IntroductionI love a big ol’ bone-in rib eye, nicely marbled and grilled to perfection. I love how I can never really have more than a few bites of it because I always go too hard on the sides. I love telling the server that the cheesecake is for the table and then scarfing down the whole glorious thing by myself—and
then ordering a second slice to take home “for tomorrow.” (Only for it to disappear from the fridge before midnight.)
This book is about the place that offers these and many more delights: the steak house.
It’s a kinder dimension, a universe where the portions are always generous—and sometimes friggin’ huge—the chairs are the type you can sink into for hours, and the volume on everything worldly that might be worrying you has a way of magically getting muted.
There’s no better rush than settling into a dimly lit dining room, nibbling on some garlic bread, and hearing the rumble of the Caesar salad cart coming your way. Everyone at the table becomes fully alert.
Could that be for us? I think so . . . Wait, it’s moving left. But didn’t we order before them? Oh, now he’s coming. Here we go . . . SHOWTIME. The star performer this evening may not be famous the world over, but their skills are unmatched. Witness how the grand gestures come naturally. Notice how they can time a joke perfectly while in the middle of lighting a gigantic slab of hanging meat on fire. Get ready to celebrate.
You can also hide in the steak house’s darkness, alone but never lonely. Unwinding without talking to a soul, focusing your senses on just how nice it feels to sit atop a leather stool at the bar while you nurse a martini and decide whether it’ll be the petit filet or the lamb chops with mint jelly this evening. Don’t feel bad about skipping dessert so you can get home at a somewhat reasonable hour. You can swing by for a sundae tomorrow. It won’t be out of place there. A back-to-back visit just means you’re one step closer to becoming a regular—and being able to call yourself a regular is, to me, one of the best things in this life.
Pretty soon, the bartender will greet you with a smile and start stirring your martini the second you walk through the door. The kitchen will be more than happy to do half portions for you. They showed you that move when you were there with your niece last year. Even after her mom explained to her that it would be too much food, the servers could tell that she wanted the onion rings really bad. So they surprised the both of you with a mini-pile instead of the full tower.
Those onion ring moments reflect the kind of care you can’t really teach or put your finger on. But you can always tell when it’s there and when it’s not. In my experience, the first sign is receiving a real hug—not one of those quick, half-hearted embraces from an ex you see at a party—I mean the profound variety of hug. The wizardry of a good steak house is that you get that hug without even having anyone’s arms wrapped around you. It’s a vibe-hug and it’s intoxicating.
That’s what originally sparked the idea for this book: I wanted an excuse to settle into a handsomely upholstered red banquette, chomp on a wedge, go head-to-head with that mid-rare rib eye . . . and be able to tell people it was a professional obligation. I wanted to have a good time every night. For a year. I pictured many glasses of properly aged red wine and the jolt of joy every time someone told me there was a baked Alaska waiting in the wings.
At the same time, I knew deep down that pure pleasure was not what all this obsession was about. I went looking for books on the steak house to find some clues. There was loads of stuff on the good, the bad, and the ugly of the beef industry in the United States. There were enough cookbooks on grilling meat to keep you sweating in front of the coals for the rest of your time on this earth. But what about books that are fully dedicated to exploring a culinary style that’s represented in almost every city of this weird, frustrating, and wonderful nation?
I kept digging. I talked to chefs and scholars. They were very patient with me. They enlightened me. They confirmed that this is a tradition as uniquely American as jazz, baseball, and keeping the AC on during a blizzard. One very smart person, Professor Joshua Specht, told me that in a lot of ways the history of the American steak house is the history of what it has meant to be an American in the twentiethcentury: a quote-unquote Golden Age, followed by a period of decline, followed by an existential conversation about who we are and who we should be in the future. That sure is a lot to tackle. Especially because I am not a historian. But maybe, I figured, I could go deep on the subject in my own way. The way I know how. Living it and documenting it with insane devotion. It was enough to convince my publisher to let me go on an adventure.
And so, welcome to our Steak House. Jerome will be taking care of you this evening
Copyright © 2025 by Eric Wareheim with Gabe Ulla. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
