steaks with dad
10 January 2008
Last night, my dad came up to NYC from Philly and we ate dinner at the Strip House.
My dad has been out of work hurt for several years now and spends most of his time with our dog Lucky, smoking Marlboro Reds in his chair and watching every show on the History, Discovery and National Geographic channels (he also likes some of the shows on A&E). He’s not a shut-in – he leaves the house several times a day, mostly to go shooting – but I’m trying to make him see how ideal his situation is. He’s 52, can’t work for the rest of his life, has some money (because he can’t work for the rest of his life) and his only expenses are cigarettes, some bills and food for the dog.
In part because I want to show him the light, and in part because I want free steaks regularly, I have suggested that his retirement plan should be to find the best steak in New York City. My dad is a serious meat-eater, if we define this as someone who eats only filet mignon and always eats it well, well done (yuck). But whatever his limitations or proclivities, he loves him some steak. I love me some steak. I’m his son, and I live in NYC. So the NYC Great Steak Chase makes perfect sense for everyone involved.
So far, we’ve only eaten at one place, Dylan Prime. I wrote about this when I took my dad and my brother there for my dad’s birthday (I’d like to take this time to again thank my brother for getting the surf and turf – hey, $80 for an entree isn’t bad, right Dennis?). The food was so good that I’m convinced that my dad cried in the shower after the dinner. Oh wait, that was me. My bad.
Despite the delicious meal, it was tough to get my dad to come back up to NYC. My family is from Philly, actually in the city, which is the sixth largest in the US. Still, my mom and dad and other relatives view visiting NYC, which is a two hour drive from Philly, like going to the moon. It’s is a BIG DEAL to come up to NYC, as evinced by my dad’s giant suitcase (which would have been suitable for a week’s stay and not one night’s) and wide-eyed look as we walked around my neighborhood. Of all the things in the city, the thing he is most impressed with is how the lights on the avenues are timed, so that a car can drive for up to two dozen blocks without hitting a red light. This totally blows his fucking mind. I think he would be less impressed with me turning myself into a giant dragon that shits mansions than he is with those traffic lights.
But for the most part, my dad was pretty composed and street savvy on this short visit. He arrived about two hours before we had the reservation, and after "unloading" all his stuff, he determined that we needed to get a can of coffee. I don’t drink coffee, but the only place to get a can of it within four blocks of my apartment I figured would be the Chinese grocery store two short blocks away from my place. But I wasn’t sure, because when I say "Chinese grocery store," I mean straight-up, shit-ain’t- in-English, I-can-identify-only-23%-of-the-stuff-in-here Chinese grocery store. I tried to explain this to my dad, but he was undaunted and walked into the store, still smoking a cigarette. We found where the coffee was shelved, but their variety was limited and did not include his favorite brand (Folgers, I think). Then he began pacing around the store saying, "They gotta have more coffee somewhere," me trailing behind him saying, "I think that’s where all the coffee was, dad, and you’re just gonna have to pick." I could see him getting agitated, a 6’2", 250 pound man in a jeffcap and leather jacket with a large Celtic cross hanging from his neck in a store filled with tiny Chinese people. Just when I thought he was gonna flip, he went up to a random Chinese girl about my age who was shopping and asked, "You know if they got Folgers in here?" In unaccented and perfect English, she said, "I’m sorry, I don’t know" and could not have been more offended that this big white guy chose her as "Chinese person that will do even though she doesn’t work in the store" to ask about what the store sells. I mean, she was completely disgusted and my dad couldn’t have been less aware of it. This short exchange between my dad and this girl, who was more white than I am and probably speaks better English than I do, was priceless. It’d kinda be like me going up to Nelson Mandela and saying, "Hey, is there a KFC around here or what?"
Defeated, we returned to my apartment with Nescafe or something and sat down to watch TV. We were watching "Jeopardy" and my dad told me about how he was watching "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" (another of his favorites) and the question was something about how the band the Doors, another favorite, got its name. I knew the answer and told him from the book The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley, telling him that Huxley was this really smart British dude who took acid or mescaline and wrote about it. Then, the floodgates opened, and my dad went off about his psychotropic drug experiences. In the next ten minutes I learned that my dad hated acid, but loved mescaline and THC and no, they didn’t have mushrooms back then. My personal favorite was a story about how the second time he took acid he and his lab partner, a nerd, had to remove a chick’s eye from an embryo in biology class. That experience, he said, turned him off from acid right then and there. Makes sense.
