The Search for Steak

There's this Texas-ish restaurant down the road from us that serves steaks and seafood. By "Texas-ish" I mean there are dead animal heads on the wall, and the place is normally full of coach-type people wearing sans-a-belt polyester coach shorts, laughing too loud and slapping each other on the back while smoking fat cigars and talking about football. The women with them sip martinis and wear big hair and too much make-up. The restaurant even has a separate smoking room, decorated with enormous leather furniture and more dead animal heads, where important customers can rent their own humidors. It is an extremely pretentious place, but in a very stereotypically Texas sort of way.

We walked in on a weeknight a while back (after the Truluck's fiasco), still looking for a good steak. We were greeted by three or so anorexic teenage girls in little black dresses, clustered around the hostess podium.

"Do you have a reservation?"

We looked past them into the cavernous, nearly empty dining room.

"No. Do we need one?" said with raised eyebrows and the tiniest smirk.

Apparently not, because they consented to seat us, but only after getting our names and recording them in their book. They didn’t want any other information, just the names. Weird. If I had only been thinking faster, we could have been “Thor” and “Wonder Woman,” but I missed my chance.

They didn’t make us wait, but they seated us, in a nearly empty restaurant, right next to the bus boy/drink station. It was lovely. We got to listen to ice being shoveled into pitchers and dirty dishes being stacked throughout our meal. I suppose we were being punished for showing up without a reservation AND without sans-a-belt pants or big hair. Whatever. Just bring us one of your sucky steaks, so we can decide we're never coming back here again.

Slag ordered the 26oz Porter House steak. It was fabulous. He ate all of it. Every bit. I know he wanted to pick up the bone and gnaw on it, but he didn’t on account of it being such a classy place. He said it was the best steak he'd ever had. Ever. I tasted it too. It was very good. Tender. Perfectly seasoned. Cooked exactly as requested.

Woohoo!! We found a place to get good steaks! Halleluiah!

But “boo! hiss!” because we have to endure dead animal heads and snobby staff to acquire said good steaks.

Slag wanted to make sure the good steak wasn't a fluke though, so we called up L. and made plans to go back again. This time it would be a Saturday night, so Slag made a reservation, with the hope that it alone would be enough to get us a table away from the drink station. None of us were interested in taking the extra step of donning sans-a-belt pants or sporting big hair to improve our image in the eyes of the staff.

Slag didn't so much make the reservations for us though, as for his alter-ego. He called up the restaurant and said, in his best New England accent, that he would like to make reservations for Saturday night. The name? Clayton Endicott III. That's E-N-D-I-C-O-T-T the THIIIIIIIRD. A phone number? Certainly. He gave them his cell phone number. He then informed the hostess, in the snobbiest tone I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth, that the number he had just given her was his driver's number. If they should need to call the number, they should please speak very plainly, because his driver is a “little dim.” The hostess responded with some nervous laughter.

I was working on the computer in the same room while the reservation was being made. By the time it was complete, I had put my head down on the desk and was cradling my face in the crook of my elbow, about to die from a combination of mortification and laughter. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to go anymore. Fortunately, that's where the dramatic part of the story ends. We arrived on Saturday night, posing, I guess, as Mr. Endicott III and his party. L. and I hung back as Slag approached the hostess stand to let them know we were there. I don’t know what he said to them, and I don’t want to know. All I know is that we got a great table and very little attitude from the hostess stand. And, we all agreed that the steaks were still fabulous.

Slag had tried to get L. to wear his tuxedo to the restaurant and play the part of Mr. Endicott III. Slag planned on playing the part of the dim driver himself and amusing himself at the restaurant staff’s expense. Thankfully, L. wouldn't cooperate. The staff at the restaurant would be grateful if they only knew what they had been saved from.