Northshore magazine showcases the best that the North Shore of Boston, MA has to offer.
Issue link: http://read.uberflip.com/i/514590
112 S T A N D I N G O V E R M Y S T O V E in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I poke uncertainly with a meat thermome- ter at the slab of grocery store steak sizzling on my broiler pan. The fat splatters up and burns my hand, but the thermometer reads only a tepid 118 degrees Fahrenheit, so I put the meat back under the heat, the flavor of the steak no doubt leaking out now through the hole I've poked into it. Maybe three more minutes? Four? Although I grew up on a meat- and-potatoes diet in rural Iowa, lately I've been dabbling in whole- foods veganism. Most summers, I'll go on a steak kick, grilling rib-eyes once a week or so. But eventually the craving fades, and I go back to kale and quinoa. I eat rib eyes (rather than New York strips or filet mignons) simply because that's what I've always eaten. Tonight, it's cold and dark and drizzling outside, so I don't even have the benefit of the grill. Instead of fresh vegetables brushed with olive oil and kissed by the flames, my side dish will be the frozen bag of broccoli that's steaming in the microwave. This is all a somewhat sad attempt at a dry run for what awaits: visits to six of the fanciest steak houses on the North Shore. Steak houses are not for uncer- tainty. Steak houses are not for sweatpants. Steak houses are not for people who, as I have just done, prepare their meat with olive oil and a Montreal Grill Mates grinder. Steak houses are for confidence. They're for people who know things, and who know they know things—things about Scotch, things about cigars, and for damn sure S things about beef. Steak houses are for people who can tell by press- ing on a piece of meat whether it's rare or medium rare and who will—without pity—send it back to the kitchen if it fails to meet their exacting demands. Steak houses are not for people like me. But I'm willing to give them a shot. My adventure begins when I pick up an old high school friend who's in Boston for a conference. I haven't seen him in 15 years, and when I notice that he has on a baseball cap, I worry that he'll wear it into the restaurant. He doesn't. Our waiter tries to interest him in one of The Bancroft's specialty cocktails, but instead he orders a Bud Light. As food comes out, I have to ask for instructions on how to eat it. The steak tartare is a perfect little cylinder of chopped meat, topped by NO RT H S H O R E S T E A K H O U S E S