Beefeater is no longer just a gin named after guys who live in a tower and wear funny hats. It is now what I am to be called. I have joined the elite ranks of those who can consume 40 ounces of beef. I have mastered the Prime Quarter, and it tastes so tooth-picking good that I refuse to use floss. I prefer to floss my dope new medallion stating that I am a member of the Beefeater's Club. It was a little hectic there for a minute, but maracas and jingle bells were involved.
To be honest, I never really liked the idea of the Prime Quarter. It seems like most people would be better off having their steak cooked by a professional. Luckily, I am an experienced griller, so mine turned out fine. More than fine, actually: The steak was more like the medium-rare flesh of some wonderful animal that was fed only milk, honey and mead. Still, I'm just feeding into the American ideal of a man who can grill. I am that man, though. I saw plenty of woefully overcooked steaks lingering over the hot coals. I also saw people flipping their steaks too often like so many impatient children. I myself enjoyed relaxing around the ample rectangle of flame, watching people wash their steaks down with garlic powder and seasoned salt. The salad bar was trifling in comparison to the mighty fridge of meat. This was not good news for my vegetarian girlfriend, but she was there for entertainment value and the possibility of my failure. Had that unlikelihood occurred, I would have been subject to any one of the numerous threats that my friends made, including: going to Visions and not being able to participate, eating one of every item from the China Buffet and being forced to wear the leftovers around my neck. That was a pretty good motivator to come watch.
It didn't seem like anyone else in the restaurant was attempting to join the club, but other activities brought amusement of a similar caliber. For some reason, the birthday celebration involves waitresses with the aforementioned maracas and jingle bells. The beers are 25 ounces, an ample amount to wash down your 22-ounce, $15 steak. I had a fine brandy Manhattan while I cooked the roast-like beast of a cut. Needless to say, there was time to have a cigarette with no danger of overcooking my investment. The meat itself was not the best piece I have ever had. My friends were similarly disappointed with their T-bones. The sides include toast (take care of that on the grill) and potato and salad, all of which are included and also disappointing. Who cares, though. The fun is in watching families squabble around the grill and listening to buddies studiously talk about their choice on whether to flip the steak yet.
I suggest everyone who enjoys beef to check the place out. You will get off on the absolute absurdity of the amount of food. Anyone who enjoys people-watching should also check out the Prime Quarter and the supreme clientele. I saw an old man approached by a young bartender at the urinal. The kid said, \What's up, old boy?"" The old guy answered with a four-letter expletive directed at the bartender and they proceeded to work out how a cocktail was to be delivered to his usual table. A waitress was caught smoking in the handicap bathroom. And literary critics can check out the Prime Quarterly News, which features articles on the health benefits of eating beef in moderation'there's no moderation here'and the segue of the century: ""And speaking about toasts, complement your dinner with a bottle of wine.""
This is not a place to take a date, unless she's Roseanne, or possibly if you're on Elimidate or something where you need an activity. It is not a place to eat at habitually, as you will die. Yet I am strangely attracted to this restaurant and will probably return to claim another medallion. There is smoking at the bar.
