Since Butcher & Singer appeared, or at least when the blog winds first carried whispers of it, I conceived plans to dig into a salad and potatoes at Starr's house of steak.
When I finally got around to it, day after Christmas, when you can still polish off anything you want without feeling like a hard criminal, I found my way through the doors of what was "not as nice as Striped Bass", according to a companion. I swiped eye over the cow-covered menu with little worry, already knowing the green and potato-colored choices that I'd make.
It was a late lunch and we were one of two tables. I took down a gimlet, which I distinctly remember not finishing, because it wasn't spectacular and I had already moved onto wine.
I began with a Butcher salad without the Sopressata, which was large enough to split with the Sexy Person next to me. Artichokes in salad is an easy win with me and I would walk this green line again, if the rest of the meal was a little better. It didn't warrant the cost at all. Even if the Butcher fries were nice, they were still just fried potatoes. The creamed spinach was soupy and bland. Mashed potatoes were too creamy, like Mom's overly whipped spuds. While I was pleased that the chef prepared a vegetable plate for me, with meaty grilled mushrooms and a tomato salad, it was something I would construct at home.
The baked alaska sounded more exciting than it was, and ended up being much smaller than my food memory recalled. A slab of carrot cake took on mammoth girth, but lacked the raisins and spiciness that a gateau of carrot must carry. I cleaned the icing and left the rest behind.
Why did I eat here? Whimsy. My sick, questionable humor. The situation of being with multiple lovers of food who enjoy unproven dining ventures.
I didn't expect to like it, so the fact that I headed out full and warm with life, if not my meal, was reason enough to experiment.
Butcher & Singer, 15th & Walnut/Avenue of you already know where this is