The name seems to imply it is a steakhouse bar and when I went there they didn't have any potatoes or bread to go with the steak. I asked the guy what the hell and he didn't know. A $28 steak with no baked tater or steak fries? I didn't think anyone would have the balls to try to sell something like that unless they was in Chicago.
So, in retribution for this affront to my spud sensibilities, I slung a long slick wad of fat/gristle on the floor, drunk me some mexican beer from a dirty glass and watched long island ice tea drinkers kick the 'seared' ball of gristle to and fro as they ambled wildy about searching for their lives in the stepdown bar. After it got kicked and slicked way down past the barroom crowd and around the corner, I couldn't get any more service or meat or beer so I poured the blood/juice ooze from my plate onto the floor but it wasn't slippery and nobody was slipping in it. So I left and drove out over the big bridge and got me a northfield chipotle from the guy with the tattoo.