A walk down memory lane: Ray's The Steaks

Ray's The Steaks
1725 Arlington Boulevard (at N Quinn)
Arlington, VA 22209
703-841-7297

For my last year or so in DC I was part of an informal association – an invitation-only club that met once a month and still does to this day, only now without me. We called ourselves the Scotch Club, formed as a male-only retaliation to a female-only book club that a friend of ours had set up. We would get together to drink Scotch and compare our tasting notes, but in reality few of us knew anything about the drink, and some even despised it. But we all liked one another, and so Scotch Club became a symbol greater than the drink we celebrated – a symbol of good times, with good friends, living large in the nation’s capital. More than anything it was an experiment in the social nature of man and his proclivity for forming associations and institutions – to make the days and the nights of this passing life a little less lonesome and a little more bearable.

Once a quarter we would organise an outing, be it a scotch tasting event or a trip to Shelley’s Back Room for a good cigar. Sometimes these outings involved scotch, and sometimes they didn’t. One of these outings was so nice, we had to do it twice: making the pilgrimage across the Potomac to Arlington, VA and a restaurant called Ray’s the Steaks for a nice, thick, juicy cut of beef. Scotch, stogies and steak: at the risk of sounding chauvinistic – those form perhaps the Holy Trinity of masculinity. Of course, a mention is also due to the fourth and more unsavoury cousin – strip clubs.

I have always believed that the meat that you can get at steakhouses is far superior to the meat available to the common consumer because restaurateurs (especially the national chains) usually get first dibs on the good, USDA Prime beef. They have access to better distribution channels, and their sheer demand gives them leverage with the top cattle growers both in and out of the United States. It is the sole reason I still go to steakhouses, for I think I can make a pretty damn good steak by myself at home. But because the meat I have to work with was never as good as that which I could get by eating out, I had to go to the Palm, or Morton’s, or Smith & Wollensky. I never really liked Ruth’s Chris, and the Capital Grille was mediocre at best. All that was, of course, before I went to Ray’s the Steaks.

There are many things you have to put up with if you want to eat at Ray’s the Steaks. Foremost and perhaps most annoying, the restaurant does not take reservations. This means that you have to show up the day of, and either hope you are lucky enough to be able to walk in and get a table, or drop by at least two hours in advance to put your name down. My annoyance at this policy abated a little when I found out that this was designed to make things easier for the people living in the immediate vicinity, and to preserve the “local restaurant” flavour of Ray’s. Still, it is rather annoying.

In addition, Ray’s is a no frills, mom-and-pop restaurant. There are no white tablecloths; there are no large Burgundy wine glasses. The décor is nothing to shout about – the walls are painted an unmemorable off-white and are unadorned of any art or artifice. It reminds one of a high school cafeteria, or even a homestyle local eatery in the Jersey suburbs. It is even located in a strip mall. The service is brusque and the waitresses move quickly but surely – focused more on their own efficiency rather than your general comfort. The wine list is sparse but filled with very drinkable wines for very reasonable prices.

If you can put up with all that, then your reward is one of the best steaks I have ever had the fortune of eating, and all the complimentary mashed potatoes and creamed spinach you can stuff your face with. Ray’s ages, cuts and trims all their steaks on-site – and the result is a large, thick-cut, juicy and well marbled corn-fed piece of beef, grilled however you want it and served with whatever sauce you choose. I had the filet, with a peppercorn sauce that was as tart as brandy and as smooth as heavy cream – a sinful but savoury accompaniment to what was a succulent steak.


There are also several nods to the good old days – before nutritionists had their say – when people did not just have seconds or thirds for dinner, but second and third dinners in one sitting. I thought my filet was already a huge hunk of meat, but at Ray's you can also get the "Cowboy Cut" – a 28-ounce bone-in ribeye – or the Chateaubriand – center cut toploin sliced and served with onions, mushrooms and asparagus. The latter is advertised as a meal for two, but originated as a cut for one person – the author and diplomat who served Napoleon and Louis XVIII, from whom it takes its name. They really knew how to eat in those days. I sometimes wonder if I would trade another five years of life expectancy, for the ability (or blissful ignorance) to make stupid decisions or eat and drink to wanton excess. It’s a toughie, that one.

I think I might despise people who eat their meat well-done even more than I despise vegetarians. At least vegetarians have morals. People who eat meat well-done on the other hand, should not be allowed anywhere near the scarce supply of good beef available to the rest of us, and should be refused entry at any self-respecting steakhouse.

I liked my dinner at Ray’s because I was with good company, but also because of the acceptance that the dinner was not going to be about the service, or the wine, or anything else but the steak. Even the bread and the sides, though solid, were mere distractions. You come to Ray’s because you crave sinking your teeth into a pink and juicy slice of meat, charred on the outside but barely warm on the inside. Accepting that it is all about the meat allows you to focus solely on the enjoyment of that particular experience, and it was not unexpected that conversation came to an abrupt halt once our steaks had arrived. For several minutes there were only the sounds of cutlery clinking on plates and the low, gruff, moans of satisfaction only a steak can elicit.

Ray’s the Steaks has now expanded beyond its modest mom-and-pop beginnings: there are multiple locations, a retail arm, and a burger joint just down the street. I do not know what this means for the Rosslyn location. I do hope, for all our sakes, that it preserves what has made it so unique in the past – a dedication to the local community and the ideals of nourishment over artifice, and not least of all, putting good steaks on the plates of its diners.




Photographs courtesy of Brian T. Hege

Less is More

One of my favorite food websites is Savory Cities: New York. It features brief (2 min.) videos in which well known chefs or restaurateurs talk about the concepts behind their food and their restaurants in general. I love the website, it's fantastic, but there is one thing that cracks me up about those videos. Every chef says in his or her voice over: "I'm all about showcasing ingredients, I think that the ingredients should speak for themselves and that less should be done with them."

