Despite my dedication to 99¢ Whopper Juniors and offal
(delectable, gristly, cheap cuts of meat), steak houses hold an
unparalleled allure for me. When I say steak house, I don’t mean
Sizzler (though I would never say no to that special steak and
all-you-can-eat salad bar dining experience). I’m talking about
real-deal, old-school steak houses—where the waiters
wear bow ties, the tablecloths are made of white linen, the patrons are
mostly old white men, crumbs are scraped off the table with special
steel crumb scrapers, the women are (bizarrely, chivalrously?) escorted
by a waiter to the
restroom, and money is no object. I am talking
about a place like El Gaucho.
I’d never actually eaten at El Gaucho until last week. (I would have
to sell my blood to
afford it.) The primary source of my
fascination with places like El Gaucho—and one of the perks of
restaurant reviewing—is the opportunity to see “how the other
half eats.” While I have no idea who El Gaucho’s regular customers are
(power brokers?), I do know that many regular folks without mansions or
expense accounts empty their wallets at El Gaucho for special-occasion
dinners—birthdays, anniversaries, etc. Is the whole experience
really worth dropping all that hard-earned cash? Honestly, I’m not
sure. The only thing I am sure of, though, is that if I (and my
conscience) could afford to eat El Gaucho’s gorgeous, hefty, succulent,
palate-confounding steaks on a regular basis, I wouldn’t be asking
these questions. I’d be too busy overseeing my empire and stuffing my
face with dry-aged beef I’d gnawed off of giant bones.
Dry-aged steaks are what steak houses like El Gaucho, the
Metropolitan, or Morton’s can offer you that other restaurants or
supermarkets cannot—and they’re the reason you fork over the big
bucks at these places. When beef is dry aged, it hangs in a
refrigerated cooler, at a specific temperature and humidity, for up to
28 days. During this time, moisture evaporates from the meat, creating
a more concentrated beef flavor. Also, enzymes break down the
connective tissue in the muscle and naturally tenderize the meat. My
favorite little detail of dry aging: As the meat ages, a crust “similar
to the texture of beef jerky” forms on the outside; this is later
trimmed off to reveal the tender, moist steak within. The whole process
is obviously not something that can be easily pulled off at home. It
also costs a lot of money—massive cuts of meat are required, as
the dry-aging process, with all that shrinking and trimming, results in
up to a 20 percent loss of weight.
All of this explains why my 16-ounce New York steak—tender and
smooth, cool centered and cooked perfectly medium rare, with a deep,
dark, robust beefy flavor that I’ve never experienced before (nutty?
earthy? grassy? it sits on my tongue but still eludes me)—cost
$62. It also explains why my date’s 18-ounce rib chop, a fattier cut
with all kinds of succulent marbling and a luscious lip of fat that
sang in an unprecedented, downright juicy, booming voice in the key of
Beef, cost $54. These steaks, cooked on a 1,500-degree grill, our
waiter proudly informed us, are ridiculously expensive, but holy hell,
do they taste worth it.
But here’s what’s not worth it at El Gaucho: everything else. A
Gaucho salad with Roquefort dressing and shrimp ($9.50) was watery,
with the saddest, mealiest
tomato winter has ever known. As our
waiter wheeled in our salad on a cart and tossed it tableside, my heart
sank as I noticed at least 12 Latino cooks, all wearing hats and red
kerchiefs around their necks, crammed into the tiny open kitchen,
laboring next to that 1,500-degree grill. Did they toss things
tableside for show, or simply because there’s no room in that inferno
of a kitchen? Lobster mashed potatoes, ordered because they seemed
appropriately novel and decadent enough, were tasty, with a gravy made
of a true, potent lobster stock, but I still can’t figure out how those
ingredients could possibly add up to $21.
On the drive home, I realized that I never did see exactly how the
other half eats—or exactly what my steak looked like. El Gaucho
is maddeningly dark inside. Occasionally I wondered if my date could
even see me across the table, as I was convinced I could only see him
because he is white and was wearing a white shirt. El Gaucho is a
giant, dark box—square, no overhead lights, with mirrors lining
the walls. It feels like a set, a facade erected entirely for
show—the waiters perform and the only real substance lies in the
steak. And while those steaks may be worth every penny on their own, no
one should leave a $200 meal feeling ambivalent. 
