november dinner: strip house
16 November 2006
Once a month, my friend old college friend Nicole and I go to a fancy dinner. The excuse is that we’re both young, successful and good-looking New Yorkers, so we should treat ourselves once a month to a nice meal for being so awesome. We alternate, so that one month she picks the place and I pay, the next I pick and she pays.
(In the interests of journalistic integrity and full disclosure, yes, Nicole and I have made out before. But it was a long time ago in college and only happened two or three times over the course of two years and there was no funny stuff. Plus, I’ve pretty much made out with every single one of my female friends at least once, so there’s no weirdness in that for me. They might have weirdness about it, as well as a great deal of shame, anger, and self-loathing, but that’s really not my concern. But I think it’s important to make out with your friends, not only because making out is fun and totally awesome, but also because you need to find out if there’s anything more there than just being friends. Thankfully, since I have about as much sex appeal/boyfriend potential as most modern day pirates, I’ve been able to make out with my female friends and remain friends.)
(God, making out really is awesome. It’s a shame I’m so fucking terrible at it. I mean, does this look like someone who is good at making out?
I don’t think so.)
(The saddest thing about that picture: it’s not posed. At least, I don’t think it was posed, but I did a lot of drugs that weekend in Maine.)
Last night was my turn to pick and Uncle Jason was in the mood for some good ol’ fashioned red meat. Even though I was a month-long (kind of) vegetarian, I am a confirmed carnivore. There is nothing – nothing – like a nice hunk of dead animal, still slightly bleeding, simmering before you in its own juices, begging to be consumed. Protein, baby, protein.
Since I know about three restaurants in New York City (and two of them start with "Ye Old") and Nicole is a borderline foodie, I asked her to recommend some steak places. She did and I spent a glorious afternoon perusing websites and menus, contemplating which we’d go to. But then when I saw our eventual restaurant, I knew it was the one immediately – you can’t walk away after reading "crisp goose fat potatoes" without making a reservation.
So Nicole and I dined last night at the fortuitously named Strip House. And the verdict? Wow.
I’m not going to be able to describe how good the food was with any flair or accuracy, but I think you people know that. So let’s just go with it.
I got the shrimp scampi appetizer, which was good but didn’t make me pee my pants. Nicole got the lobster bisque, which tasted like a giant bowl of lobster-flavored butter. This is a good thing. A very good thing.
We each got a filet, hers 10oz, mine 14oz. In retrospect, it was probably the fourth best steak I’ve ever had in my life, although at the time I thought it was number two. (In case you’re wondering, number one was at Ruth’s Chris in NYC, number two was at The Palm in Boston, and number three was at El Gaucho in Seattle.)
Being my number four steak of all time is nothing to slouch about and it was fucking delicious. But what got me most (aside from the lobster bisque) were the side dishes. In addition to the crisp goose fat potatoes, which were good but didn’t quite live up to their incredible name (though I can’t blame them), we got creamed spinach and creamed corn. Know that I do not exaggerated when I say that because of these two creamed dishes, I am a different person. The creamed spinach was so wonderful that I’m convinced that if one were to bathe in it once a month, he or she would become immortal. It’s that fucking powerful. And the creamed corn…good lord. It comes in a small casserole dish and has a baked top, but underneath is the wonderful goodness of corn, cream, and lil’ chunks of pancetta, which I have recently learned is fancy bacon. I never knew so much could be done with corn. Tasting that creamed corn was a high, not unlike the feeling you get after you sneeze or after you’ve held in your pee for a while and then peed. That kind of high. Like sneezing or peeing, but in corn form. I know – I’m blowing your mind right now.
But these dinners are about more than just food. And no, I’m not talking about the booze, although there was plenty of that last night (I am on a huge red wine kick right now). You see, Nicole sees me as sort of a charity case and is trying to class me up (or maybe "gay me up"). I think that Nicole realizes that God didn’t bless me with a loaded deck, and so she’s trying to smooth out some of my rough edges. I’ve repeatedly told her that what I lack in social graces I more than make up for in my paranoia, but she’ll have none of it.
So during these dinners, she and I typically spend a lovely evening talking about our relationship problems; hers going something like, "So what does it mean when a guy [does/says/emails/texts/looks a certain way]?", while mine usually start, "So I’m getting really sick of normal porn – what do you think about people dressed as cowboys and Indians having sex? Would you still be friends with it if I liked that stuff? Oh, and the cowboys and Indians are in wheelchairs. That’s important."
Specifically, one of last night’s lessons was about giving and taking compliments. Nicole says that I don’t take compliments very well, and she is correct. I don’t know why this is, but it makes me uncomfortable and sometimes defensive and even angry:
Mike: "Hey, cool shirt."
