Steakhouse Blues: The Dance of Dinner

Morton's The Steakhouse
1050 Connecticut Avenue
Washington, DC 20036
202-955-5997

There comes a point every once in a while in a man’s life that he craves, and must have, a good steak prepared by hands other than his and served to him with the proper deference, pomp and circumstance. This, and tobacco executives, are the reasons why steakhouses flourish. For some these occasions present, nay, enforce themselves, once in a blue moon; for myself I find that they come to me but once every three weeks. Last night I went for a steak dinner with my dear friend Jeff and it was everything i thought it could be, and more.

First of all, we walk into the steakhouse and it is right out of a movie. Wood trim, dim lighting, off-white walls and old-school ostentation – one almost expects to lay eyes on a grand fireplace and many leather-bound books on the mantle above it. An old, distinguished gentleman is our host, and he walks us into a room full of older and more distinguished gentlemen. There is a table of secret service agents to our right and a big table of important-looking people next to them. On second thought, all the people in the room look important. The men are wearing dark suits or navy blue blazers and shirts with French cuffs and have their ties loosened just a little for that five o'clock effect. The women (all five of them) look distinctly uncomfortable. There is glass clinking and the occasional hearty laughter, and just as we are sitting down an Italian-looking gentleman at another table with a shock of silvery hair and piercing blue eyes exclaims "Porco miseria!” and our journey is complete. We have stepped through the looking glass.

There is little we can do in a setting like this but go all out. The menu is far from eclectic – predictable, even – but that suits us just fine. We order pre-dinner scotches, a soup and a salad, a nice big haunch of medium-rare beef each, a bottle of Argentine Malbec, and sides of wild mushrooms, spinach and potatoes. The service, I must admit, is impeccable. Our waitress was pleasant, knowledgeable and graceful beyond measure. The sommelier poured the wine expertly and kept conversation to an efficient minimum. The server kept us waiting just long enough after our soup and salad to bring out our steaks, and did not seem to mind that we were staring at the beef too much to pay her any attention. I had a 14 oz double-cut filet mignon served as is, salted and peppered and grilled medium-rare - simple, but as the French say, comme il faut. The centre was delightfully warm and gloriously pink, and the meat was as tender as the lovemaking on a wedding night.

I love conversations at dinner. You always start out with the pleasantries over your appetisers, the joking, the banter, like two dancers paired for the first time and each eager to show off their moves, both together but each dancing alone. Then the wine arrives and you get more relaxed; they take away our appetisers and you start having real conversation, sharing histories, really connecting. Then the meat comes and all conversation dies, but with good cause. The man who eats a steak and does not have it consume him along with all his energies, is one who is not enjoying his steak to the fullest.

But then they take your plates away at the end of the meal and you have all this wine left and you look into each others' eyes and really start talking. Lives and loves, feelings and emotions, hopes and dreams. And secrets - deep, dark secrets. If you are lucky enough to be able to stay, the restaurant starts clearing out and it quiets down, thrusting your conversation front and centre. Every giggle, every exclamation sounds truer, and does not dissolve into the background noise. The choreography of the dinner game is age-old, and it is how you know you are with true friends - when no moves are forced, each gambit is anticipated; like Pedro Romero leading the bull slowly, gracefully, but inexorably to the eventual slaughter.

(cf: The Sun Also Rises - "You kill your friends?" "Always. So they don't kill me first.")

The best part of it all? The bill came to such and such a ridiculous amount, and so we gave our waitress the $100 gift certificate that I had with me, as well as our credit cards to split the remainder of the bill. She came back with a knowing smile, bless her heart, and said that there was no balance and that she therefore did not charge our cards. It did not occur to us to question how or why, but we left her a huge tip and got out of there as quickly as we could. Which, given our condition after a heavy meal, was not very quickly at all.