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  • I'm pretty sore this morning, from kicking myself last night for ever letting myself get hornswoggled into going to this Longhorn. Here's how it played out: It was the Birthday-Eve kickoff dinner for Birthday Weekend for my wife; my daughter knew that our last visit to a Longhorn pleased the Birthday Girl so wanted to go there, again. I really considered pulling rank and driving, instead, to Clearview, where the meal, service and evening are guaranteed to be a success. Went a bit early, as we still had an entire weekend of festivities ahead and needed to pace ourselves. Still, at five-thirty the place was nearly full, and the service was already in the weeds. You can just tell when you walk in if there's an issue "on the floor," by the nervous eyes of the hostess, the sudden, jerky moves of the wait staff, and the overall pall of desperation on the diners' faces. Uh-oh. The gals both had versions of salmon, but I felt as long as the place has "steak" in their name perhaps I should give steak a shot. My last two Longhorn visits, once here, once at one up north, the steaks were pretty good. So, a smaller cut of prime rib, medium rare. (They spell out on the menu their definitions of done-ness, and medium rare is the only way I've ever seen prime rib. Does anyone say, "Oh, make sure it is black, no pink at all?") Mine arrived, and it was done just as the menu described: "Warm, but pink." Uh. No steak knife? The staff were doing that Ms. Pac Man stutter-step, trying to get the wheels back under the train. So, while waiting five minutes for a steak knife, I gamely tried cutting with my bread knife. That wasn't gonna happen. Nor was it gonna happen with a sharper instrument. I tried to cut it, I tried to eat it, I considered asking for a doggy bag, but I love Roscoe too much to subject him to TMJ. It was, in all my born days, the worst cut of meat I've ever had on a plate. (Because of the daughter's earnest attempt to make this a special night, I quietly chose a few tumblers of Glenfiddich in lieu of actually eating a meal.) Horrible. Hundred bucks, poured down a rat hole. There really was no excuse for that meat to make it from the kitchen to my plate. None. Stay far, far away.
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