Me: "Geez – just remember to zip me up and you’re done blowing me, Fagbert. Christ. Have you told your parents yet or are you going to wait until you bring Bruce home for the holidays?"
or
Mindy: "You look nice today."
Me: "Show of hands – how many people here gave Mike herpes? Raise it higher, Mindy, raise it higher!"
Maybe this is a self-esteem issue, but I’m not a psychologist. But what I’m apparently supposed to do is say "Thank you" and move on, so I’ll work on that.
However, I think that I give compliments very well. Well, that’s not exactly true – I think I give compliments very well because I give them like a person with mental disabilities. For example, I very rarely say "You look beautiful" to a woman. Instead, I will say something like, "Your hair smells like raspberries." I will mean this sincerely and as a compliment, but often times this makes me look a little weird and possibly dangerous. Nicole knows of my struggles firsthand, since once in college while very drunk and in the presence of a bunch of guy friends, I told her that she has "nice colors" (her hair is dark, her skin is light and she has green eyes). I meant this completely seriously and innocuously, but to this day I’ll be around buddies and one of them might say, "Dude – check out the colors on that girl!" But what’s better: for a guy to deliver some cheesedick line and probably not mean it or for a guy to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind and completely mean it, even if that first thing is "Your perfume reminds me of carrot cake" or "When you touch my hand, it makes me want to plant a flower" or "I feel warm because you look so nice"? Yeah, I thought so.
Finally, Nicole and I ended the meal with cheesecake. But not just any cheesecake, but the biggest fucking slice of cheesecake the world has ever seen. An article framed on the wall of the restaurant from Forbes said, "The cheesecake may just be the most monumental, unforgettable serving of anything anyplace" and that’s a pretty accurate description. Gigantic and creamy, it tasted like having sex with a beautiful Scandinavian women who has a very pretty face but is morbidly obese. But she’s also very nice. A little needy, but very nice.
Then we went out, had a couple of drinks, I got drunk, begged Nicole to stay out drinking, she said she couldn’t, I walked home listening to my iPod and almost threw up on the way. So pretty much it ended like three or four nights of every week end.
But another successful dinner is in the books. I laughed, I learned, and I had a good meal – a terrific night be any standards. Next month, Nicole picks the place, so I’m sure it’ll be somewhere where I have never heard of 60% of the things on the menu. But I’ve already picked out a discussion topic: "So, long story short, I was dating this girl and one night after we hooked up very drunk, she passed out and woke up to find me drawing a map of Europe on her back. She was so freaked out, she never talked to me again. She’s gay, right? Also, I was wearing her bra when she woke up. But I don’t see how that’s relevant."
(In the interests of journalistic integrity and full disclosure, yes, Nicole and I have made out before. But it was a long time ago in college and only happened two or three times over the course of two years and there was no funny stuff. Plus, I’ve pretty much made out with every single one of my female friends at least once, so there’s no weirdness in that for me. They might have weirdness about it, as well as a great deal of shame, anger, and self-loathing, but that’s really not my concern. But I think it’s important to make out with your friends, not only because making out is fun and totally awesome, but also because you need to find out if there’s anything more there than just being friends. Thankfully, since I have about as much sex appeal/boyfriend potential as most modern day pirates, I’ve been able to make out with my female friends and remain friends.)
(God, making out really is awesome. It’s a shame I’m so fucking terrible at it. I mean, does this look like someone who is good at making out?
I don’t think so.)
(The saddest thing about that picture: it’s not posed. At least, I don’t think it was posed, but I did a lot of drugs that weekend in Maine.)
Last night was my turn to pick and Uncle Jason was in the mood for some good ol’ fashioned red meat. Even though I was a month-long (kind of) vegetarian, I am a confirmed carnivore. There is nothing – nothing – like a nice hunk of dead animal, still slightly bleeding, simmering before you in its own juices, begging to be consumed. Protein, baby, protein.
Since I know about three restaurants in New York City (and two of them start with "Ye Old") and Nicole is a borderline foodie, I asked her to recommend some steak places. She did and I spent a glorious afternoon perusing websites and menus, contemplating which we’d go to. But then when I saw our eventual restaurant, I knew it was the one immediately – you can’t walk away after reading "crisp goose fat potatoes" without making a reservation.
So Nicole and I dined last night at the fortuitously named Strip House. And the verdict? Wow.
I’m not going to be able to describe how good the food was with any flair or accuracy, but I think you people know that. So let’s just go with it.
I got the shrimp scampi appetizer, which was good but didn’t make me pee my pants. Nicole got the lobster bisque, which tasted like a giant bowl of lobster-flavored butter. This is a good thing. A very good thing.
We each got a filet, hers 10oz, mine 14oz. In retrospect, it was probably the fourth best steak I’ve ever had in my life, although at the time I thought it was number two. (In case you’re wondering, number one was at Ruth’s Chris in NYC, number two was at The Palm in Boston, and number three was at El Gaucho in Seattle.)
