Read Part 1 of "The Craftsteak Bloodbath" here.
Seeing that we weren't going to bite on the Kobe hook, Miranda turned our attention to the rest of the menu. Marty asked about the differences between the grilled and roasted meats. The answer we got from Miranda was more shocking than Marty's miracle, sharpener-fueled, single-number roulette win the night before.
"That's done to make things easier for our kitchen. They really don't like getting too crazy in there--trying to make everyone's grilled steaks come out perfectly every time." Yes, of course, because not taxing your kitchen staff who are paid to be here is really my top fucking priority, too. Thank God you're not a steakhouse or anything!
Miranda explained that the roasted meats were cooked longer and slower.
Oh, you mean as in "roasted"?
I wasn't interested, but Marty, who likes his cheese orange, his mustard yellow and his meats decidedly un-pink, ordered the roasted rib-eye and a Caesar salad. I went with the grilled New York and the arugula salad. I asked Miranda which glass of red she recommended and without a beat she pointed to the $27 whopper at the bottom of the wine list. Oh, the one that's ten bucks more than the next most expensive? What a great fucking idea. On a wine list with ten items listed, you actively dislike nine of them. You've now gone straight for the jugular twice in three minutes. I was unaware that "taking care of your kid" meant that I, personally, would be seeding his college fund.
Out of pure spite, I ordered the cheapest cabernet on the list. And at $15 a pop it was fantastic. Miranda brought the bottle to our table and laid a long, heavy pour into each of our glasses. Marty, the former bartender, was delighted. I, the former Kinko's quality-control inspector, noted how the year on the bottle was two years younger than what was posted on the wine list, 2005 instead of a 2003. "Dude, she just gave us half a bottle," Marty said. "Who the fuck cares?" Clearly, value over substance is what the people want at Craftsteak. This meal was no exception.
The salads arrived. Marty grimaced. I don't understand the decision to serve Caesar salad with the Romaine leaves left in their unmanageable, whole form. Is the chef somehow elevating an already perfect dish to a new level or is this just another absurd affectation of sophistication and unnecessary creative meddling? To make matters worse, the Craftsteak creation is served on an impossibly small plate. So not only are you required to work just to get your salad into shape, you aren't given adequate space to do so. Marty was flummoxed. Having slaved as a busboy for years before getting beaten down at Kinko's, I was all too acquainted with the inoffensive practice of sending a salad, or anything else, back to the kitchen for a quick chop-up from the professionals. After all, they're the ones with the good knives. Marty was all too happy to know that such a move wouldn't boil the blood of the kitchen staff. I was starting not to care if it did. He politely explained his desire to Miranda, and also asked if he could have it on a bigger dish after it was chopped. Miranda nodded and whisked his salad off for a makeover.
"Do you still want me to put it on a bigger plate for you?" she said as she returned with his salad. Oh, you mean like you said you would? Gee, if it wouldn't be too much fucking trouble! But again I held my tongue. Marty seemed pleased enough with the chop-job. I, however, was thoroughly grim-faced by my arugula salad. The peppery crispness I was hoping for was so overpowered by the mammoth helping of vinaigrette that the poor leaves slithered down my throat with nary a crunch. Was this dressing-drowning another example of middle-America's quantity-over-quality habit? I always order salad dressing on the side--when I'm at Ruby Tuesdays!--but in a supposedly top-shelf restaurant, part of what I'm paying for is the freedom to trust the kitchen. On this night the boys in white were letting us down. Two salads. Two mistakes. I caught Miranda's watchful eye. In my most contrite tone, I apologized for not asking for the dressing on the side and asked if the salad could possibly be remade with half the dressing. My request seemed to puzzle her, but then she nodded and drifted away with my plate.
I took the opportunity to check out the restroom, which wasn't so bad that I wouldn't consider lifting (and thereby touching) the toilet seat, but wasn't nearly nice enough to make me mind if I dribbled a few drops. This was a hotel bathroom--somewhere between Embassy Suites and Beverly Hills Hotel. On my way back to the table, I decided to investigate the main dining room. Like a glowing orange terrarium, it beckoned me from the end of the bar. Bright and cheery, but still tastefully subdued, there was an air of conviviality permeating the room. In the soft, burnt umber light the diners there seemed happier, more successful and more entitled than those of us in the murky hinterland of the bar. I knew then what those passengers in steerage must've felt when they were stopped, awe-struck, by the gilded opulence of the first-class accommodations on their desperate sprint to the lifeboats aboard the fateful Titanic. It was only when I remembered that the diners in this room were being serviced by the same kitchen staff as I was, that I felt secure enough to peel myself away and shuffle back to my lawn chair.
The moment arrived. Miranda and busboy, tray in hand, swept up to our table and officiously set up the tray stand. Two gorgeous copper pans stood sizzling atop the tray. At least I thought they were sizzling. Turns out they weren't even fizzling. With a flash of her smile, Miranda was gone, no doubt certain that, as we were about to be wowed by our glorious entrees, her work was, at least for now, done. What she'd left us with were two slabs of beef in stone-cold copper pans. As my friend Jon pointed out when I recounted the story later (Craftsteak is one of his favorite restaurants), a hot pan would continue cooking the beef beyond its desired temperature. Yes, I know that, Jon. I went to friggin' college. But at least if the pan were warm, my steak wouldn't taste like it had been sitting on the counter top for two fucking hours.
To make matters worse--and for Marty, unrecoverable--the sauce, under which our beef was served, was, to put it gently, a beef reduction. "Served in its own juices!" if one wanted to be less duplicitous. But let's face it: this was blood. Room-temperature, uncooked raw beef run-off. I let the word slip out. Blood. Marty looked up at me, mortified. I saw in his eyes that guileless, crest-fallen face a child might have upon learning that there is no Santa Claus.
"It's not really blood, is it?" Marty asked the question with such desperation, such plaintive disbelief that a restaurant could commit such a horrifying offense, that I looked him squarely in the eye...and lied.
"Of course not," I said, laughing off my spot-on observation as a joke. No Marty, it's not blood. There's no blood in beef. In fact, there's no blood in cows. In fact, the cattle we eat come from some mystical, joyful summer camp for bloodless bovines.
It turns out, had I told the truth, Marty would've walked out of the restaurant, gone straight to In-and-Out and enjoyed his dinner a whole lot more. The roasted option was just awful, so bad that I felt guilty choking down my passable, un-warm grilled selection. More wine, that was the answer. Marty picked and nibbled his way through his dinner most admirably. Any mom would've been proud. But it was a crushingly disappointing meal.
I've since learned that Tom Colicchio has left Gramercy Tavern in order to concentrate on improving the Craftsteak brand. Here's hoping it works, because much work is needed. Here's hoping also that "improving" doesn't just mean "expanding", but I know there is a Century City outpost coming to the LA area next year. Sadly, I suspect that the once great artist has been irrevocably seduced by the chef-as-franchise phenomenon that Las Vegas has cultured.
We said "no" to dessert, again, out of spite. Covering our dinner bill would require some daring moves at the gaming tables. But we were in Las Vegas, the land of hope and dreams. We walked out into the night brimming with the inescapable sense of promise, the energizing flutter of uncertainty that comes with impending good fortune. There was only one thing we knew for sure: two hours from now, we'd be eating taquitos.
Craftsteak. Somewhere in the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas. Recommendations: Win big at the tables. Stick with beer or drink ahead of time. Stay away from anything roasted.
Posted by Aaron Black at 1:28 PM