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What we have here is the classic steakhouse experience. Make your way past the handsome bar to one of the darkly paneled dining rooms, settle into a plush, cozy booth, and kick things off with an icy martini. The peppery lobster bisque is next, followed by a bountiful Caesar and the pièce de resistance: a ridiculously tender filet, T-bone, or ribeye, broiled at 1800 degrees to seal in the savor and succulence and served in a pool of sizzling butter. (Extra butter is available on request.) With it order some juicy portobellos, deliciously cheesy potatoes au gratin, sweet and smoky grilled prawns, and a bottle from the encyclopedic wine list. The lighting is intimate, Sinatra is on the stereo, and on special occasions the staff has been known to strew celebrants' tables with rose petals.
When I travel, I’m a steakhouse guy. I love Ruth’s Chris on the road. San Francisco has a great Ruth’s Chris. I know the GM here. It’s consistent – any time you go to a Ruth’s Chris, you know it’s going to be the same, so you know you’re always going to get a nice piece of steak, great service and great wine. I like to sit in the bar and watch a sporting event.
Loath as I am to admit it, the flesh served up at local legends Harris' and Alfred's, good as it is, isn't up to the cholesterol available at that global consortium known as Ruth's Chris. The New Orleans-based chain offers steaks I once described as "deep-red whipped cream," so hyperbolic was my bliss state. The rich, deeply flavored strips, fillets, rib eyes, and T-bones can literally be cut with a fork; maybe it's the unfortunate animal's corny diet, maybe it's the 1,800 degrees at which... More »
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