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For much of the twentieth century, the American steakhouse represented the pinnacle of dining, in luxury and status. In many places, it still is: the best place in town, the only place to celebrate an important occasion or make a deal. Over time, however, in some cities, including New York, the cult of the simple man eating steak has fallen out of favor, replaced by more varied modes of expressive consumption: nouvelle cuisine, chef-designed tasting menus, thousand-dollar omakase, members-only supper clubs. It’s wrong to say that the steakhouse is back, since it never went away, but there’s something in the atmosphere, in the air, in the newspapers, and in the pit of everyone’s stomach. Are the pads going down or up? The trend seems, if not promising, then at least coherent: the rise of the traditional steakhouse, the end of the flu shot, “quiet luxury,” the resurgence of polio, the return of Donald Trump and his preference for, among other dubious things, well-done meat. For a certain kind of person, perhaps weary of calls to expand their horizons or consider experiences beyond their own, the resurgence of the steakhouse, with its familiar social and gastronomic codes forged in the fires of the midcentury middle class—father at the office, mother at the kitchen sink—could be a restoration of proper order, a glorious, carnivorous relief.
Veal chop.
New York has always been a steakhouse city, even when they weren’t at their peak. Evolved from the working-class diners and steakhouses of the Victorian era, the city’s more classic establishments carry their mythologies with the ostentatious pomp of a thick ribeye: Luger, with its surly waiters and Germanic bluntness; Keen’s, with its theatrical history and clay-pipe collection; Delmonico’s, with its decades-long history; Sparks, with its bloodstains on the sidewalk. Newcomers display somewhat more varied identities: 4 Charles, charismatic clubbability; Cote, K-BBQ elegance; Quality Meats, a cacophony of party animals; Carne Mare, Italian luxury. Crane Club, which opened late last year in the soaring space formerly occupied by Mario Batali’s Del Posto, seems to be aiming for a kind of pan-European maximalism. Time and Tide, another new establishment, described itself as a “seafood steakhouse” to consistently mixed results.
Sourse: newyorker.com
