New York

To celebrate the three year anniversary of my initial desire to eat at Peter Luger, after three years of not devising an excuse to spend so much money on steak, I just went. Besides, you never know if even the famous institutions will survive a recession. Max Brenner in the East Village is now closed, so if people are no longer willing to pay high prices for meals crafted entirely of chocolate, maybe there are fewer foodies rushing out for a renowned cut of meat. Honestly, the meal at Peter Luger was fantastic. I shared the unbelievably tender and flavorful Steak for Two ($85), a sizzling half-fillet t-bone that they aged themselves, with some excellent not-too-creamy spinach. Even the onion rolls and the milk chocolate coins given with the check are excellent. Only small complaint: their barbecue sauce more closely resembles shrimp cocktail sauce. But how much is a meal ever really worth, even if it's nearly unparalleled? A million dollars? It's hard to assign it a numerical value based on an emotional response, but that doesn't mean it wasn't one of the best steaks I've ever eaten.

Photo:  Sarah Enelow

Yes, the "Fucking" is there, right in the title, so you know how passionately we feel, dear readers, about this, the mother of all steakhouses, sitting right in our backyard since 1887. Cash (or Peter Luger personal credit card) only, it has the best German potatoes, best creamed spinach, onion rolls, bacon, steak sauce, chocolate mousse cake, and whipped cream on the planet, and ah, what meat! Sizzling porterhouse direct from the 40,000-Degrees Kelvin Peter Luger ovens, delivered to your table with pools of juice right there to be dipped into with your onion roll--or dribbled over your sex organs if that's your thing. And to anyone who's gone and thinks it's just "okay": blow me. You're a moron.

Photo:  Rob Tallia

Were there anything in the world worth worship, it would have to be the porterhouse steaks at Peter Luger Steak House. After a recent lunch comprising of creamed spinach, a slice of slab bacon, french fries, and enough steak to render moot the question that must be in the mind of anyone following our ridiculous presidential nomination race--Where’s the beef?--I set up a small shrine in my home. A printout of the digital photo you see to the left, a couple of chocolate coins wrapped in Peter Luger gold, and a large empty jar where I put a devotional offering of the day’s unspent change now occupies one of my kitchen cabinets. Think of it as a steak savings account, a piggy-bank for prime meat. And though it might take a good six months to accrue enough change for a steak-for-two (and possibly, hopefully, enough to spare to get another slice of that bacon), it will be well worth the wait, because ever since that memorable lunch, I can’t help but feel an idolater’s shame every time I look at the steaks in my local butcher’s display case. For now, either a perfect porterhouse, or no beef at all. Would that worship could hasten the day...

Photo:  Sho Spaeth