My Favorite Animal is Steak

My, how my vegetarianism has lapsed.

A few of my cohorts had yet to make the pilgrimage to what might be the best-known corner of Brooklyn: Peter Luger. I put it on my hit-list of farewell to-dos. It was decided that another day would not pass without a visit.



Well, actually two weeks went until the idea was brought to fruition since reservations are hard to come by. Make them in advance.



I prepared myself for days beforehand, subsisting on a diet of salad and yogurt and fruit to ready myself. I pushed my routine doctor's checkup back a couple weeks so she wouldn't be drawing a pure cholesterol substance from my veins.



The place is as genuine and old-school as it gets. It's a bit Germanic in decor- it reminds me of a cozy Bavarian beer house. Before Williamsburg was filled with hipsters, Hasidim and Latinos, it was the first stop for German immigrants. Luger's only accepts cash or house credit, their waiters and bartenders are quicker with a quip than you will ever be, and if you are truly a regular you don't ask to see a menu.



The menu is short and to the point. There is steak- mainly they do a good job of pushing their poterhouse. The only questions to be filled is how do you like it cooked and how big of a steak do you think you could eat. This isn't the place to go if you want to try new, inventive cuisine or sides of fancy mushrooms. You get fries or baked potato and creamed spinach. Maybe a Caesar salad if you feel especially virtuous. They stick to what they do, and they don't mess around.

Oh, and they are famous for their thick-cut bacon.



You buy it per the slice, and it's hefty and salty and so fatty it dissolves in your mouth. I am loathe to associate sin with food, but really now. If I'm going to be bad, I'm going to be very, very bad.



The steak arrives pre-sliced on a platter, which they place on the table with one side propped up on a saucer so the juices can be spooned off. Juices being primarily butter. The steaks have a good, thick crust of charred butter and seasoning, and they are meltingly tender. Ours was ordered rare, and it was still a little cold in the center. Although we were Four, we ordered the porterhouse for Three. It was more than enough. I couldn't just let the T-bones alone and ended up daintily nibbling on them for a half hour. Daintily, yes. How I got meat-grease in my hair was beyond me.

It was damn good steak. I've had more flavorful cuts, but they really have a reliable system of perfection. This almost reminded me of tuna sashimi in texture.

They have an extensive desert menu, but I just beseeched for berries and I got them, along with a bowl of their house-whipped cream.



You even get a little gold metal at the end. Hooray for you!



Afterward, I insisted a walk across the Williamsburg Bridge and back into Manhattan. I was pretty sure I'd never be able to walk again, but I surprised myself. Willpower is an amazing thing.



The way NYC mass transit is set up, we would have a hard time getting from Williamsburg to where we live in the south of Brooklyn. You have to go back through Manhattan regardless. It's normally a huge pain in the ass, but after an intense bout of eating, it was a brilliant walk over the bridge and across the Lower East Side. I think I lied a bit when I told everyone, "it's just a mile or so", but it's more like two and a half miles. I relished every second of it. Mmmmmm relish...