December 9, 2007
Mean Season
It makes me want to curl up under the covers and hibernate until spring, but I didn't come all the way across the country to hide in my bed.
In an act of fashion disobedience, I went out in my non-black down coat (locals call them sleeping bag coats cause that's what they look like) and tromped around the city, daring the sidewalks to wipe me out with their near-invisible sheets of ice.
The newest Apple store opened on the border between Chelsea and the Meatpacking district. I went to go see. The building still had that new structure smell. But while more spacious than other Apple stores, the products were all the same. What is new, however, is the Pro Lab series of hands-on photo, video and audio workshops that start in January. As far as I could tell, they were all booked up.
Across the street are a row of restaurants including the quaintly named Old Homestead. I've passed by it several times. On this rainy, cold evening, I finally ventured in, not knowing what to expect.
My first mistake was walking in alone. My second was not dressing up. But only the clientele stared and sniffed. The servers, if they took notice, didn't let on. Instead, they handed me the wine list and the menu and gave me some time to settle in.
Old Homestead may be a countrified name, but it's a big-city steakhouse with big-city prices. Like Lawry's in Beverly Hills, you order by the dish: appetizer, salad, entree, sides are separate. Unlike Lawry's, the atmosphere is intimate — not-too-bright lighting illuminates hand-tinted photos of old New York hanging on dark wood walls topped by a whitewashed, hand-pressed tin ceiling.
Brian, the first of a flurry of servers, tells me the restaurant is in what once was a trading post, back in the day when only river and shore existed west of 8th Avenue. The restaurant itself has only changed hands once since it opened in the 1800s, lost by the original family during the Great Depression.
The French onion soup was so-so, but it's cold out and the soup is hot. I order the smallest steak on the menu — a 10-ounce filet mignon that takes a while to come out of the kitchen. No matter: The baseball-sized lump arrives precariously perched on a tuna can-sized potato cake and it's delicious.
Feeling ambitious I order the cheesecake.
Egad.
I look at the server. "You guys don't kid around do you?" I joke.
He shakes his head, grins. "This isn't a California spa. We're a New York steak house. We serve New York portions."
I nod, push my eyes back into my head and take a few bites before relenting. Looks like I'm having dairy for breakfast tomorrow.