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| - Sometimes a special occasion just calls for a giant hunk of meat.
In fact, I will call for a giant hunk of meat right now.
"Meat?" "Meat!" "MMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT!!!!!!!"
That's what dining at Morton's is like. An unabashed opportunity to set loose your inner carnivore, in hopes of decimating some hapless steer that wandered too close to the stun gun.
Portions are huge. Rational people would share the rib or fillet one per table. I see the place as a challenge to my very manhood; a bloody gauntlet thrown to the floor, then picked up and used to wipe away the Meat-Sweat to follow.
Beware, the wait staff are worse enablers than family members who crash the Pasadena Recovery Centre on "Celebrity Rehab".
They ply you with expensive liquor, and set before you a whole onion bread and slab of butter. You attack the bread with a viciously serrated wood-handled knife, and slather it with animal fat (i.e. butter). You wolf it down before the waiter, now smirking, comes back to take your order. You barely look up from the oniony, poppy-seedsed crumbs, wipe the butter from your jowls and command the onion soup, the platter of hot seafoods, or if you want to be laughed at, a salad.
The onion soup is a flaming cauldron of cheese set atop a thick crouton. It's pleasant, but oddly light-one suspects it's made with chicken stock (which is odd, considering the sheer number of beef carcasses that must roll through the place). The onions are also slightly underdone. The cheese is well-blistered, but the whole thing feels half-baked.
The hot seafood platter is better executed, but shared between two people it only serves to whet the appetite. Oysters rockefeller are the highlight, mainly because of the creamed spinach involved. I loves me some creamed spinach.
Enough of this silliness, you want to say. BRING ME MEAT!!!
And they do; massive cuts of cornfed US Prime, which blows its pale Alberta cousins out of the pasture. This is manly beef. The kind of beef that, were it to encounter you on a beach, clad in its fashionable speedos, with a large-uddered cow on it's arm, would kick sand in your face with its dainty hooves. It is a beefgasm.
Sides would be a waste of belly space, if they weren't so good. Giant tempura onion rings are a meal in themselves. Cottage fried potatoes lie somewhere between mythic hashbrowns and Rosti's butch cousin from the wrong side of the tracks. Fat and juicy asparagus benefit from an application of hollandaise (because God knows you need more fat in this meal). Creamed spinach deserves it's own restaurant, it's that damn good. Vibrant green, freshly chopped and laden with garlic, I praise it.
If you have room for dessert or coffee--no, if you can finish your plate, you must have a tapeworm. Go to the doctor. Now.
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