The Prime Rib
|1701 Locust Street
at the Warwick
Father's Day without steak is not dissimilar to a Memorandum of Law without citations. Why have the former without the latter? Pointless, at best.
There are those fathers who prefer to don a chef's cap, and head for the Acme or SuperFresh to purchase something recently wrapped in cellophane and identified in a refrigerated supermarket line-up. Once pulled from the bin, the reddened culprit is usually grilled with questionable sauces and marinades, sweating and confessing only under trial by fire. The result can be unappealingly tasteless.
There are other fathers who require that their children cook the Father's Day meal, with Pop-acting-as-guest. It's at these repasts that a parent may suddenly learn that (1) one's daughter is still breast-feeding your seven year old grandchild (in front of the serving platter holding the steak), (2) one's son has signed up for a Dream Week Summer Encampment with the World Wrestling Association and/or that (3) one's grandchildren have "adopted" Ridge Avenue as their "highway for cleanup" with you as main sweeper, over July 4th weekend. Stop to rethink the situation.
Do Father's Day the way it should be done, with your gorgeous wife, lovingly remembering that the pet dog died almost a year ago, that the children are kind, generous, grown-up, self-supporting and most graciously in Dallas, Texas and/or Potomac, Maryland.
"I'll drink to that," as I lift my extremely dry martini to click against its twin, held by my spouse of thirty-five years.
"Will pater be having one steak this evening," asks mater adoringly, "or would you prefer a New York Strip and the Prime Rib?"
I hesitate, to fully sip the Absolut, then to inhale the fragrance of the red and white roses on the table, before I reply. "Both, ...to share, darling", I chortle, beginning to salivate and therefore lisp, "And ickshnay the oggieday agbay."
Endearing words like "Poopsie" and "Snugglekins" are exchanged to the sounds of rippling fingers playing softly upon the ivories of a nearby concert hall piano.
The leopard-print wall-to-wall carpeting causes a slight static electric jolt when our fingertips touch. We are once again a supper club couple in the late 'fifties, being pampered by tuxedoed waiters. It's Father's Day at The Prime Rib!
My tush has melded into the buttery tufted black leather of the power seat at table 24, allowing me perfect ken toward headhigh glass mirror panels reflecting arrangements of ponderous floral bouquets. I glance at framed portraits of slim greyhounds bounding and growling at neighboring portraits of women even thinner than they.
The 17oz. N.Y. Strip arrives first, along with three oval plates replete with well-oiled button mushrooms, buttered asparagus and steamed spinach, respectively. The beef looks darkly sullen, almost grizzly and evil with the complexion of a blacksmith. Then the steak knife scores a pink smile from its girth, whereupon hues of chartreuse and coral pinks prevail upon its personality. Cordial juices ooze downward gravitating upon the plate to puddle. Poopsie and Snugglekins groan and giggle.
Ooohs and aaahs are instantly interrupted by the trembling of restive utensils when another waiter approaches the table with the massive roasted prime chop. He holds the plate upon which it rests in two hands. The mere shadow of the rectitudinous marbled marvel erases all the whiteness from the server's starched shirt. The chunk of meat is monstrous, mountainous, megahypertrophic. This rib is ribald.
It's flavor is sultry, with hearty hints (actually rampant rumors) of peppery wine and salted herbs. Cutting thin slices is foolish. The apportionments should be mouth-filling morsels, thick and thorough. Each severed mound melts upon a tongue's touch, as if tantalizing you to refill your mouth before having swallowed.
The mass slowly but surprisingly declines, between silence and grins. Mixing tidbits of tastes of the aforementioned vegetables adds verdant essentials to cut the richness. No meal could be more classy, relaxing and enjoyably elegant.
The pianist senses the Father's Day mood. The melody from "Oh My Papa," can be heard above the other diners' din as we conclude our meal with Chocolate Mousse Pie and coffee. We sing the words of the refrain of the song to each other. Our lips move in concert.
|Copyright 2004 Richard Max Bockol, Esq.||Back|