White Castle casserole

White Castle sliders are heavenly. So is anything oven-baked, as I’ve zestfully attempted many times before, with bacon, cheese and eggs (like a bacon quiche). But I haven’t been so ridiculous and comical as to try to combine the two. But now that someone has made a casserole with White Castle sliders with bacon and cheese in a quiche-like bake –with great success I must add — I think I may just be inspired enough to give it a try soon…

Serious faux pas at Let’s Burger

I have yet another chance to revisit Let’s Burger, the burger joint inside The Village at Sanlitun. The food was, as I expected, quite good — I had an order of its crispy fries and a grilled chicken salad — the latter I actually found to be quite fantastic. The smoky grilled chicken was augmented with what I believe to be a welcoming honey glaze, and was roughly cut and served over a bed of beautiful greens. The greens were fresh and tossed with just the right amount of sweet Russian dressing. At less than forty yuan, it was a steal.

Food experience aside, I witnessed two horrifying incidents inside the open kitchen that would likely kill any desire to go back. I sat at the Robuchon-like dining bar, which had a full and uninhibited view of the kitchen area; I was sat directly opposite the washing station. This area was between a bun toasting station and the pantry, where coffee was brewed and wines poured. This was also the area where I witnessed both faux pas of the evening. The person responsible for toasting all the hamburger buns was standing on the opposite side of the dining bar, just half a meter to my left. He was very good at his job — he would diligently take out the buns from the plastic wrapper (four buns in a wrapper), meticulously place the buns in their upright positions and carefully slice open the buns, and feed the bun into the conveyor-belt toaster. And that was all that he needed to do all night: slice the buns, place them onto toaster, and hand off the toasted bun to the hamburger dresser. He was so good at his routine that each repetition was nearly identical to the last, so mechanical and perfectly executed as to leave no room for error or criticism. That was the case until, of course, when disaster struck: when he was opening one of the plastic wrappers, some mysterious force was exerted out of nowhere, in such a disastrous direction that one of the buns, instead of staying inside the wrapper or on the cutting table, decided to roll over and into the washing liquid in the sink, at the washing station nearby. It was obvious that he was verily horrified by the unscripted event, but with no time for second thoughts whatsoever, he picked up the bun from the sink and placed it right back on the slicing table. I couldn’t tell if it was contaminated with detergent, but by then its top was visibly wet, as evidenced by the wet gloss on top of that naughty bun, as juxtaposed against the three others from the same wrapper that had no such wet gloss. Just as I was hoping that he would give a second thought and decide to throw the bun away, he picked up his knife, and after slicing open the bun, quickly put the bun into the toaster. With the disaster seemingly evaporating into thin air (and the fouled wetness toasting away) and truth that only he and I would know, he briefly looked up, and most certainly had to find my bewildered eyes fixated on his! He looked away, as if nothing happened, and less a minute later, the bun that had earlier found itself touching the washing liquid in the sink was getting bused to the diner at the other side of the restaurant.

Another incident happened a few minutes later, when a tournant was cutting carrots right in front of me. He was also very good at his job…holding and using the knife properly, and making mechanical cuts so precise that, had anyone seen the final result without looking at the process, would have concluded that it was the work of an industrial mandoline. But human mandolines made mistakes: a piece of carrot would eventually fall onto the ground. Like any other diner, I hoped that he would pick up and throw away that fallen piece of vegetable –which he did. Like any other diner, I was also hoping that he would then go about to wash his hands before going back to his station to work on his vegetables –and horrors! his hands were, merely seconds after touching the floor and with no side trip to the tap, now fiddling with other pieces of vegetables. What would happen if those vegetables were not slated for cooking at all but were tossed in a salad?

After these two incidents I could bear to see no more. I promptly finished my meal and left. I am sure many kitchens are like that (I have, to be quite honest, witnessed a few), but this is the first time that I have seen a serious kitchen offense (two, no less) played out, without redress, in an open kitchen. When the proprietor decides to open the kitchen, the reason has to be simple: to key the diners in for a show. It’s supposed to be a window to a scripted fairy tale, and not supposed to be a window to the reality of commercial cooking. As a gut check, we all know that live shows would, from time to time, find themselves in an unscripted situation, but any reasonably good director would have a scripted solution to an unscripted situation — how about: (a) throw away any dirty food, and (b) wash hands after having touched, or even the remote possibility of being perceived to have touched, something dirty? I am prepared to see the dark side if I demand to walk into a closeted kitchen, but I am not prepared to see what I don’t want to see if the open kitchen is there for all to see. And when disaster happens, the staff should well know how to go to Plan B. But there was no Plan B; there was only Plan A. Let’s Burger still has good food, especially its crispy fries, an outstanding selection of potato dips, a juicy cheeseburger to die for and an excellent grilled chicken salad I mentioned earlier in this post. But for all its greatness, the massive offenses that I witnessed first hand would give me serious second thoughts before I dare to ever venture inside again.