Meanwhile, the camera pans to plates that are unrecognizable as food... How are these guys doing "so little" to their food and still making it look like it came from another planet?

Jason and I have discussed how our cuisines (if we want to be pretentious enough to call it that) have changed over the years... For myself I would say that a number of things have changed.

For one thing my palette had become much more attuned to salt. I love salt. Love it. I find that an under seasoned dish always fails to excite me, even when I've adjusted it myself. The best restaurants nail this spot on. Some others, such as Otto (where the food was inedibly salty) and Flatbush Farm (where the trout I had was bland) highlight the intense difference that this single ingredient makes.
Another thing that has changed is my interest in variety meats and odd fish. Menu items that get me worked up: cheeks (fish, pig, cow), bacalhau in any form, tongue (beef, pork, or duck), headcheese, liver (duck, chicken, calf, pork), tripe, kidneys, etc. I always want to see how some chef (or immigrant from wherever) makes these things taste good.
Thirdly, my cuisine really has become (I think) rather restrained, a more bare bones style. Protein, vegetables, and a little sauce. Less really is more. Particularly if you are cooking with intense, interesting meats, it is very easy to do too much to them. I want my food to look and taste delicious and I want it to be recognizable as what it is. I was feeling pretty flush yesterday so I bought a 2" hand-cut sirloin steak from A&S Pork Store in Park Slope (here's a link to make you want to cry.) It came out to about a pound and a half of steak deliciousness. I prepared this glorious hunk of beef au poivre, with a dollop of herb butter. I served it with simple roasted vegetables: potatoes, tomatoes, red onions, as well as a radicchio and arugula salad, dressed with lemon juice and olive oil. I put a lot of love into this, and it came out better than I had hoped. Simple flavors, very little sauce: the bounty of summer plus a giant piece of meat.

Food porn

I made a steak recently and the sight of it stirred my loins. It was pretty much textbook - charred brown exterior and a warm, pink center. I had to get a picture of it and all I had was the camera on my phone.

This is how it looked after plating.

The secret to scrambled eggs is to cook them in a saucepan over low heat, gently beating them as you go, and removing them from heat ever so often. There is a video on Youtube of Gordon Ramsay making these (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1SM73Qi1BQ) for breakfast. I typically add a little cream but otherwise do it the same way he does. The result is scrambled eggs just the way I like them: just a little runny, soft to the bite and meltingly delicious.

Tuna! Sup, Tuna. Gonna have some tuna for dinner? I bet you're sick of Tuna, right? Probably have Tuna every night. Tuna!

Stuff wrapped in stuff wrapped in stuff

So I made some hors d'oeuvres last night for a dinner party and this particular one got rave reviews. I really did like it myself – I thought the blend of sweet and savoury was excellent - you get hit by the sweetness of the dates and the spiciness of the chimichurri when you first bite into it, which then transitions seamlessly to the flavour of the meat, complemented by the sharpness of the cheese. It is almost as if the flavours know exactly when to make their entrance, and who to make it with - like an elaborately chereographed dance in your mouth. What made it even better was that I had made these hors d’oeuvres for a wine-tasting party, where I got to sample 8 of the finest wines that France, Italy and California had to offer. Among these was an ’81 Haut Brion – a wine as old as I am, and a wine that made music on my tongue. It was, all in all, a wonderful experience. But then again, anything that is stuffed with anything that is stuffed with anything is usually good - which is why I am sure that I will be a huge fan of turducken when I do eventually have the good fortune to try it.

Steak-wrapped dates
15-20 dates, pitted
one 14-16oz cut sirloin
1/3 cup shavings of Manchego (I used Manchego which worked well but I think there has to be some other cheese that would work better. I would not use complicated or strong flavours like goat cheese or blue cheese, but otherwise – the kitchen is your canvas.)

Basic chimichurri:
shitload of olive oil
salt & pepper
garlic, minced
paprika
cayenne
fresh lemon juice
parsley (if you have cilantro, throw a little in there as well, but parsley works best)
red wine vinegar
***note: I am very protective of my chimichurri recipe, which explains the lack of quantities in this recipe and the fact that I have left out my secret ingredient which wild horses could not drag out of me. I am of the opinion that chimichurri is a highly personalised thing – much like ragu is for Italian housewives – and that everyone should have their own way of making it. This basic recipe will serve its purpose.

preheat oven to 325.

To make the chimichurri, take the olive oil and mix in garlic, cayenne, paprika, parsley and cilantro. I do not own a food processor and every time I feel inclined to purchase one, the words of MFK Fisher ring in my mind, “If it is choppable – chop it.” A mortar and pestle, and a simple mixing bowl, will serve you just as well in almost any circumstance. If you have a food processor, go ahead and blend those ingredients – adding salt and pepper to taste. Stir in the lemon juice and red wine vinegar slowly while whisking and you should get a murky emulsion with a deep fiery tang of red from the paprika and red wine. Just looking at this sometimes makes me want to touch myself. Then marinate the meat in the chimichurri, reserving some for a dipping sauce, while you prepare the dates.

Now if you don't have pitted dates clearly you are going to have to do that yourself - a fork or similar facsimile should work fine. Stuff the cheese into the dates and roast in the oven at 325 for roughly ten to fifteen minutes.

While the dates are roasting, sear the steak in a buttered grill pan, to the desired level of charredness. Stick it in the oven to finish off but you should be looking to cook it medium-rare to medium. Once the steak is done, slice into thin strips. Wrap the individual strips of beef around the dates and stick a toothpick through them. Serve with the chimichurri that you have set aside. Do not serve the sauce that you used to marinate the beef – that is simply unsanitary.

So there you go, this one's a keeper.

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.