The Palm is a classic, old fashioned steakhouse. That's all it is. It's not Joe's. It's not Michael's. It's just a boring old steakhouse. You know what, though? It's still pretty awesome.
So, as friends and family know, I have sort of a punctuality problem. A chronic condition is more like it. "Colin," you're saying to yourself, "nice alliteration." Thank you, I agree.
Moo-ving along, my typical tardiness (thank you, again) led my angry dad to call while I was still en route to the restaurant and ask what I wanted to order. I replied that he should just order me whatever it was that he was having. Our friend and business associate, he and I all had the Prime Aged New York Strip. The Empire Steak, if you will. Man, I'm good.
You might be asking yourself "Colin, I mean, uh, whatever my names is, I forget, what makes a steak 'prime' and what's the big deal?"
Well, obviously, any time you have a question that relates to how the USDA designates grades of beef, you go to www.beefgrading.org. Moo, I mean, duh. Prime is the best because it's the most tender steak. It has the highest amount of marbeling (Kobe beef is the most extreme version of this delicious phenomenon, but it's not American. Lots of restaurants will lie to you when they tell you that they are serving it, by the way. True story.) and it is the youngest. These factors combine to create the most enjoyable eating experience. That's awesome assonance, right there. Enough grammatical snobbery.
The steak was perfect. Perfect. No other way to put it. Perfectly cooked to medium rare. Full of flavor. Great texture. We ordered broccoli and french fries as our sides. Also perfect.
Ah, but there is usually something wrong with the dining experience. And here it is. The waiter, the most tan gentleman I have ever seen in my life, like, tanner than Vijay Singh (and kudos to him if he manages to die of old age rather than skin cancer, the waiter, not Vijay) started pushing their stupid loyalty club, and after grabbing the pamphlet, he sat down at the table with us. I don't know if I'm out of line in feeling this way, but I think that that is just about the most obnoxious thing that a waiter can do. If a Hooters girl wants to sit on my lap, who am I to stop her? But that's different. Because of the boobs involved. I think that makes sense. But in general, I think that sitting at the table with us, especially without even asking if we mind, is akin to my getting up and walking into the restaurant kitchen to grab something out of the fridge. Maybe I'm just being a jerk.
I'd like to end on a high note, though. LAAAAAAAAAA. That was corny, sorry. Really, here goes the high note -
is walking distance...
from Dexter's apartment.
*Awesome photo courtesy of Jeffrey P. Boden, as usual.