The Nostalgic Steakhouse

The United States has several restaurant traditions, most of which include fast food, Americana diners, and lunch counters to name a few. Strategically located in each county across this nation are steakhouses, a tradition dating back to the post-world war two era of America. Beef was plentiful, citizens had money in their pockets, and an ideal of elegance of a night out for fine plates of beef with sides, comforted by waves of cocktails for ladies and whiskey for men, emerged. Being a fan of scotch, steak and taking my lady out, I went to Wildfire, the chain that is done up to appear as if they came out of a Mad Men episode.

The Wildfire chain has a reputation for a special occasion. Inventing one wasn’t necessary to use up gift cards – Ally had a bright job opportunity in her near future. Reservations at three of the Wildfire locations around us presented times at 4:45 (what are we, 80?) and 10pm (what are we, 20?). We managed to get lucky and sneak in around 8:45 at the Lincolnshire Wildfire. For that late, and in the burbs, the place was hoping with Passover diners, and those who wanted to feel classy when they boozed up as opposed to walking across the street to slum it at the Cubby Bear. 

I am not a man who loves top of the line cuts of beef like Filet Mignon. My tastes are for the meat with a fair amount of marbled fat to give flavor. Ask me I wouldn’t be able to recall the last time I had Filet Mignon. Years back, at the Brown Derby in Disney Studios at Walt Disney World, my best friend urged me to try a medium rare slice of Filet Mignon. The piece, red and appropriately cooked around the edged, looked frightening to me, considering before then I had grown up with hockey pucks of well done meat for years. My mother feared seeing a slight pinkish hue to any meat – beyond pork, I’ve realized how egregious this is. Chefs at steakhouses will oblige to serve the well-done order to the customer. Thereafter, they won’t hesitate to sniff at the request of stupidity in their mind. The soft texture of the meat I plucked from my friend’s fork opened my eyes and brought me out of the cave.

The standby at Wildfire was prime rib, considering one I had at the Chicago location a year back had me making groaning sounds of delight, enough to make one turn and stare out of curiosity. As much of a man I am about repetition with plates of Mexican, Italian, American and comfort foods that I still haven’t grown tired of, I had to stick to my experimental guns and venture out. “I’ll take the prime cut of filet mignon.”

Ally had her requisite bowl of French onion soup. I had mixed results of the shrimp and crab chowder by location. One more chance didn’t hurt. That night, any concern I had was blocked out with that soup. I dipped slices of bread laden with butter into the creamy broth that retained minuscule pieces of shellfish.  “I could just eat this – all night,” I told the waiter, forgetting my manners and speaking with a mouthful. The glass of Glenfiddich scotch I had kicked in. 

The edges of my filet mignon were a disappointment. A char, similar to that of meat being left on or near charcoal for too long, was etched into the fine muscle. The interior layers held the steak gold, tender and melt in one’s mouth, thanks to the light pour of beef broth onto the plate. Until I reached those parts, I was convinced that Ally’s choice of the New York strip steak was the winner at the table. My creamed spinach was lacking flavor and retained a bitterness left by the green. Perhaps a measure of sherry or vermouth could have muted that batch. I should have gone with the mashed potatoes Ally ordered as her side.

True disappointment, much more to my own fault and not Wildfire’s, was at the end of the meal. My eyes lit up at the sight of the special desert – Door County Cherry Pie ala’ mode, supplies limited. When I placed my order at around 9:30, the waiter sighed and clasped his hands together. 

“We ran out an hour or so ago. Too many requests.” 

Damn! I’d have to wait a few months for further pie excellence with a trip up there this summer. In all I realized Wildfire, in any steakhouse chain or small business steakhouse, can serve disappoint as well as a reputation for success. Would I return? Of course –what, you think I would become a vegan?