Beef. Beats.
by Jeff Harris
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STK, 26 Little West 12th St, 646-624-2444
Price range: $40-$70
Rating: 2 L's
Some say the Old Homestead is a Meatpacking District steakhouse, but c’mon, it’s not geared to the District’s stilleto’d denizens and the i-bankers who love them… it just happens to be at 15th and Ninth. Enter STK’s sultry décor, zany cocktail menu, throbbing music, and scene-chasers galore. Sadly, there’s nothing else notable — aside from the absurdly high female-to-male ratio.
The post-minimalist space is surreal: all black and cream with circular leather banquettes and raw-bulb lighting punctuated by a lavender-glassed fire pit and a score of white steer horns arrayed above the bar. We sat toward the rear, above the masses clamoring for drinks. Our waiter was unexpectedly helpful — though not when it came to the quaking of my chair on every downbeat. We started with the Not Your Daddy’s Manhattan ($14), which replaces bitters with sugary liquer 43. The name makes perfect sense if “Your Daddy” had taste, whereas “You” don’t. My girlfriend got the Rare STK ($12), a Tom Collins riff again ruined by spoonfuls of sugar. This ain’t Mary Poppins, and gin’s not medicine.
Our food started out better, with a Caesar salad brightened by a dose of lemon in the dressing. This being a New York steakhouse, we split the perfunctory Porterhouse, medium rare and pre-sliced, just like Luger’s ($59). At 24oz., it was a middle-weight on the menu. What came out would have Luger spinning in his grave. The strip side was slightly over-done with an oddly uneven flavor. While some bites had the richness of the dry-aged prime beef it was reported to be, others were lifeless, enlivened only by a watery red wine sauce and the confusing cherry tomato halves that accompanied it. The filet side was gray and stringy, an ode to Tad’s at best. Sides were likewise uneven. Parmesan Truffle Fries ($9), which sound unbeatable, went mostly uneaten. How can you screw that up? Cut the potatoes into thick planks, cover with canned parm, add a drop of truffle oil, bake till insipid, and stack like Lincoln logs. The Creamed Spinach ($9) was a bitterly unctuous treat: undeniably fresh; light on the cream; correctly seasoned; cooked to a verdant green — the best I’ve had.
Who’s this steakhouse for? I guess it’s for the MPD’s monied club-a-holics sick of Pan Asian but unwilling to eat without a house beat. And I suppose it’s fun. It may also be good for those who wouldn’t set foot in the phallocracies that are the uptown beef palaces (what does a tie symbolize again?). But it isn’t for people who really like steak.
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STK, 26 Little West 12th St, 646-624-2444
Price range: $40-$70
Rating: 2 L's
Some say the Old Homestead is a Meatpacking District steakhouse, but c’mon, it’s not geared to the District’s stilleto’d denizens and the i-bankers who love them… it just happens to be at 15th and Ninth. Enter STK’s sultry décor, zany cocktail menu, throbbing music, and scene-chasers galore. Sadly, there’s nothing else notable — aside from the absurdly high female-to-male ratio.
The post-minimalist space is surreal: all black and cream with circular leather banquettes and raw-bulb lighting punctuated by a lavender-glassed fire pit and a score of white steer horns arrayed above the bar. We sat toward the rear, above the masses clamoring for drinks. Our waiter was unexpectedly helpful — though not when it came to the quaking of my chair on every downbeat. We started with the Not Your Daddy’s Manhattan ($14), which replaces bitters with sugary liquer 43. The name makes perfect sense if “Your Daddy” had taste, whereas “You” don’t. My girlfriend got the Rare STK ($12), a Tom Collins riff again ruined by spoonfuls of sugar. This ain’t Mary Poppins, and gin’s not medicine.
Our food started out better, with a Caesar salad brightened by a dose of lemon in the dressing. This being a New York steakhouse, we split the perfunctory Porterhouse, medium rare and pre-sliced, just like Luger’s ($59). At 24oz., it was a middle-weight on the menu. What came out would have Luger spinning in his grave. The strip side was slightly over-done with an oddly uneven flavor. While some bites had the richness of the dry-aged prime beef it was reported to be, others were lifeless, enlivened only by a watery red wine sauce and the confusing cherry tomato halves that accompanied it. The filet side was gray and stringy, an ode to Tad’s at best. Sides were likewise uneven. Parmesan Truffle Fries ($9), which sound unbeatable, went mostly uneaten. How can you screw that up? Cut the potatoes into thick planks, cover with canned parm, add a drop of truffle oil, bake till insipid, and stack like Lincoln logs. The Creamed Spinach ($9) was a bitterly unctuous treat: undeniably fresh; light on the cream; correctly seasoned; cooked to a verdant green — the best I’ve had.
Who’s this steakhouse for? I guess it’s for the MPD’s monied club-a-holics sick of Pan Asian but unwilling to eat without a house beat. And I suppose it’s fun. It may also be good for those who wouldn’t set foot in the phallocracies that are the uptown beef palaces (what does a tie symbolize again?). But it isn’t for people who really like steak.
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