Blog is the New Blog

Well, here's the blog. It's ready for your delectation.

Any stories?

I got a few.

I was in a steakhouse--Ruth's Chris steakhouse, actually--where they cook the steaks with butter. Sizzling hot butter. (You can even get extra butter.)

And it's not cheap. This is not a cheap place. It's a New York City steakhouse. It's far more expensive than any of you could afford.

I was there with my lady, by the way, and we were enjoying each other's company. The lighting was low, the furnishings were sleek and unintrusive, and the waiter was a male gay.

Then the manager came up to us and asked us how we liked the food.

One thing odd about the manager: whereas every employee there was dressed in a tidy black and white, the manager was a tad unkempt, barbigerous, and bedecked in a tweed jacket. He had a big smile on his face, though, because he knew what m'lady and I were tucking into: steako delicioso.

Tweed: How are you enjoying everything?

His voice was a rich, full-bodied bass.

Me: Oh, it's delicious!

The lady nodded silently in agreement.

Tweed: I'm glad to hear it.
Me: Listen, I've been having a dispute with this one over here (pointing to lady). She thinks the ribeye is the best steak. I think both the New York Strip and the Filet Mignon is better.* So I want to know, what do you, an acknowledged steak expert, think?
Tweed: The best steak here is the cowboy ribeye. No question.
Me: Dammit!
Tweed: If you like the filet and the strip, though, you should get a porterhouse.
Me: You know, I've gotten porterhouses before, and for some reason they just don't taste as good to me as either the filet or the strip by itself.
Tweed: Ah, that would be because the flavor of the marrow mixes with the meat.
Me: That bullshit marrow!
Tweed: Ha ha, yes. Enjoy your meal, folks.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the man in tweed had absolutely nothing to do with the workings of the restaurant. As the waiter later told us, that man is just a Ruth's Chris fan who goes from table to table talking to people about the steak. In fact, the waiter was under the impression that he wrote for Saturday Night Live and liked to talk to people at the tables to get material for his jokes.

Moreover, at lunchtime, the whole restaurant is filled with crackpots like Tweed. There's a real blue-haired brigade that takes the place over, each one checking up on each other, making sure they're enjoying the steak. Really weird.

I was stunned, first, that Ruth's Chris runs their ship like this. But okay, they're like a little anarchy. Second, my lady was silent during my whole conversation with Tweed because she had only one thought the entire time: "Who the fuck is this guy?"

See, when I see tweed, I think "professor", and when I think professor, I think: "better than everyone else", so I thought: "must listen to him". She saw tweed and she thought: "bad fashion sense."

Second, I was relieved. It turns out that ribeye is not the best steak, but rather the steak favored by a lunatic.

All is right with the world.

*--Notice how my steaks are capitalized and hers aren't? That's because they're better.