Since I tend not to go negative when writing (how convenient it is the places that aren't very good usually crash and burn--take a recent example of a place that specialized in one dish of one cuisine and then didn't make that very well), and I want to today, let's say the place a group of us chose to celebrate someone's birthday last evening is called, oh, Mike Harkey*. Thursday night, 10 pm, perhaps a calm before the long weekend storm as this establishment isn't very crowded when we show up--one large group of maybe a barely drunken dozen just finishing up, a table of two, and the four of us. For awhile it's just the four of us, till a lone woman, brave soul, walks in and sips her libation at the bar.
Setting this scene in important, as this is a tale of service gone, well, wrong isn't even the correct word, but then again, neither is service. There are 3 employees this evening, so for a good chunk of it, the employee-to-customer ratio nears 1-1, but while this is one of the few businesses helping to get Obama re-elected in 2012, that doesn't seem to matter. We get our drinks pretty quickly, but the water we ask for doesn't show up. Generally you can just ask the server for it when she checks in to see how the drinks are, or when she comes by to see if you want any food, but despite the room being small, she never checks in, and it's a good thing we were saving ourselves for the Blue Owl (mighty yumminess).
We finally do get water when a person at our table does the big arm in the air hail a taxi wave (the more subtle earlier attempts of imploring eye contact had failed miserably), and the server sort of almost says sorry for forgetting, but not quite. As for the wave part, I missed this so it's hearsay but another person at the table insists the waitress did a "do I know him, is he trying to pick me up?" look before realizing the sort of business relationship we all had going. At this point several of our cocktails were at pessimist's level--that is, you could only say they were three-quarters empty and not a quarter full--but she took no note of that, or did and chose to ignore our approaching dryness, but such active negligence would imply too much of a connection to us and her job. She did look fabulous, though--there is a premium on that at Mike Harkey.
Then, for a bit after the lone libation lover at the bar left and our table was the only one occupied, all 3 staff disappeared. This should feel good, to have a spot all to one's selves, but it's actually sort of disconcerting, like you'll need to do dishes and lock up or something.
Turns out we were at Mike Harkey for well over an hour, and easily a third of that was with dry glasses, but I guess it's doing so well they don't even need to ask people if they want a second. And we all walked, so it wasn't like they were saving us from DUIs, not that they had any idea how we got there, or really, it seemed, cared we were there. I had to approach the bar to ask for our check, $50 for 4 drinks, so one hopes we were paying for something more than the liquid itself.
Sometimes it's fun to remember that tipping is optional.
*First, grant me my Pozterisk, but naming this place after a tantalizing but ultimately unfulfilling first round draft pick is actually surprisingly apt, for Harkey seemed like he'd be good--he even finished fifth in the 1990 NL Rookie of the Year balloting--but injuries, a low strike out rate, and a high walk rate all did him in. Still, I remember to this day one friend hurling amazingly profane strings of insults at Harkey as he single-handedly destroyed one of my friend's fantasy baseball seasons, back in the days before the internet and we actually met every week with our USA Todays so we could do the league stats by hand. My how the world has changed.
Showing posts with label the bill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the bill. Show all posts
Friday, September 2, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
When Is a Restaurant Not a Restaurant? When It's a Jar
There's that old line, "Simple is not always best but the best is always simple." I guess I believe that about 75% of the time, which leaves me room for the dazzle of Hearst Castle, the prose of Joyce, and moles of infinite ingredients known only to the wisest of abuelas. Then there's steak. It would seem easy to do one well, just get a high grade cut of beef, season, cook to temperature. But if that were true, why do some steaks sing, and others make you question why you want to chew cow slabs about three-and-a-half bites in?
I'm not sure I have the answer to that, being a writer second and cook third, but as an eater first and foremost, I know 100% sure that the best steak I can get is at Jar in Los Angeles. Part of that is the room, no doubt, swank as all get-out with its non-ironic paneling, b&w photos and color swatches adorning those walls, then those simple flying saucer light fixtures, too many of them almost, but always emitting just the right glow. I was there last when it was still daylight outside and the room almost seemed impossible. It says, "Here, you need a martini, dry," and makes you want to call your date a doll. Heck, for all we know, steaks weren't even bad for you in those days.