Burgers in Korea

As I research more about burgers, I found this awesome post on burgers in Korea by Daniel Gray, the man behind Seoul Eats, a great blog for chowhounds in search for a good plate in Korea. Don’t miss the post and the blog!

In search of the best burger in Beijing

A mundane burger often reminds me of those years when I lived in America, when I often had to subsist on mass-produced burgers that I’d imagine tasted like dirty socks soaked in sewage-diluted ketchup. A great burger, however, reminds me of the good times I’ve had, mainly in two places: Texas, and California. Texas’ burgers are memorable because the beef is always fresh and flavorful, and often charcoal-grilled with cracking mesquite wood that gives an additional layer of sweetness. Californian burgers are great because they dare to be inventive: new ingredients (e.g. organic greens), new sauces (e.g. sweet aioli, jalapeño-flavored salsa), and new ways of ordering (e.g. secret menu, at In-N-Out).

The Mission

Burger is not something that pops into my mind when I talk about my foodie experience in Beijing. While many Beijing hotels have coffee shops that can offer a decent burger, albeit at exorbitant prices, I have yet to find, until now, a burger joint that I could confidently recommend to others. Hooters, Durty Nellie’s and Paddy O’Shea’s serve up good burgers as pub grubs, but I recommend those places with reasons that are far more important than, say, to get a half-decent burger. Therefore, I decided to undertake a mission to find the best burger, as I know it, in a town better known for roast ducks wrapped with steamed pancakes than beef patty on a bun — with one additional requirement: that any restaurant’s burger must be the #1 reason why I, or anyone to whom I pass on my recommendation, would want to go to that restaurant. Therefore, places like Durty Nellie’s and Outback Steakhouse won’t count. With some input from some well-fed Beijingers, I tried out twelve burger joints in a little under five weeks, and came up with four good recommendations, below.

The Taste Test

Tim’s Texas BBQ (Guanghua Road)

Tim’s offers an all-American Border burger laden with bacon, cheese, jalapeños. The beef patty was supremely grilled with a dense, robust flavor. The bacon had a nice, smoky nose and a chewy texture. The winning ingredient was the pungent jalapeños, which nicely cut into the excess fat of the beef and the bacon and provided that extra zing. Tim’s also serves up a superb chopped beef brisket sandwich, which by itself is worthy of a separate visit (or, if self-indulgence shall be forgiven, of a same-visit, side-by-side burger-sandwich face/off).

Exploit: one Border burger, one frozen margarita: ￥80.

One East on Third (Hilton Hotel Beijing)

With foie gras, black truffles and Waygu beef, the Waygu burger oozed more pomp and circumstance than cheeses and mushroom juices. It was tough for me not to feel a little pugnacious after shelling out ￥325 just so that I got to feel like an aristocratic jackass for half an hour. Nevertheless, I have to admit that, strictly in terms of taste, the burger was actually more than just a garbled pile of dollar signs; I would freely admit that it was not too far away from the majestic double truffle burger royale that I had at Daniel Boulud’s joint in New York two years ago.

Exploit: one Waygu burger, one glass of Californian red wine, one expresso: ￥420.

Let’s Burger (The Village at Sanlitun)

This is a straight-up, burger-only joint that serves up some juicy patties in a bistro environment. My order: an Australian double burger with six ounces (by my estimate) of ground sirloin. The Australian was amply dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, two fat slices of bacon, and a fried egg. I felt like my life was ticking away as the burger was being devoured. The only thing that kept me from putting the burger down and calling it quits was the devil in me, reminding me that if my blood vessels were to clot and if I were to drop dead on the spot, I would still die a very, very happy man. On my first visit, the patties were a little disappointing because they were overcooked, bland, and devoid of beefy flavors, but on my second visit (revisiting the exact same order), the patties came to life with all the beefy aromatics and succulent juices. The fries were hand-cut and well-fried, with a crunchy shell and a soft, starchy body. A winning feature at this joint was the impressive array of dipping sauces (over ten of them!), including two that I would recommend in a heartbeat (if I still have one): a creamy remoulade and a flavorful wasabi mayonnaise.