Then it was off to dinner at the Strip House. I wrote about this place before and got nearly the exact same thing – both of us got the lobster bisque, both got the 14 oz filet (his well, mine medium), and we shared the crisp goose fat potatoes, the creamed corn, and the creamed spinach - and it was as awesome as I remembered; honestly, it’s a top five or six steak, the best creamed spinach I’ve ever had, and the creamed corn is so unique it’d be on my list of the Top Ten Things I’ve Ever Tasted. So yeah, that’s pretty good.
Strip House is moderately fancy, but it seems like most of the people who eat there are either bankers in the 50′s or salesmen/traders in their late 20′s/early 30′s from Long Island or New Jersey; in short, lotta assholes in the room. This didn’t bother either me or my dad though, as we talked the night away (between stuffing our faces). Also, I knew that none of the guys in the room were going to be assholes to us, since my dad took out the six-inch pocket knife he carries in a case on his belt and used it to cut the small rolls of bread, since at that point we only had a butter knives on the table. Watching my father take a knife off his belt to cut rolls, with that trademark Celtic cross glimmering off his sweater, while the douchebags at the table next to us talked about how excited they were about getting to the Hamptons this summer…well, it made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the universe.
At the end of the meal, we got the cheesecake to take home and nearly had to be rolled out of the restaurant. We had a late reservation so by the time we were back at my apartment it was almost 11:30pm. We watched this week’s tivo’ed episode of "SVU" (wow) and then I went to bed, my dad deciding to stay up to watch TV and sleep on the couch (I offered him the bed, but he sleeps on the couch at home).
So the second steak dinner with my dad is in the books. When I asked which he preferred, the Strip House or Dylan Prime, he said he’d need time to think about it but both were excellent. Next up: I’m not sure. I just hope the places has sharp knives (and make sure a can of Folgers is in my apartment).
My dad has been out of work hurt for several years now and spends most of his time with our dog Lucky, smoking Marlboro Reds in his chair and watching every show on the History, Discovery and National Geographic channels (he also likes some of the shows on A&E). He’s not a shut-in – he leaves the house several times a day, mostly to go shooting – but I’m trying to make him see how ideal his situation is. He’s 52, can’t work for the rest of his life, has some money (because he can’t work for the rest of his life) and his only expenses are cigarettes, some bills and food for the dog.
In part because I want to show him the light, and in part because I want free steaks regularly, I have suggested that his retirement plan should be to find the best steak in New York City. My dad is a serious meat-eater, if we define this as someone who eats only filet mignon and always eats it well, well done (yuck). But whatever his limitations or proclivities, he loves him some steak. I love me some steak. I’m his son, and I live in NYC. So the NYC Great Steak Chase makes perfect sense for everyone involved.
So far, we’ve only eaten at one place, Dylan Prime. I wrote about this when I took my dad and my brother there for my dad’s birthday (I’d like to take this time to again thank my brother for getting the surf and turf – hey, $80 for an entree isn’t bad, right Dennis?). The food was so good that I’m convinced that my dad cried in the shower after the dinner. Oh wait, that was me. My bad.
Despite the delicious meal, it was tough to get my dad to come back up to NYC. My family is from Philly, actually in the city, which is the sixth largest in the US. Still, my mom and dad and other relatives view visiting NYC, which is a two hour drive from Philly, like going to the moon. It’s is a BIG DEAL to come up to NYC, as evinced by my dad’s giant suitcase (which would have been suitable for a week’s stay and not one night’s) and wide-eyed look as we walked around my neighborhood. Of all the things in the city, the thing he is most impressed with is how the lights on the avenues are timed, so that a car can drive for up to two dozen blocks without hitting a red light. This totally blows his fucking mind. I think he would be less impressed with me turning myself into a giant dragon that shits mansions than he is with those traffic lights.
