Depending on your perspecitve, my brother might seem a cantankerous sort. In many ways he’s like a gorilla: keep him fed, keep him sated and all will be well. Irritate him and you’ll be eating gorilla paw.
Michael–as he is called–finds my obsessive food picture taking bizarre and irritating.
“Stop taking pictures of your food,” he said last night, “I’m going to throw your camera across the room.”
“Michael,” I said, “Thousands of people are waiting with baited breath to see what we had for dinner.”
“No they’re not,” he responded, “you’re probably the only person who reads your website; you must click on it so much, that’s why you have so many hits.”
“Michael,” said mom, “take it down a notch.”
Chops is located in Buckhead near my parents’ hotel. It’s your quintissential steakhouse. My family really loves steakhouses. They eat at one every week. We’re going to another one tonight for Mother’s Day. Here’s Chops’s door:
As often happens on these dining excurisions, I began formating the dinner’s narrative hook. The hook I came up with went like this: “Jewish people really like steakhouses. Everyone here is Jewish. Why do Jewish people like steakhouses so much? What cultural–”
“That’s not true,” said my brother.
“Yes it is,” I rejoinded. “Look around! See all the Jewish families? It’s like Temple Beth Steakhouse.”
“There’s a nun over there,” Michael pointed.
“A nun, look.”
I turned around. There was a nun. Everyone there wasn’t Jewish.
Our waiter came over. He asked for our drink orders. Michael ordered a Sprite and a prime rib.
“Michael,” I said, “he’s only taking our drink order.”
“I know but I want to reserve the prime rib in case they run out.”
“Haha,” I said. “How silly, they’re not going to run out.”
We finished our drink orders. The waiter left. We explored the menu. I decided upon prime rib. So did my dad. The waiter returned.
“Well?” said the waiter.
Can you see where this story’s going?
“Prime rib!” said dad.
“Me too!” said I.
“Ahhh,” said the waiter, “Sorry, but we just ran out.”
“Aha!” said Michael rejoicefully. He turned to look at me: “Everything you say is wrong.”
He was making a good case. I ordered a steak and kept my mouth shut.
Chops has a really good Chopped Chops Salad:
The dressing is a creamy garlic and if there’s one thing my family likes it’s a creamy garlic dressing. We used to go to a steakhouse in West Palm Beach called Raindancer where they had Green Garlic Dressing on the salad bar. That was its greatest selling point.
Time passed. I went to the bathroom. I heard a conversation between two older gentlemen:
Man 1: I’m not retiring! Fuck retiring!
Man 2: Shit, we’re too young.
Man 1: I just went to Florida. The guys my age? They look like old men! What am I going to do, sit home with my wife all day?
Man 2: Fuck no.
Man 1: You have to stay active! Fuck it!
I returned to the table and soon my steak was delivered.
This was a New York Strip and it was delicious. They crusted it really well with a salty garlic mixture.
And here’s Michael’s Prime Rib:
Looks like an Atilla The Hun prop, huh? Like the one he gnaws in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure?
My mom, eventually, asked for the bone so she could gnaw. My mom likes bone gnawing. Maybe she’s Atilla the Hun reincarnated?
We got the obligatory sides…
Toffee Coffee Crunch Pie:
I would have preferred it for dessert, but toffee coffee crunch pie goes great with steak.
“You’re retarded,” says Michael. “Give up.”
Me? Retire? Fuck no! Who cares if everything I say is wrong?