Twice exploited: The Australian, one order of hand-cut fries, one glass of house red: ￥150 per exploit.

25 Degrees (Hotel G)

Named after the temperature (in Celsius) between a raw and a well-done burger,  25 Degrees provides the diner an art-meets-science flavor to the burger experience. One can design and build one’s own burger with dozens of a la carte toppings to choose from, or pick from three excellent preset choices. My choice on my first visit (preset #1) was a ground-sirloin burger dressed with carmelized onions, arugula salad, thousand island dressing and a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese –this combination reminds me of Father’s Office burger in Santa Monica, California, which has a nearly verbatim rendition, except the bun: Father’s Office uses a fluffy and long French baguette, while 25 Degrees uses a round, wheat/rye bun. This resemblance of taste, however, is not entirely accidental, as 25 Degrees is an aspiring burger concept originated in Los Angeles, a stone’s throw away from Father’s Office. In any case, 25 Degrees’ burger was a protein-carb-veg juggernaut with a good balance of flavor (juicily beefy but not oily), taste (the Gorgonzola danced merrily with the caramelized onion), and texture (the crispiness of the arugula salad jazzed perfectly with the softness of the onions and the chewiness of the beef). Like the original joint in Hollywood, the lettuces, tomatoes and sliced pickles were served on the side and readily available for the truly ambitious table-side burger engineers. The French fries were generously sprinkled with sea salt and thyme, and arrived at the table crispy and piping hot.

I got to build my own burger on my second visit: one identical to preset #1 except that I chose Gruyère over Gorgonzola. The result was equally impressive, and the taste was not materially discernible from the original in Hollywood. I mean, why mess with the battle-tested recipe when the original is already working brilliantly well? I also got to check out the wine list, which in my opinion was slightly excessive (in price) for a burger joint but nevertheless impressive given its geographical and varietal depth.

Twice exploited: one preset #1: ￥175; one build-my-own burger, one half-bottle of red wine (shared with two other friends): ￥180.

Conclusion

25 Degrees. Taste notwithstanding, 25 Degrees wins the ambiance test too. It has a hip but unassuming decor, and superior music. By contrast, the bistro-style dining and Henry Mancini-esque music at Let’s Burger are just a tad too formal. With a knowledgeable staff and attentive service, 25 Degrees also has the best service among the final four.

With pac’s Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z. album playing in the background, my mind drifted, momentarily, back to the yesteryear when, after a burger at the original 25 Degrees, I would drive on Hollywood Blvd., with my windows rolled down, Cali. rap music blaring from the Cadillac in front and multiple Louboutin clogs clicking away on the sidewalk. That reconnection to the past, attentive but unobtrusive service, and plain ol’ good food are the reasons why 25 Degrees has my vote for the best burger in Beijing.

Localization of Sam Walton’s Vision

Strolling down the aisles of a Walmart in the U.S., one would find not only a gazillion different products and agricultural produces, but cooked items ranging from sliced pepperoni pizzas to grilled chicken salad in Cajun dressing. But at the end of the day, all items sold are unmistakably targeting at the American taste.

When I first heard that Walmart has a presence in China, my first reaction was whether they would know the Chinese consumer well enough to do well here. My experience at two Walmart Supercenters in Shenzhen (allegedly two of the most profitable Walmart locations anywhere in the world) and here in Beijing confirms that Walmart has done their homework before investing here in China.

Here in China, Walmart “localizes” by filling shelves with products and produces that are distinctly Chinese: dried sausages stuffed with duck livers and fat, pigeons cooked in sweetened soy sauce, pork knuckles braised with star anise, aromatic ginger and peppercorns, pickled radishes and cucumbers, and, you read it correctly, live turtles, bluntly labeled to reflect its eventual destiny not in an aquarium but at the dining table. A Walmart here is imbued with a fragrance that is unmistakably raw, but also very Chinese. Instead of seeing chicken meat modularized and prepackaged into frozen, brick-like constructions, a Chinese Walmart goes so far as to allow the shopper to see the rawness of a chicken’s skinning and frenching, in ways that would probably raise a few eyebrows with PETA in the U.S. In a sense, this rawness brings honesty to what we eat –that what we eat were once living animals and plants, not merely goblets or slabs of proteins or cellulose with a bar-code and a USDA nutrition tag.

