Meat Market in a Steak House

Last Saturday we ended up in a place that was definitely on my radar--not from a foodie standpoint but because driving by it most nights you can see its tremendous popularity with the Professional Urban McKinney Avenue Sophisticates (PUMAS.)  I tend to avoid these places since the mission is to mask one's surgically enhanced innate, smoldering hotness with an icy cool 'tude and to meet new people and potential one night stands spouses by studiously ignoring them.  I well remember the game--I am, after all, a high school graduate--but I wasn't good at it then and find it tedious now.

Surprisingly, we ended up at Del Frisco's Grille on McKinney in Dallas by a weird, Tourette's Syndrome induced random stroke of Open Table finger shopping and debarked at the valet stand aswarm with PUMAS in full Saturday night  regalia:  flirty, slinky tops on the girls over skin tight, cropped pants, jeweled high-heeled sandals and diamond earrings swaying under Dallas Blonde #11 hair color, and tight polos stretched by "arms day" at the gym tucked out of ripped $250 jeans and neon sneakers on the spiky, gel-haired gents.  They were all named Cameron or Travis regardless of gender.


I Think This Would Be a Cool Tattoo in Celtic Runes

The three bright-eyed hostesses immediately noted we were way too old for the bustling patio scene or four-deep bar, and banished assigned us to a table facing away from the restaurant looking into the kitchen.  (Actually we  were looking at the posterier of the chef who was expo-ing so we sort of scooted around and focused in a more diagonal direction.)  Above the cook line was a huge sign which I guess is DFG's motto:  DO RIGHT AND FEED EVERYMAN.  At first I thought it was retro and cool and then it seemed sort of Les Miserables and finally I dismissed it as just kind of silly since we weren't in Colonial America and the food wasn't free and 50% of the patrons were female.  Our server's name was Carl (I remember because he told us with his big, open, toothy smile three different times) and even though he said he'd be "taking care of us" (restaurant cliche #3) we ended up liking him because he really did manage our table with exactly my preferred combination of attention, professionalism, and self-deprecating good humor in precisely the right amounts.
It was hard to decide what to eat because every thing on the menu sounded really good. We ended up sharing Cheesesteak Eggrolls, which were like
Philly Cheesesteaks baked inside crusty rolls and then cut on the bias (moan inducing) and Steamed Edamame with Korean BBQ Spice and
Lime (scrumptious food you get to play with.) We had a couple of crafted cocktails (de rigueur in this hipster den) and eventually ordered dinner.  Since DFG is the spawn of legendary Del Frisco's Double Eagle Steak House, I ordered my absolute favorite slice of bovinity, the New York Strip.  Strangely, D ordered Orecchiette Pasta with Lemon Thyme Chicken & Fresh Parmesan.  To me, this seemed sort of like ordering Chinese food at a taco stand but evidently he was unaware of the Del Frisco brand and their prodigious reputation for unparalleled meat.

When my steak arrived the aroma was so intoxicating I wanted to just pick it up and cram it into my gaping maw.  Instead, using a tremendous amount of self control and a handy pair of wrist restraints, I picked up my knife and fork and carved off a slice.  That steak was so tender and juicy I could have cut it with Governor Chris Christie's big fat hand, not that I ever would have for fear he'd swipe it like my other New Jersey friend Kathleen, who is known internationally via the Interpol database as a top flight food and wine thief (see Entree Envy, December 14, 2012.)  It didn't really look like much, just sort of an herb-crusted, brownish slab of meat on a white plate next to a little thimble-sized twice baked potato, but OMGosh I believe that was the best durned cow part I've ever had the pleasure of masticating.

Who'd a thunk you could get such extraordinary, prime meat in one of Dallas's prime meat markets?