You might have noticed, if you’ve been following along here, that I quite like to cook, at home, in my own kitchen rather than going out to eat. I’m just not that into multi-course dinners (incompatible with my current level of pancake consumption), drinking (three day hangovers get old quick) or staying up late (11pm is about my limit). To give you an idea of the full horror of my non-partying ways, I found myself saying just yesterday while mailing a letter, “I really like stamps”. Then realised I also like identifying birds, National Trust properties and German rucksacks with lots of pockets, and that I am hence far too gone to ever be cool. More worrying, perhaps, is that I no longer care.
But steak is one of the few things that’ll make me venture out from my domestic cocoon. For a start, I’m just not good at the whole grilling thing – knowing what kind of grill or pan to use and telling if the meat is black and blue or medium rare or whatever are, as yet, mysteries. Plus the fact that domestic pans just don’t get hot enough to get a lovely char on. No, I’m quite happy to pay someone else to source and cook my steak, thanks.
What I do want, if I’m paying, is a no-fucking-around attitude to steak eating: the meat has to be stellar and it has to be cooked perfectly and not smothered with sauces, spices or garlic. It’s got to arrive quickly – it takes about 45 seconds to cook a black-and-blue steak on a restaurant grill, so any longer than 15 minutes to table is taking the piss, especially if the waiter isn’t counting on lots of alcohol drinking happening in the meantime. And the waiters have to be smart enough to realise, from my brisk demeanour, that I am a no-fucking-around type of steak eater and don’t want to be excessively cosseted or have a 15 minute menu explanation. Also, I don’t really give a toss about the sides (seriously, who eats lobster mac and cheese with a decent steak?) but Fabio insists the mashed potatos have to be good. Oh and pudding. If pudding is bad, then Fabio the sugar addict won’t let us come back.
After our first meal at Red Steakhouse in Miami Beach, it appears to nail all those must-haves.
Firstly, the meat was exceptional. It’s Aged Certified Angus Beef USDA Prime, which our waiter said classified it in the top 1% of all meat in the US and I classified as awesome. I had the 9oz filet mignon, Fabio the 16oz bone-in aged filet mignon special and both were really good – much better quality than BLT, for sure. We asked for ours without the usual spices and garlic brushing [insert anti-garlic rant here] and both duly came buck naked on the plates, no garnish, no nufink, and thank god for that. The bone-in aged filet did have a bit more of a complex flavour than the standard version as well as a lot more visible fat running through it. But what you gained with a bit more taste was also a more challenging texture, a 99 dollar price tag and some fiddly cutting around the bone business – I’d stick to the normal filet next time (and order two if it looks small). The mashed potatoes were less fluffy than drinkable from all the butter and cream whipped into them – let’s be clear here, this is by no means a complaint.
All the essential accompaniments were perfectly good and there were no bum notes to distract us from the main steak event: the room has a good balance between traditional steakhouse touches (sports bar, lots of red, banquettes) and modern (floor to ceiling wine cellar, clean lines). I felt equally at home in plaid shirt and flipflops as I did in a LBD. Service was spot on – charming, efficient waiters who kept the plates coming speedily without rushing us. Sourdough ficelles to start were surprisingly good, served with olive oil and parmesan. Puddings were pretty tasty too – white chocolate gelato that I’d have been proud to make and a key lime pie which was pretty to look at and, for once, neither cloying or foamy. (Blueberry sorbet was far too lemony though.) Espresso was decent as well.
In fact, we were so impressed by easy-going Red that we went back two days later to eat mashed potatoes try the fish side of the menu (selfless martyrs to the cause that we are). To sum up: West Coast oysters very tasty, but served without all the little sauces that make them really fun. Tuna tartare had very fresh fish but with steak tartare flavours rather than the ubiquitous asian notes I now realise I prefer. For mains, my pan-seared salmon was swimming in a herby, oily sauce and I wasn’t a fan. But the tuna filet mignon was a barely seared chunk of gorgeous jewel-hued fish and a really valid alternative on those nights where you’re all steaked out. The whipped potatoes, I am ecstatic to report, were just as “please-don’t-leave-me-alone-with-the-bowl” moreish as the first time round.
In short, we’ve found our new go-to steakhouse in Miami and it’s one I don’t mind leaving home for one bit. Another review suggested that Red were unlucky to open up at the same time as some other more famous/up-themselves steak joints and so they effectively missed the boat as far as marketing themselves as cool. Hopefully that means less queuing and maitre-d schmoozing and more great steak for the rest of us.
(P.S. The scary Salvador Dali eyes are a detail from an amazing artist, Arjuna Watson, based in the Bahamas)
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