Each Walmart location seems to cater to a slightly different crowd, e.g. the Walmart in Nanshan, Shenzhen has an older crowd while the Walmart in Zhongguancun, Beijing has a younger, college-educated crowd. In any case, seasoned shoppers would guardedly stand next to mountains upon mountains of geometrically stacked produces and juggle with each item on the stack until they find and isolate the best ones that pass their touch and nose tests. Little kids would at times stray away from their distracted parents to munch on bite-size samples at food counters. The occasional first-timers would try, without success, to haggle with Walmart associates over prices. All that, on top of raised voices projected by associates across counters and wrecking sounds generated by shopping carts slamming into each other, form the basis of an improvised, locally-performed symphony of sounds and vibrations. I also can’t help but hear, on top of my head, cash registers ringing and Walmart shareholders laughing all the way to financial freedom.

To breathe and experience Seoul like another (local)

I don’t know how to begin describing my visit to Seoul, for it fell well outside of my normal travel paradigm. Unlike previous trips, I neither defined any goals (e.g. to visit a physical place of interest, or to eat at a well-known establishment), nor immersed myself with the destination’s culture and history (e.g. by consuming related reading materials). My unpreparedness was compounded by two not-quite-insignificant factors: a language that is completely foreign to me; and, since it was my first visit to Korea, the lack of any prior experience to fall back on. Finally, I know not a single soul, other than a friend who now lives there.

All that, however, didn’t amount to a blatantly pathetic oversight, because I did plan on experiencing South Korea not through the polished lens of popular recommendation but by my intuition and improvisation. My (true) plan, conjured up as I was aboard my short flight from Beijing to Seoul, is two pronged. While my friend was at work, I would spend as much time as possible walking the streets of Seoul and soaking up the city’s aura and energy. While he was not at work, we would spend time at places where locals would escape to and deflate the day’s pressure.

After breezing past immigration, the first thing that came to my mind was to turn on my mobile phone. I was not expecting any calls; nor was I ready to make one. Instead, I was eager to find out, and be gratified by, the beauty of 3G’s ubiquity across different 3G standards. (Prior to 3G, a GSM phone from China or Hong Kong would not work in South Korea.) When I saw those four bars of salute (i.e. signal strength) lit up next to a 3G icon on my Nokia 6280, I beamed with unspeakable elation, not least because the techie in me has just jumped out in full force but because, over the years, I have been championing the ideals of cross compatibility in 3G (my cellular provider operates exclusively under one 3G standard, while SK Telecom operates another). With all the Jockey Club’s bet spreads and Yahoo! Finance’s stock quotes suddenly available to me through my 3G connection, I was too preoccupied to pay any attention to the rolling hills and calm waterfronts that galloped past me as I was bused from the airport to Seoul’s city center.

By the time I realized that my data roaming bill was getting obscenely enormous, I was already in the city center, at a stop just between City Hall and Deoksu Palace. A bit about Deoksu Palace: dating back to the 15^th century, it is a walled compound of palaces that has served many a royalty of the Korean Empire. Decorated with groomed and forested gardens, the compound’s palaces capture the brashness of the Empire’s past glory while its manicured gardens define the more subtle, refined essence of the aesthetic past. Today Deoksu Palace is surrounded by a countless number of concrete high rises, including, most visibly, the Imperial Palace Hotel which stands, at more than 20 floors and merely four traffic lanes away from the Deoksu Palace, as though it was seeking to outshine its namesake forebear. When I turned into the side streets that radiate from City Hall, I discovered a plethora of sensual stimulants: simmering pots of soups would effervesce a potent, gritty smell of cooked meats and a more subtle, delectable bouquet of blossoming spices. Hunks of pork and beef, grilled and slightly charred over choice charcoal, would emanate the rhapsodic aromatics of cooked animal fats and proteins. The most extraordinary, however, was brought forth by a middle-aged man who, standing outside what seemed to be his proprietary used-book store, would charcoal-grill a fat slab of squid, seasoned with salt flakes and little else, over a small, make-shift stove. When the grilled squid was ready, the man, with his stentorian voice, would make dinner calls to his neighbors. Upon his and his neighbors’ insistence, I tried a piece of his masterpiece, which turned out to be a genuine pleasure as the squid retained much of its impeccably fresh juices just as the charcoal heat worked magic to provide a smoky surface flavor. My only other thought at that time: if only I had a cold beer handy to wash it all down. Anyway, these small but amicable side streets would eventually merge into larger streets where larger buildings would dominate. These imposing concrete monsters were bustling with energy as office types shuttled in and out of the revolving doors while jumbotrons flashed endlessly into eternity. As if there wasn’t enough emotion, psychedelic fractals were projected onto facades of many of these big buildings, where they danced merrily to the music of pedestrian and automotive traffic.

