted to hear the chorus or second verse, you had to pony up.
Now, I’ve dined a la carte before, and it can get a little silly. (“What’s this lonely thing?” “That’s your entrée.” “What, not even a garnish?” “Parsley’s a dollar extra.”) But this particular steakhouse has raised “a la carte” to some previously-unattained level of minimalist art. Even the fork tines were a la carte.
Waiter: Would you care for some water, sir?
Guest: Yes, please.
Waiter: Very good. Hang on while I adjust your bill.
Guest: You’re kidding, right?
Waiter: A sense of humor is an extra twelve dollars, sir. Hang on while I adju…
Guest: Forget it.
Waiter: Very good, sir. Now. Would you like a glass?
Our waiter for the evening, a bespectacled lad named Paulo, who had plenty of back-up batteries for his rapid-fire larynx, descended quickly. (In fact, all the waiters were named either Paulo or Geoff. I think it’s a law.)
Looking back now on the dining experience with Paulo, I’m pretty sure he was working on commission. It was obviously his mission, regardless of menu category, to coax you toward the most astronomically-priced option…and to do it subtly, so you ended up thinking a $26 cup of soup was your idea all along.
Paulo demanded we start drinking immediately, enjoying one of bartender’s joyous, cheerful signature concoctions (the bartender’s name was Geoff). Alternatively (or even better, Paulo insisted, alternately), we might consider exploring one of the sommelier’s vintage wines, assuming no one at table had any outstanding property liens.
Paulo humbly offered several un-humble suggestions, each with home-entertainment-center pricing: a bold yet fruity Napa Valley cabernet for $430; an overweight yet elusive Italian “Costa Russi” red for $495; a mature yet nubile “Harlan Estate” red blend for $1,200.
I started to loft a humorous comment about the possibility of just renting some wine, but then remembered … a la carte.
Also featured at the foot of the wine list was a “magnum” of Opus One red wine for $750. I don’t know how much former grape juice is in a magnum, but for that kind of street scratch, the “magnum” better include a short theatrical recitation by Tom Selleck.
My table opted for a 2014 Lodi “Earthquake” for $52 — a taut yet oddly flaccid Zinfandel with just a hint of condescension. The description boasted a “hint of oak,” which intrigued me, because I almost never drink hardwoods. Clever Paulo compensated for our plebe-priced choice by calling in two dozen table jockeys who spent the next two hours constantly topping off everyone’s glass, so that the ultimate Earthquake bar tab topped $300.
Next, as we dodged jockeys and wine bottles, Paulo launched into his well-rehearsed “why our beef is so freakin’ expensive” spiel, complete with props: a hardwood tray filled with shrink-wrapped cow parts. Paulo went into some detail about cattle anatomy, and discussed the important differences between “wet aged” and “dry aged.” (The take-away, in a nutshell, was that “dry aged” is about twice as expensive, so excellent decision, sir, and how would you like that cooked?) But regardless of his educational point or our financial decision, Paulo always made sure to assure one thing: “That treatment is gonna turn out beautiful.” Paulo called my rib eye “beautiful” so many times, I didn’t know whether to bite it or date it.
A quick comment on the “starters” menu: the bargain among the appetizer options…the bargain…was an $18 “Jumbo Shrimp Cocktail.” Now that’s jumbo. I think I once saw a movie where one of those shrimp savaged downtown Tokyo.
The steaks, of course, were amazing, after we paid $6 extra for a plate (by then, my friends and I had wised up: we shared a knife). So you should definitely give this steakhouse a try, sometime next year after your tax return arrives.
And no, I’m not going to mention the restaurant by name. Not a chance. Look, if they’re raking in that kind of cash nightly, they could lure me around back and offer me a substantial up-front book advance, and then have me killed on the way to my car.
A la carte.