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| - They bring you a brick-sized chunk of lava, at a blistering 750 degrees, with a scattering of salt. On it: a steak.
You cut it up, and you're in for the busiest meal of your life. Because maybe you've eaten at The Melting Pot, but that shit is training wheels. It doesn't matter how long you leave some bit of chicken bobbing in that heated broth; you can't overcook it. Sure, have a leisurely conversation, go to the bathroom, run for President - by the time you get back, that chicken's just perfect and moist.
Whereas that stone? It's like they dropped the heart of the sun onto your plate. You put a chunk of meat on that sticky, sizzling brick, make some amusing bon mot to your companion, and by the time you get back it's this leathery strip of burned protein, curled up at the edges like a dead spider.
So you must COOK! COOK FOR YOUR LIFE! There is no time to waste, you laggard flaneur! Put the piece of meat on the supernova, tug its seared flesh off, flip it over, and perhaps - PERHAPS - you might have a piece of meat called, laughingly, medium-rare.
Do you choose to drink? Do it between bites, you thirsty slacker. Jack Bauer is yelling "THERE'S NO TIME!" in your ear. The meat! The meat is becoming coal! Speed up! EAT! COOK! LIVE!
Oh, Steak on a Stone, you are so living on the edge.
Steak on a Stone is a place of mystery. Why do they give you such aggressive sauces to dip your steak in when the meat is perfectly good on its own? Why is there a full-out greek menu along with the steak on that stone? Why are there two grammatical errors proudly displayed on the cover of the menu? How many third-degree burns do people incur here in the course of a month?
People say the atmosphere of Steak on a Stone is a little run-down. It is not. If you recognize Steak on a Stone what it is, which is essentially a Chuck-E-Cheese for grownups. Is it overpriced? Yes. Is it a little saturated with, shall we say, the frommage? It is.
Is it fun as all hell when your waiter sends a fireball into the air, yells "OPA!" and plunks a plateful of burning cheese down on your table? Yes. Yes, it is.
You will be occupied during the meal. Maybe you were foolish enough to think that at a restaurant, people are supposed to cook for you. No. Here, you will toil upon the salted bricks, slicing and maneuvering and deftly avoiding permanent scarring from the nuclear furnace sitting directly over your lap, AND YOU WILL LEARN TO LOVE IT.
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