Being my number four steak of all time is nothing to slouch about and it was fucking delicious. But what got me most (aside from the lobster bisque) were the side dishes. In addition to the crisp goose fat potatoes, which were good but didn’t quite live up to their incredible name (though I can’t blame them), we got creamed spinach and creamed corn. Know that I do not exaggerated when I say that because of these two creamed dishes, I am a different person. The creamed spinach was so wonderful that I’m convinced that if one were to bathe in it once a month, he or she would become immortal. It’s that fucking powerful. And the creamed corn…good lord. It comes in a small casserole dish and has a baked top, but underneath is the wonderful goodness of corn, cream, and lil’ chunks of pancetta, which I have recently learned is fancy bacon. I never knew so much could be done with corn. Tasting that creamed corn was a high, not unlike the feeling you get after you sneeze or after you’ve held in your pee for a while and then peed. That kind of high. Like sneezing or peeing, but in corn form. I know – I’m blowing your mind right now.
But these dinners are about more than just food. And no, I’m not talking about the booze, although there was plenty of that last night (I am on a huge red wine kick right now). You see, Nicole sees me as sort of a charity case and is trying to class me up (or maybe "gay me up"). I think that Nicole realizes that God didn’t bless me with a loaded deck, and so she’s trying to smooth out some of my rough edges. I’ve repeatedly told her that what I lack in social graces I more than make up for in my paranoia, but she’ll have none of it.
So during these dinners, she and I typically spend a lovely evening talking about our relationship problems; hers going something like, "So what does it mean when a guy [does/says/emails/texts/looks a certain way]?", while mine usually start, "So I’m getting really sick of normal porn – what do you think about people dressed as cowboys and Indians having sex? Would you still be friends with it if I liked that stuff? Oh, and the cowboys and Indians are in wheelchairs. That’s important."
Specifically, one of last night’s lessons was about giving and taking compliments. Nicole says that I don’t take compliments very well, and she is correct. I don’t know why this is, but it makes me uncomfortable and sometimes defensive and even angry:
Mike: "Hey, cool shirt."
Me: "Geez – just remember to zip me up and you’re done blowing me, Fagbert. Christ. Have you told your parents yet or are you going to wait until you bring Bruce home for the holidays?"
or
Mindy: "You look nice today."
Me: "Show of hands – how many people here gave Mike herpes? Raise it higher, Mindy, raise it higher!"
Maybe this is a self-esteem issue, but I’m not a psychologist. But what I’m apparently supposed to do is say "Thank you" and move on, so I’ll work on that.
However, I think that I give compliments very well. Well, that’s not exactly true – I think I give compliments very well because I give them like a person with mental disabilities. For example, I very rarely say "You look beautiful" to a woman. Instead, I will say something like, "Your hair smells like raspberries." I will mean this sincerely and as a compliment, but often times this makes me look a little weird and possibly dangerous. Nicole knows of my struggles firsthand, since once in college while very drunk and in the presence of a bunch of guy friends, I told her that she has "nice colors" (her hair is dark, her skin is light and she has green eyes). I meant this completely seriously and innocuously, but to this day I’ll be around buddies and one of them might say, "Dude – check out the colors on that girl!" But what’s better: for a guy to deliver some cheesedick line and probably not mean it or for a guy to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind and completely mean it, even if that first thing is "Your perfume reminds me of carrot cake" or "When you touch my hand, it makes me want to plant a flower" or "I feel warm because you look so nice"? Yeah, I thought so.
Finally, Nicole and I ended the meal with cheesecake. But not just any cheesecake, but the biggest fucking slice of cheesecake the world has ever seen. An article framed on the wall of the restaurant from Forbes said, "The cheesecake may just be the most monumental, unforgettable serving of anything anyplace" and that’s a pretty accurate description. Gigantic and creamy, it tasted like having sex with a beautiful Scandinavian women who has a very pretty face but is morbidly obese. But she’s also very nice. A little needy, but very nice.
Then we went out, had a couple of drinks, I got drunk, begged Nicole to stay out drinking, she said she couldn’t, I walked home listening to my iPod and almost threw up on the way. So pretty much it ended like three or four nights of every week end.
But another successful dinner is in the books. I laughed, I learned, and I had a good meal – a terrific night be any standards. Next month, Nicole picks the place, so I’m sure it’ll be somewhere where I have never heard of 60% of the things on the menu. But I’ve already picked out a discussion topic: "So, long story short, I was dating this girl and one night after we hooked up very drunk, she passed out and woke up to find me drawing a map of Europe on her back. She was so freaked out, she never talked to me again. She’s gay, right? Also, I was wearing her bra when she woke up. But I don’t see how that’s relevant."
