Can you seriously tell me if you can tell the piece of steak apart from the iron plate it is lying on in the picture on the left? More exactly, that piece of charred, blackened Wagyu lying on the same coloured iron plate and which cost me HK$330? Can you? I bet not.
Now, lets turn to the picture in the middle. How do you think I asked for my steak to be cooked? Well done? Since it looks kind of grey? No. I asked for medium. Do you see any pink in that picture? Probably not.
Finally, do you see that gigantic, milk-tin looking thing on the right? What do you think it is? A pint of milk? Well, good guess, but nope. That’s salt. Yes, so much salt that it is almost impossible to sprinkle onto my steak due to its weight and the fact that it is holes covering such a large surface area you are never quite sure where your salt would eventually land.
So sorry you guessed all three answers wrong. I apologize for the less than perfect picture quality as I took it with my iPhone, but it still captures the spirit of our meal last night.
The only thing it was not able to capture was the sound effect. Now, first of all, let me tell you what kind of music this much-acclaimed steakhouse hailing from New York was playing. It was playing Celine Dion’s “Because You Loved Me” (or was it “If You Asked Me To”? Honestly I cannot quite remember, but you get the picture) along with a whole two-hours worth of nineties music, blasting.
The second soundtrack it was not able to capture was the persistent shouting from what looked like an eight-year boy from our motherland. “I want to go to the toilet!” he demanded to the waiter who was bringing us bread. Realising that he had not quite gotten the attention he had wanted, he demanded again, this time louder and accompanied by an urgent tucking at the waiter’s sleeves, “I want to go to the toilet!” The waiter, mesmersized, uttered something I never quite caught and walked away in a bit of a stupor, the boy following, looking lost, behind him.
So if you still haven’t quite managed to get what I am trying to tell you, get this. The steak at BLT Steak was the worst I have ever had in my life. The wagyu, which came twice since the first one was overcooked, tasted like big, oversized chunks of Chinese stir-fried beef. And not even good stir-fry. I am talking about Chinatown standard, tenderized beef which had gone through the “make me soft” ritual but which had somehow lost its flavour in the process while retaining all its annoying chewiness. I am talking about beef so tasteless, dry and hard it in fact managed to make us tired of chewing it halfway through dinner. Even with all that amazing, romantic harbour-front view, the exposed brick walls and the blackboard in the back, it made me crave for some instant noodles and 許留山. It was that bad.
I've been to the BLT in New York and just now, the one in Atlanta. I don't know what it is but it seems that when decent chefs get the itch to create an international 'chain' like that of Joel Robuchon's, it goes downhill very fast - like the fall of a mediocre empire. Too bad that in the pursuit of global fame, they overlook quality control of minor things like the food and the service. They should save us the trouble of eating the food and just charge the HK$300 at the door for the pleasure of visiting.
Someone described the NY BLT as a 50-something pick-up joint that was entertaining like a "strange zoo" but alas, not entertaining enough to distract them from the horrible steak and not much better service. I had a similar experience. Overpaid for overcooked fare. It's always wonderful to have half the table send back their steaks and wait a significant period of time only to join their fellow diners who are now on dessert (and probably just out of sympathy).
The Atlanta experience was a bit more repugnant. Friends I was visiting dragged me there so I didn't want to make a snobby fuss about it and just plugged my nose and hoped for the best. HAHA! Where to begin. Despite having the pleasure of dining amongst obese southerners (and I'm being kind here - with both adjective and noun) attired in t-shirts, shorts and running shoes (in the winter), the food was consistently bad and the service one notch worse than in NY. The coup-de-gras was the little plastic 'sign' in the shape of a cow that was sticking out of my food - you know, to remind me that I ordered a 'medium' - apparently off the children's menu.
I've only felt more 'satisfied' with losing US $100 at a casino. Thanks for the memories Laurent. You should have stuck with surf not turf.
Posted by: Johann | 30 January 2010 at 01:36 AM