When I write my memoirs there will be several chapters about this steak.
Let me set the scene:
I'm on a train, the guy I'm travelling with is sat diagonally opposite me on one of those little tables you get on such methods of transportation. So, there are two strangers making up a wholesome foursome (the third guy we were having to catch the train with was somewhere further down the carriage). At a certain point I decide to go and investigate what exciting beverages might be available (as careful readers may know, sampling drinks is a hobby of mine - especially ones that you can't find in the UK). Being the polite young gentleman I am, I asked my travelling companion if he fancied anything.
So I returned with a Coke and a Sierra Mist (a drink I had never even heard of before). Having heard our accents, the nice young lady sitting with us had started up a conversation with my friend. She also informed me that Sierra Mist is essentially lemonade, which was a bit of a blow. Anyhow, she was actually from Boston (where this train was heading) having been in New York for Thanksgiving (or Practice Christmas if I am feeling
faecitious) and so gave us a hearty list of recommendations for things to see and do (chiefly places to eat, which is what really matters when you can claim meals back on delicious expense accounts - assuming you don't lose all your receipts that is).
We wanted steak. And our new best friend provided two choices. The Capital Grill or the something-else-who-cares. That very night, upon arriving in Boston, the two of us set out searching for meat. And meat we found.
Upon arrival, somebody started helping me with my coat and we suddenly realised that this was a slightly fancier place than we were planning on going to (luckily we were both clad in things other than jeans and t-shirt). Still, it was too late to retreat, and we weren't paying. And I wanted a steak. We were taken to our table through a vast labyrinth of people having good times with various cuts of cow (including some eating on small
tablecloths at the bar for some reason). Together in our cosy little room at the far side of the restaurant, we were greeted by a waiter who appeared to be in love with his job, or possibly just beef. He spoke at length about the exciting local beers he could offer us, the differences between the cuts of meat, the side dishes and the bread on offer today.
Now, this being, as I said, a rather fancy place to dine, the prices were not cheap. It was $40 for a steak and $9 for the chips. This was sirloin, the sirloin pictured. You can see the chips in the background. Those chips had been fried in a method which somehow involved white truffle oil. I asked for my steak medium-rare and by George that was how it arrived. Just writing this makes me hunger.
There was very little chat during the meal. Instead there were expressions of
unparalleled ecstasy. I say this without hyperbole. A couple sat on a table nearby, and when asked what they would like, the female half of the two simply pointed to me and said she wanted whatever was making me so complete. She was entirely right to do so (well, her "challenged" boyfriend then ordered macaroni cheese as a shared side, so it wasn't entirely a flawless meal for them, but they did their best).
This was now several months ago and I still think about that amazing steak. If you are ever in Boston then you have to go here, it's close to the
Hyne's metro station at the end of the road
with all the shops. A road which should be called Capital Grill Road.
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