Frankie and Johnnie's

I had not thought of going to Frankie and Johnnie’s in quite some time. After all, it is not a hot spot; not a quick bite, neither is it one of the Peter Luger-lineage houses sprouting up about town--not a place you would generally meet your friends. I’ll be back though--it is seriously delicious!

Hey, you can get a darn good steak lots of places. I don’t know if we should get into a whole “exegesis of the steak” right this minute--but maybe a quick review of some on offer may be in order.

Start with the Palm (Westside Palm, 50th between 7/8). Hey, the Palm serves a good steak. But it has become an uneven affair, can even get a little weary at times. Gone are the days you would thrill to their charred crusted steaks, smoking from their 900-degree broilers that flash seared juices in and char out. Gone, too, is your steak’s arrival still sizzling and bristling with just-right texturing, and marbling flavor. I’m not taking anything away from their hash brown potatoes, which are still pretty terrific, nor from the creamed spinach. And I, for one, would never impugn their best-in-show blue cheese salad dressing (I could wear the stuff, it’s so good)--my favorite anywhere. But the steak? These days, it’s just a good steak.

On the other hand, the other of the chain experts, del Frisco, is doing it right, over at 6th Ave and 49th street, with their rib-eye and bone-in cuts. Like the Palm, they’ve been uncannily successful at replicating their distinctive flavors, across their wide chain. The place is always bustling with business types and their dates (illicit and otherwise), and it can get a bit frisky in there. But here is the deal—they serve an incredibly yummy rib eye, charred beautifully, with marbled integrity, and bursting with that closest-to-rib-flavor. To top it off, their au poivre sauce, especially with the tender filet, is just as yummy, and just-right spicy.

I think we need speak, too, of the Peter Luger offshoots (offspring?), even as none are quite in the theater district. One’s pretty close (44^th between 2/3) and Ben and Jack’s is essentially the same as Wolfgang’s to my taste. Ok, I will admit it—Peter Luger is a great steakhouse, but not always my favorite. Yes, they serve an incredible porterhouse. And they use butter very, very well--very well indeed. The au jus mixed with butter that is there for the yummiest of dipping is the hallmark of Peter Luger steak eating for me. But the hallmark of the entire Luger experience is their amazing, no--supernal, Canadian bacon--served, of course, by the slice (how many pre-steak slices a person can down without branding themselves a forever glutton is open to debate). I’m pretty sure I could eat myself into a Canadian bacon-induced stupor, or, at the very least, a gallbladder emergency--if left to my own devices. So, come on, you join that dipping with that bacon? You have one primo steak experience.

My nod now for a theater steak, though, has to go to Frankie and Johnnie’s. Their sirloin is charred to perfection. And it is a marvel for a sirloin, which is not known for its abundant marbling, to burst with so much flavor and consistency. I’m always so disappointed at the cut when I work my way toward the bone of a sirloin, and the meat gets less and less lively. Not to worry--not here anyway. This thing is super-good all the way home. Of course they have the requisite side dishes (none are as exceptional as specific counterparts) and they acquit themselves well. Finally, I think you will hear me on this—their steaks are super-steak-flavored!

Hey, I’m sure that my triumphant return to Frankie and Johnnie’s’ sirloin is at least a little colored by one of the fundamental stories of my theater youth. I went there for the first time when I was 11 years old, with my parents, after a play. We sat by the window, at the table second closest to the kitchen. Next to us, at the table in the middle of the place, were—Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Maybe you didn’t get that—Joanne Woodward, and, Paul Fucking Newman. My mother nearly had a fit! Apparently, they were appearing together on Broadway, the only time they did, in Baby Want a Kiss. It was 1964. Anyway, my mother sends me over to their table, with the menu, paper at that time, to ask Mr. Newman, Paul, for his autograph. You know, for me. (are you kidding me? she couldn’t wait to get her grubby little hands on it—all I know is I never saw it again)

So there they were. We were riveted. He had a headache. He was out of sorts. Not himself. He asked for two aspirin. The waiter brought the salad. “Get this out of here,” Newman ordered. “Bring me the lettuce and bring me the salad dressing makings,” his annoyed demand followed, “I will make the salad dressing!”

I know, I know. It sounds like bullshit. But it’s not--I swear it. Way before anyone ever heard of Newman’s Own, before anyone knew Paul Newman would go on to greater culinary/philanthropic glories—we knew. I know—it’s a ridiculous apocryphal story I heard and made my own, a child’s silly conflation. But it’s not.

And the steaks are delicious