But the steaks are splendid. That good grill char, but also the pleasure only beef brings, a mouth-watering joy of the chew, but the best never become too much chew--it feels good to sense the food breaking down in your mouth, if that's not too explicit. A Jar steak won't get to that point that mediocre steaks do, when the meat sort of seems to go to pulp--like you can chew the flavor out. (I know I'm making painstaking, and perhaps gross-making, too much out of this.) Part of that is the fat seems incorporated--you want that fat taste, but you don't want its texture too much. (It's like wanting butter in the flaky dough of the croissant, not on top or oozing out.)
In the case of my last steak there, it probably helped it was aged, which means the enzymes do their magical chemistry trick, and the steak gets yet smoother, the fat more integrated, everything better. You almost don't need the lobster Bearnaise or the creamy horseradish sauce, but, of course, you do, as luxury might as well lap in luxury. (I might just eat the sauces on their own.)
But, as for that last steak, it was one not on the regular menu, the oxymoronic bone-in filet (no doubt the bone helped add to the flavor, too). The waiter sold it well, and it lived up to his billing, all 14 oz. of it. But then there was the billing. I really don't get the reserve waitstaff seem to feel when announcing specials--how hard is it to say, "Those lobster and shiitake stuffed squash blossoms are $16," (or whatever they cost--we didn't order them, so we don't know). I guess part of it is, if you're eating at a place like Jar, you shouldn't suddenly get thrifty. I get that. But I also want to know when the steak--and again I must say it might have been the best beef I've ever had--I ordered would set me back $63. That's a good twenty bucks more than any other steak meant for one.
I'm not sure I have the answer to that, being a writer second and cook third, but as an eater first and foremost, I know 100% sure that the best steak I can get is at Jar in Los Angeles. Part of that is the room, no doubt, swank as all get-out with its non-ironic paneling, b&w photos and color swatches adorning those walls, then those simple flying saucer light fixtures, too many of them almost, but always emitting just the right glow. I was there last when it was still daylight outside and the room almost seemed impossible. It says, "Here, you need a martini, dry," and makes you want to call your date a doll. Heck, for all we know, steaks weren't even bad for you in those days.
But the steaks are splendid. That good grill char, but also the pleasure only beef brings, a mouth-watering joy of the chew, but the best never become too much chew--it feels good to sense the food breaking down in your mouth, if that's not too explicit. A Jar steak won't get to that point that mediocre steaks do, when the meat sort of seems to go to pulp--like you can chew the flavor out. (I know I'm making painstaking, and perhaps gross-making, too much out of this.) Part of that is the fat seems incorporated--you want that fat taste, but you don't want its texture too much. (It's like wanting butter in the flaky dough of the croissant, not on top or oozing out.)
In the case of my last steak there, it probably helped it was aged, which means the enzymes do their magical chemistry trick, and the steak gets yet smoother, the fat more integrated, everything better. You almost don't need the lobster Bearnaise or the creamy horseradish sauce, but, of course, you do, as luxury might as well lap in luxury. (I might just eat the sauces on their own.)
But, as for that last steak, it was one not on the regular menu, the oxymoronic bone-in filet (no doubt the bone helped add to the flavor, too). The waiter sold it well, and it lived up to his billing, all 14 oz. of it. But then there was the billing. I really don't get the reserve waitstaff seem to feel when announcing specials--how hard is it to say, "Those lobster and shiitake stuffed squash blossoms are $16," (or whatever they cost--we didn't order them, so we don't know). I guess part of it is, if you're eating at a place like Jar, you shouldn't suddenly get thrifty. I get that. But I also want to know when the steak--and again I must say it might have been the best beef I've ever had--I ordered would set me back $63. That's a good twenty bucks more than any other steak meant for one.
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