But for the most part, my dad was pretty composed and street savvy on this short visit. He arrived about two hours before we had the reservation, and after "unloading" all his stuff, he determined that we needed to get a can of coffee. I don’t drink coffee, but the only place to get a can of it within four blocks of my apartment I figured would be the Chinese grocery store two short blocks away from my place. But I wasn’t sure, because when I say "Chinese grocery store," I mean straight-up, shit-ain’t- in-English, I-can-identify-only-23%-of-the-stuff-in-here Chinese grocery store. I tried to explain this to my dad, but he was undaunted and walked into the store, still smoking a cigarette. We found where the coffee was shelved, but their variety was limited and did not include his favorite brand (Folgers, I think). Then he began pacing around the store saying, "They gotta have more coffee somewhere," me trailing behind him saying, "I think that’s where all the coffee was, dad, and you’re just gonna have to pick." I could see him getting agitated, a 6’2", 250 pound man in a jeffcap and leather jacket with a large Celtic cross hanging from his neck in a store filled with tiny Chinese people. Just when I thought he was gonna flip, he went up to a random Chinese girl about my age who was shopping and asked, "You know if they got Folgers in here?" In unaccented and perfect English, she said, "I’m sorry, I don’t know" and could not have been more offended that this big white guy chose her as "Chinese person that will do even though she doesn’t work in the store" to ask about what the store sells. I mean, she was completely disgusted and my dad couldn’t have been less aware of it. This short exchange between my dad and this girl, who was more white than I am and probably speaks better English than I do, was priceless. It’d kinda be like me going up to Nelson Mandela and saying, "Hey, is there a KFC around here or what?"
Defeated, we returned to my apartment with Nescafe or something and sat down to watch TV. We were watching "Jeopardy" and my dad told me about how he was watching "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" (another of his favorites) and the question was something about how the band the Doors, another favorite, got its name. I knew the answer and told him from the book The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley, telling him that Huxley was this really smart British dude who took acid or mescaline and wrote about it. Then, the floodgates opened, and my dad went off about his psychotropic drug experiences. In the next ten minutes I learned that my dad hated acid, but loved mescaline and THC and no, they didn’t have mushrooms back then. My personal favorite was a story about how the second time he took acid he and his lab partner, a nerd, had to remove a chick’s eye from an embryo in biology class. That experience, he said, turned him off from acid right then and there. Makes sense.
Then it was off to dinner at the Strip House. I wrote about this place before and got nearly the exact same thing – both of us got the lobster bisque, both got the 14 oz filet (his well, mine medium), and we shared the crisp goose fat potatoes, the creamed corn, and the creamed spinach - and it was as awesome as I remembered; honestly, it’s a top five or six steak, the best creamed spinach I’ve ever had, and the creamed corn is so unique it’d be on my list of the Top Ten Things I’ve Ever Tasted. So yeah, that’s pretty good.
Strip House is moderately fancy, but it seems like most of the people who eat there are either bankers in the 50′s or salesmen/traders in their late 20′s/early 30′s from Long Island or New Jersey; in short, lotta assholes in the room. This didn’t bother either me or my dad though, as we talked the night away (between stuffing our faces). Also, I knew that none of the guys in the room were going to be assholes to us, since my dad took out the six-inch pocket knife he carries in a case on his belt and used it to cut the small rolls of bread, since at that point we only had a butter knives on the table. Watching my father take a knife off his belt to cut rolls, with that trademark Celtic cross glimmering off his sweater, while the douchebags at the table next to us talked about how excited they were about getting to the Hamptons this summer…well, it made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the universe.
At the end of the meal, we got the cheesecake to take home and nearly had to be rolled out of the restaurant. We had a late reservation so by the time we were back at my apartment it was almost 11:30pm. We watched this week’s tivo’ed episode of "SVU" (wow) and then I went to bed, my dad deciding to stay up to watch TV and sleep on the couch (I offered him the bed, but he sleeps on the couch at home).
So the second steak dinner with my dad is in the books. When I asked which he preferred, the Strip House or Dylan Prime, he said he’d need time to think about it but both were excellent. Next up: I’m not sure. I just hope the places has sharp knives (and make sure a can of Folgers is in my apartment).