While my friend was at work, I would use all sorts of improvised body language to communicate with local folks to overcome my language barrier. I must admit I took pleasure relishing the fruits of the most minute communicative success, fully knowing that I would experience something entirely different if my friend, a native, were around and allowed me to fall into the conversational background (imagine being a Robin to the Batman, i.e. always there but never quite able to claim any achievements as one’s own). It would take me nearly twenty minutes to get my order right at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, where I relied on finger-pointing and hand gesturing to tell the chef what I wanted to eat (by the way, my meal, which included fried rice with salted shrimp and kimchi, was delightful). One of my most memorable moments was spent at Sky Bar, a well-known drinking establishment in Gangnam that was unmistakably pompous and stylish. I was attracted to the joint because of its bird’s eye view of Gangnam and of the beautiful folks that adorned the place (surely I was superficial but, after all, I was on vacation). I was also attracted by its atmosphere, in which soft Korean ballades, played through Sky’s impeccable sound system, helped to smooth out (or perhaps blend with) the ruffles generated by a bartender’s mixer. I also had a few great conversations, one of which was with Hae Jin (慧珍), a bartender with big, sparkling eyes and a rubicund visage. Her flirtatious, feisty manners betrayed her inward sincerity – despite her limited English vocabulary, she was patient enough to communicate at length with me, often at loss over (the lack of) word choice but never faltered, and essentially became my first Korean teacher and my trusted, breathing guide book. What intrigued me in our conversation was this rhythmic oscillation between frenzied spontaneity and cold stillness –something that mirrored a side street’s vibrant sensation juxtaposed against the tranquil repose of an ancient palace. Also, as awkward as it may sound, Hae Jin also implored me to experience teenage authenticity by visiting a “DVD bar” where, originally designed for friends to rent and watch DVDs, teenagers nowadays would go and make out in privacy (I took her recommendation, sans the making out). She also convinced me to check out an exhibit at a vocational training school in the more industrial side of town. Helmed by her friend from high school and some other graduating students in industrial design, the exhibit was a mind-blowing experience as it amply disproved any notion that Asians always copy and never know how to create.

When my friend was finally not at work, we covered the city, checking out bars, restaurants, clubs, noraebangs (karaoke joints) as though I have been living in Seoul since time immemorial. My friend also took me to MTL, which is a “talking bar” in Gangnam (and a stone throw away from his house). In these “talking bars”, the bartender makes drinks for you, and for you only until you either decide to leave or run out of money. In other words, each bartender only handles one client at any given time, although a number of friends may go to such “talking bars” and engage an equal number of bartenders. The idea is such that the client gets to engage and talk with the bartender without the fear of losing the bartender’s attention. While one has to work hard to catch a bartender’s attention (and certainly as it was the case with me, to catch Hae Jin’s attention at Sky), a bartender at these “talking bars” is ready and willing to talk (again, at least until one either decides to leave or runs out of money). My bartender was a twenty-something college student with a porcelain face and slightly bulging eyes who hoped to enter into a career in beauty care after finishing design school, in a year’s time. She told me her life stories, in broken English and with my friend’s sporadic (and obviously alcohol-influenced) translative help. She also asked me about my life, although she seemed lost the moment I punched the two dreaded words: intellectual property. In any case, based on the way she groomed and handled herself, I had little question that she had all the aesthetic talent and mental toughness to do well in what she aspired to do. These “talking bars”, as I was told, are mainly designed for the working men of Korea who are too macho and proud to talk small talk with their wives at home but otherwise want to do so with somebody, even if they have to pay for it. Furthermore, it seems to me (though I may be wrong) that this format of “bartending” is very unique to Korean culture and not commonly, if at all, found in other countries. As far as I understand, although the clientele is predominantly male and these bartenders are predominantly female, such talking bars strictly forbid unseemly, immoral transactions beyond drinking/talking and are not, at least in principle, set up for men to “pick up” bartenders. Nevertheless, this makes me wonder whether the proliferation of these talking bars highlights a social ill in South Korea –that, because Korean men would generally prefer spilling their hearts to a stranger at a talking bar over talking to their spouse, there is something inherently missing in the typical Korean spousal relationship. I have tried seeking an answer to that question, but most people I have spoken with, including many of my Korean friends, have not formed any solid opinions in respect of such a warped social dynamic.

