The Temple of Meat

Last week we went out for an oft-delayed "holiday" dinner hosted by one of our vendors, and we found ourselves in a midtown church of the carnivore called Del Frisco's.

It's been a long time since I've been in a place that pays homage to the big swinging dickery of the testosterone-heavy half of the population, and I honestly thought that places like this had become some kind of anachronism. I guess since I have spent the last few years actively avoiding hanging out with the kind of guys who populated the tables here, I guess I made the mistaken assumption that they didn't really exist anymore. Let me tell you, the bloated white-collar tick is alive and well in midtown Manhattan, and is no more likeable than he was in 1988. So homo-testosteroney was the atmosphere in this restaurant that I thought they would stage a circle-jerk when Rudolph Giuliani walked in. The 18-inch necks at the next table looked like dogs ready to pee in place when he came up the stairs. For the record, Rudy is shorter than I thought, and as a Bensonhurst-reared co-worker responded, "What did you expect? He's ITALIAN."

The other notable feature of the patrons of the restaurant was their dates -- every single one of them clearly bought and paid for. Whether or not any one of these chicks could carry on a conversation was obviously beside the point; what was more important was whether or not they could stand upright while carrying their remarkable pairs of aftermarket boobs. Along with free-market secondary sex attributes, you saw a lot of ash-blonde frost'n'tip dye jobs in a shade I like to call "Atlanta Blonde."

Now, on to the food. I have no complaints about a single thing that hit our table; honestly, it was one of the best steaks I've ever eaten (and I've eaten in pretty much every steak house in NYC). The service was amazing, and our little waiter, Matt, was so adorable I wanted to put him in my pocket and take him home. I guess if you are a waiter in a restaurant where the tab on a table of 10 people must come close to 3G's, the prospect of a 15-20% tip on such a tab pretty much guarantees that you'll give great service. Those must be the most coveted waitering jobs in Manhattan.

All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable evening, but not one that I ever want to pay for with my own money...I'll happily let someone else's expense account pay for it!