dinner review: embers
6 January 2011
Two nights ago, my lady and I ate at a place called Embers, which is a steakhouse in our ‘hood, Bay Ridge (that’s in Brooklyn) (the uncool/unhip part). I have two buddies who grew up in Bay Ridge, and they both agreed that this was the best steakhouse in the neighborhood.
Well.
Before we continue, you should know that I am a steak expert. Actually, I should clarify that: I am an expert on the steakhouses of Manhattan. Back in the halcyon days of (parts of) 2005, 2006 and 2007 when I was young, rich and single (thus the “rich” part), my friend Nicole and I would go to fancy dinners once a month and just blow it out. We’d alternate – she’d pick and I’d pay, then I’d pick and she’d pay – and we’d eat the shit out of some fine, fine foods. When I picked, I almost always chose steakhouses. So if you name a steakhouse in the city, I’ve been there.
[My favorite? Dylan Prime. A cool atmosphere that’s suitable for both dates and parents, a nice connecting lounge area for pre-dinner drinks, inventive dishes (pork belly tater tots and prosciutto bread pudding are two of my faves), a terrific Manhattan, and a steak that, coupled with the foie gras butter chapeaux, may bring you closer to heaven in life than you’ll ever get in death (in my case, at least).]
So I like going to steakhouses, and was looking forward to eating at one in my new ‘hood.
Well. (Again.)
The decor of Embers was not so much old school, which implies charm and care, as it was dingy, which implies ”we decorated this place thirty years ago and pretty much left it at that.” However, I was not bothered – I typically don’t put much stock in ambiance (food is first and foremost and only) and my date this evening was my goddamned live-in girlfriend, who I more or less stopped trying to impress the minute she said, “So, I’m going on the pill.”
Adding to the decor was the clientele, which consisted of a group of 60-somethings at the bar by the entry who spent most of our dinner screaming at “Wheel of Fortune” and a 60-ish couple who sat nearby and argued the whole time, going from agitated to calm and back and forth and back and forth. Because there was no one in the restaurant, we could hear their whole argument, including when the woman said, “I fucking love the sex with you!” Which is exactly what you want to hear from a 60-something lady Brooklynite before you put 11 oz of meat into you(r belly).
(And I’m not joking here – she actually kinda screamed “I fucking love the sex with you!” in the middle of the restaurant. Was the place dilapidated? Sure. Mostly empty? Yep. But what compels you, as a 60-something woman, to almost scream “I fucking love the sex with you!” in a public place. Stay classy, Bay Ridge.)
I started with the caprese and m’lady got the salad, both of which were in the B/B+ range; the caprese big hunks of mozzarella and fresh tomatoes drizzled with Italian dressing and the salad crisp and fresh. We both got filet mignons, which came with the veggie of the day (broccoli) and about four choices of potato – both of us opted for the potato pie, which was written about positively in reviews. While not so innovative with the sides, I would agree that the potato pie was spectacular – a crusty lump of mashed potatoes, but very moist and with chunks of ham (!!!) in it – and the broccoli was, well, broccoli.
The steak was solid, but unspectacular, better than what I expected when I first walked into the place. Nothing to praise, nothing to complain about. Just steak. (I’m tempted to write that a steak is a like a blowjob – even the worst is pretty good. But I can’t, because there are some terrible, terrible blowjobbers out there, and so that comparison wouldn’t be fair to steaks everywhere, now would it?)
But the best part of the whole meal? Three drinks (total), two apps, two steaks and four sides = $100. The filets themselves were $27 and they included the two sides, whereas a filet at my favorite place (Dylan Prime) is $39, and each side is $9. So it was less than half the price of what I’m used to paying.
All in all, not a bad experience. I got a decent meal at a bargain price, was reminded of how much I hate Wheel of Fortune, and thought about what constitutes terrific sex for people in their 60’s. You don’t get shit like that in Manhattan.
Well.
Before we continue, you should know that I am a steak expert. Actually, I should clarify that: I am an expert on the steakhouses of Manhattan. Back in the halcyon days of (parts of) 2005, 2006 and 2007 when I was young, rich and single (thus the “rich” part), my friend Nicole and I would go to fancy dinners once a month and just blow it out. We’d alternate – she’d pick and I’d pay, then I’d pick and she’d pay – and we’d eat the shit out of some fine, fine foods. When I picked, I almost always chose steakhouses. So if you name a steakhouse in the city, I’ve been there.
[My favorite? Dylan Prime. A cool atmosphere that’s suitable for both dates and parents, a nice connecting lounge area for pre-dinner drinks, inventive dishes (pork belly tater tots and prosciutto bread pudding are two of my faves), a terrific Manhattan, and a steak that, coupled with the foie gras butter chapeaux, may bring you closer to heaven in life than you’ll ever get in death (in my case, at least).]
So I like going to steakhouses, and was looking forward to eating at one in my new ‘hood.
Well. (Again.)
The decor of Embers was not so much old school, which implies charm and care, as it was dingy, which implies ”we decorated this place thirty years ago and pretty much left it at that.” However, I was not bothered – I typically don’t put much stock in ambiance (food is first and foremost and only) and my date this evening was my goddamned live-in girlfriend, who I more or less stopped trying to impress the minute she said, “So, I’m going on the pill.”
Adding to the decor was the clientele, which consisted of a group of 60-somethings at the bar by the entry who spent most of our dinner screaming at “Wheel of Fortune” and a 60-ish couple who sat nearby and argued the whole time, going from agitated to calm and back and forth and back and forth. Because there was no one in the restaurant, we could hear their whole argument, including when the woman said, “I fucking love the sex with you!” Which is exactly what you want to hear from a 60-something lady Brooklynite before you put 11 oz of meat into you(r belly).
(And I’m not joking here – she actually kinda screamed “I fucking love the sex with you!” in the middle of the restaurant. Was the place dilapidated? Sure. Mostly empty? Yep. But what compels you, as a 60-something woman, to almost scream “I fucking love the sex with you!” in a public place. Stay classy, Bay Ridge.)
I started with the caprese and m’lady got the salad, both of which were in the B/B+ range; the caprese big hunks of mozzarella and fresh tomatoes drizzled with Italian dressing and the salad crisp and fresh. We both got filet mignons, which came with the veggie of the day (broccoli) and about four choices of potato – both of us opted for the potato pie, which was written about positively in reviews. While not so innovative with the sides, I would agree that the potato pie was spectacular – a crusty lump of mashed potatoes, but very moist and with chunks of ham (!!!) in it – and the broccoli was, well, broccoli.
The steak was solid, but unspectacular, better than what I expected when I first walked into the place. Nothing to praise, nothing to complain about. Just steak. (I’m tempted to write that a steak is a like a blowjob – even the worst is pretty good. But I can’t, because there are some terrible, terrible blowjobbers out there, and so that comparison wouldn’t be fair to steaks everywhere, now would it?)
But the best part of the whole meal? Three drinks (total), two apps, two steaks and four sides = $100. The filets themselves were $27 and they included the two sides, whereas a filet at my favorite place (Dylan Prime) is $39, and each side is $9. So it was less than half the price of what I’m used to paying.
All in all, not a bad experience. I got a decent meal at a bargain price, was reminded of how much I hate Wheel of Fortune, and thought about what constitutes terrific sex for people in their 60’s. You don’t get shit like that in Manhattan.