Attending an exhibit at a vocational training school or listening to a beautician talk extensively, albeit in broken English, about her career was not what I would plan to do in any other ordinary course of visit. But there was nothing ordinary about this visit. When I left South Korea, I didn’t bring with me any photograph of me standing in front of one of those luscious palaces that would prove my visit. Yet, by doing what locals do, I have breathed, lived, and experienced a South Korea in a way that was very raw, yet, at least as it seems to me, honest and authentic.

Random Beef Musings

Frank Bruni of the New York Times has written a timely review of Peter Lugar, one of my favorite eateries on this planet. The review comes in handy because my friends and I have recently discussed the merits of aged beef.

Aged beef comes in two major categories, dry-aged and wet-aged. Dry-aging is a process by which primal bovine cuts are hung in a temperature, air-flow, and humidity-controlled environment, often for a few weeks. During this period, the meat loses a considerable amount of moisture, thereby concentrating its flavors and yielding a nutty, gamy taste. Enzymes also tenderize the meat during this period by breaking down connective issues in the meat. After aging, the primal cut’s surface, which is dried and molded, must then be trimmed away before any cooking is performed. Such trimming reduces the salable weight of the meat (often by 10-20% of the untrimmed cut) and thus makes dry-aging an expensive process. Dry-aging is made even more expensive due to the loss of moisture, which further reduces the salable weight of the meat, and to the need for carefully supervised refrigeration in expensive cooling equipment. These factors render dry-aged steaks a rarity available only at the most exclusive culinary establishments. Lugar, as mentioned in Bruni’s review, is most famous for serving dry-aged porterhouse steaks.

Wet-aged beef is aged in cryo-vacuumed bag for anywhere from a few days to a few weeks, during which meat enzymes break down connective tissues within the meat. Morton’s is perhaps the best-known restaurant that serves wet-aged beef.

My dear friend Richard Houng, a noted beef connoisseur with whom I have shared many a steak, and I agree that by taking moisture out of the steaks, dry-aging allows flavor development that eventually produces the nutty, gamy flavor that is more robust than a wet-aged steak. Another dear friend, Stacey Owens, with whom I have also shared many meals, vows that wet-aging is a superior process because the steaks, which are kept sitting in their own juices, are more succulent and moist than their dry-aged counterparts.

There is no consensus, at least amongst my foodie friends, as to which aging process is superior, although the consensus is that aging helps to tenderize the meat in the most natural way. My aunt uses kiwi juices, which contain the protein-dissolving enzyme actinidin, to tenderize her meats. Kiwi juice is brilliant as a tenderizer because it works efficiently (a few hours will do the trick, as opposed to a typical aging process that requires anywhere up to a few weeks), although it also leaves a slightly tangy, sweet aftertaste. To the discerning beef connoisseur, that aftertaste may not be a welcoming side attraction.

Of course, there are other factors affecting the taste of the steak. Fat content is but one example. Well-marbled steaks, or steaks with an abundant amount of finely distributed fat, render a rich, buttery flavor as the fat is melted during cooking under high heat. A high fat content also facilitates dry-aging because fat helps to prevent excessive drying and rotting.

I have been searching for good steaks ever since I graduated from college (heretofore I had little change to spare). My search has taken me from the well-heeled destinations in New York City (Lugar, Sparks) to the cowboy mile in Dallas (Del Frisco’s, III Forks, Lawry’s), and from the old establishments in Chicago (Chop House, Gene and Georgetti) to the newly crowned champs in Las Vegas (Prime, SW). I don’t seem to have a particular preference over a specific cut (porterhouse, rib-eye) or a specific method of preparation (charcoal broiled, wood-fire grilled). I don’t even have a preference for aged steaks, as I find freshly butchered, skillfully done bife de lomo (charcoal grilled sirloin steak) in Buenos Aires amply satisfying. If I ever walk out of a steakhouse feeling less than satisfied, the number one reason is most probably that someone overcooked a stale piece of meat. What’s your favorite piece of meat?