Luger's

What better way to get over a vengeful rant than a happy visit to the No. 1 Steakhouse in New York City: Peter Luger. Ah yes, blissful salivation! I walk by the place every day and yet, have only eaten there once before, back in 1994 when I was a wet-behind-the-ears summer associate at a law firm downtown. In 1994, Williamsburg was more a drug haven and less a hipster haven. I remember being slightly petrified when I left the restaurant because Broadway looked like a burned out combat zone. Now I live nearby. Go figure.

Luger's is so popular that it took me a friggin' month to get a reservation for dinner tonight. I made the reservation in June, before I went to Hawaii. It was totally worth the wait. For dinner, I split a fantabulous porterhouse with my buddy K.F., along with the best creamed spinach I've ever had in my life, french fried potatoes, and shrimp cocktail. I washed this wonderful melange down with two Amstels from the tap. Way better than Amstel from the bottle, which tastes like water. I sit here completely sated as I write this. Blissfully content. Satisfied.

My only mistake? I got dessert. I've got a bit of a sweet tooth folks, which is (one reason) why I won't be gracing the cover of Men's Health anytime soon. I got it from Dad, who loves chocolate. At the end of a meal, I need something sweet or I can'ts leave. Tonight it was the chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, two huge balls of it, that caught me tummy's attention. That and the bowl of "schlag" that accompanied it. "Schlag" is German for whipped cream. After downing a ball and a half of the choco/choco ice cream and schlag, I realized that if I stuck another spoon of it in my mouth, I was going to explode from the inside out, like that fat guy in the Monty Python movie "The Meaning of Life." Oy kahnt eeet onnutha boyt!!! So I stopped. But it was too late. As soon as I gave my engorged stomach a second to breathe, the extra air combined with the half-digested ice cream/schlag to create a combustible nuclear fusion. The dangerous cocktail mixed and muxed and within seconds, reached critical mass and began to expand inside me. And expand. And expand. I've been home for an hour and it hasn't stopped. Right now my stomach is so distended I look like I should be on a Sally Struthers commercial.

Now you'd think the inside of the best steakhouse in New York would be all fancy schmancy, wouldn't you? Not Luger's. It's barebones. The dining tables are beer hall style, they look almost like wooden cutting boards. The chairs are really flimsy and feel like they're made of balsa. But you don't go to Luger's for the decor, you go for the steak. And just try asking for a menu. I did, and you would have thought I pissed on the waiter's shoes. I think I saw my German friend roll his eyes T.-style. Kudos to you good sir, I thought. I love a good eye-roll. They know what you'll be having, don't bother trying to tell them.

Oh and if you go to Luger's you can leave your American Express card at home. They don't accept it. They also don't take Mastercard, Visa, Diner's Club, or Discover. Here's what they take: (1) Cash and (2) the Peter Luger Credit Card. Yes, you can get yourself a Peter Luger Credit Card to use at Luger's. It's no joke. Not too useful anywhere else though.

All in all a very good night. The cherry on the schlag? I was able to walk home and throw my bloated self down on my sofa within minutes. Sweet.