STK: DCHBGS, SLTS, STPD
Last night, Gridskipper and friend braved the Hugo Boss-wearing meatheads and a forest of anemic rail-thin models to attend a press dinner at the new steakhouse STK in the Meatpacking District. Admittedly, we had a bias from the outset. Not only is the sprawling club/lounge restaurant located in the anus of NY (Meatpacking District) but it is, apparently, too sexy, or sophisticated or cheap to include vowels in their name, thus joining the ranks of SLVR, CRV, RAZR, FLICKR, RBK in vowel-hating inanity. On the other hand, the meal was free and the PR woman so earnest, I was ready to give the place a fair shake.
A petite hostess led us to the far back corner, a vantage point from which we were able to look out at the sea of semi-circle booths and low hanging globular lamps. The menu came wrapped in a python's worth of snake skin and the cocktail menu a slightly lesser serpent's worth. We ordered cocktails (Prohibition Punch and some other fruity drink); a tomato and watermelon salad and crab salad to start. The steaks (or stks) come in small, medium and large division. There's also a variety of non-steakal matter. Our +1 had the beef shortribs while I steered toward the strip steak.
The food, as restaurant designer Lionel Ohayan explained to me, is just a small part of the experience and, unfortunately, it shows. Maybe we're too Project Runway obsessed but the menu reminded us of Kayne Gillespies creations, the edible equivalent of a figure skating outfit. Flashy, eager-to-impress, showy, upon closer inspection the dishes falter in terms of craftsmanship and balance. The tomato, watermelon and goat cheese salad was overpowered by a lemon truffle dressing; the tender jumbo lump crab was bullied by the kefir lime it came with. Thankfully, fucking up steak is difficult to do. My skirt steak was juicy and perfectly cooked and the short ribs were tender and flavorful. Our parmesan truffle fries which came in a log cabin-esque tower, one would think easy to pull off, were starchy and bland, with a couple of shakes of dried out parmesan powder on top and no discernable truffle. Our other side, sweet corn pudding, a sort of creme brulee of corn, butter and creme was delicious, probably the best item on the menu but again, no match for the real deal at Midtown's Quality Meats, a restaurant that does what STK attempts well.
As our waitress tried to tempt us to sample the Strawberry Cosmopolitan dessert, a martini glass with gelee, strawberry and some sugar on the rim, one couldn't help but picture how many cocaine-fueled couplings would result from a meal at STK. Drunk on the flash and cocktails, intoxicated by the "sexy vibe," hypnotized by the sophisticated sounding menu, how many hairy-backed shmucks would mount Midtown floozies later in the night in their Jersey City condos? One could almost smell the the commingling odors of sex, meat, cologne, and sweat emanating from the kitchen. We passed on dessert, our appetites long gone.
Previously: Blackspot NYC: Meatpacking District, Expedition Dispatched to Meatpacking District Mystery Bar, Gansevoort Spawning, Meatpacking District Gets Gawkerized
