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You ever been to one of those fancy steakhouses where the waiters act like they're giving you the keys to a secret meat kingdom? I walked into one the other day, and I swear the waiter treated me like I was about to embark on a carnivorous journey to end all journeys. Waiter: "Welcome to Prime Cuts Palace, where dreams are made of marbled beef and aged to perfection!"
I'm just there thinking, "Dude, I just want a steak, not a backstage pass to a rock concert." They even had this menu with descriptions that made the steak sound like the protagonist of a blockbuster movie.
Menu: "Our sirloin, a hero in the world of meats, battled aging in oak barrels for 30 days before meeting its destiny on your plate."
I'm like, "Is this steak or the next Marvel superhero?" And don't get me started on the sides. They had mashed potatoes that were described as "whipped to perfection by the potato whisperer." I didn't know potatoes needed therapy, but apparently, they do.
I ended up ordering the steak, and when it arrived, I half-expected fireworks to go off. I took a bite, and you know what? It was good, but it wasn't life-changing. I didn't see my past, present, and future in that bite. Maybe I need to up my taste bud game or something.
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You know, going to a steakhouse is like entering a cult of carnivores. They have these rituals that make you feel like you're inducted into the Meat Eaters' Hall of Fame. First, they parade the meat in front of you like a sacrificial offering. It's like a meat fashion show, and you're expected to nod and appreciate each cut like you're an art critic at a gallery.
Then comes the solemn moment of steak selection. The waiter looks at you like you're making a decision that will impact the course of human history. "Choose wisely, sir. The fate of the dinner table rests on your shoulders."
And when they bring your chosen steak, they present it to you as if it's the Holy Grail. I half-expect them to say, "In the name of the beef, the sirloin, and the holy ribeye."
By the end of the meal, you've gone through a culinary ceremony that leaves you questioning if you just ate dinner or participated in a meat-centric ritual.
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You know, the thing about fancy steakhouses is they try to make everything sound so sophisticated. I'm sitting there, and the waiter hands me this leather-bound book, and I'm like, "Is this the steak Bible or the menu?" And then, they start throwing around terms like "au jus," "béarnaise," and "chateaubriand." I feel like I'm in a foreign country, and I didn't even bring my culinary passport. I end up just nodding and pretending to know what I'm doing.
Waiter: "Would you like your steak Pittsburgh rare or Chicago-style?"
Me: "Uh, I'll take it the way a sane person orders it."
I don't need my steak to have a residency in multiple cities before it lands on my plate. I just want it medium-rare, not prepared by a culinary contortionist doing acrobatics in the kitchen.
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You ever go to a steakhouse and, after enjoying your meal, you get the bill, and suddenly it feels like you're paying for a seat on a spaceship to Mars? I looked at the bill, and I swear I heard it whisper, "Congratulations, you're now a shareholder in the Beef Industry." I mean, I get it. Quality meat, expert chefs, fancy ambiance — it all comes with a price tag. But does it have to be the GDP of a small country? I had to check if they mistakenly added a bottle of gold leaf seasoning to my order.
And don't even think about ordering a side of vegetables. They bring you a single asparagus spear on a silver platter like it's a rare artifact. I'm half-expecting the waiter to say, "Handle with care, sir. This asparagus has been to vegetable Hogwarts.
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