Don't you hate it when you order a Caesar and mid-way through, after you've enjoyed the croutons and the cheesy bits, you discover a second stratum of Thousand Island dressing? My favorite steak dinner is a moderately sized, rare New York strip, a good Caesar, and a loaded baked potato (or fries if I'm so inclined). "Drinks?" the waiter asked. "Do you have any drink specials?" "No." Quite a definitive responder, this guy. We didn't venture to ask whether that's a final "no" or whether that "no" referred only to this particular night. It was a hair-parting negatory. Michelob Ultra on draft. Low carb beer of course helps justify eating copious amounts of appetizer bread with the whipped buttery substance that accompanies it, although our waiter's first offering of bread was a wire basket containining a solitary heel. That was a restaurant first. I had never been presented the obvious remnants of someone else's bread basket before. Blaine opted for the chopped steak dinner with mash. My salad arrived without ceremony, actually without any words at all. The 7' waiter brought out the little bowl, set it in front of me, and walked away. I was wearing Lagerfeld Jacko that day. Maybe he was allergic. I didn't detect an accent, so there was no language barrier. Did he know about the hidden Thousand Island treasure lurking beneath the surface of my almost anchovie-free salad bowl? Poor pseudo-Caesar. Only nominally Julio-Claudean. The bowl was removed as silently as it was presented. No questions asked. Yeah, he knew. He must have.
The decor here was comfortable. I'd say a cross between the Stanley Hotel and Southfork Ranch. Texas skilodge meets the Shining. Comfortable with a bit of an edge and a good dose of Frank Lloyd Wright.
The menu itself was decent, priced on the high end of moderate. Unfortunately however, at least on this night, price would not at all determine quality. The plates arrived. Blaine's could have been the meat entree from a church basement potluck from the look of things. A simple Salisbury steak topped with a bit of canned mushroom soup and garnished with nothing less than Durkee Fried Onions. No doubt there was a naked green bean cassarole shivering in some darkened corner of the kitchen. Mash from a box, plated with a trowel. Edible, but more credible on a cardboard tri-sectioned buffet plate. My strip was nice, the potato was done up well. Rare was rare. But on top of the steak was a strange milky substance. Logical choice: butter, but not really. It tasted buttery, but wasn't the real McCoy. Whipped butter substance. I really didn't complain about it. It didn't interfer with the taste of my steak. The potluck plate across the table went well. Salty, he said, but ok. Mine: buttery, but ok.
The silent giant cleared the plates and brought the checks. I must confess, his tip from me was about as scant as his vocabulary. And, lest you still be trying inwardly to digest the concept: yes, he actually did bring us a bread heel to start.
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