Just minutes after the usher/ hostess tucked my friends and me into our semicircular booth, the curtain went up at Morton’s of Chicago, the Steakhouse. The first performer of the evening would have just a small part limited to the offering of beverages from the bar. She suggested lemon drops. We declined and opted for sidecars and martinis, and she exited stage right. Left nearly alone in the theater, we spent a few minutes taking in the immense mahogany stage that stretched in front of us. The air in the theater, besides being conditioned to a crisp cool, was thick with masculinity, formality, and anticipation.
When curtains parted, the narrator and primary character, a fresh-faced waitress with silk blond hair and a knack for appearing out of nowhere, positioned a large, wheeled steel cart right in front of our table and stood straight and tall in her pressed white shirt. Nodding her head severely like Barbara Eden on I Dream of Jeannie, she began an extensive monologue. With raw, Saran-wrapped cuts of beef and various vegetables as props, the narrator went over nearly every item on the menu, describing and displaying each filet with a telemarketer’s rote detachment and a Stepford wife’s obedience. Cut by cut, she detailed each of the steak choices, and even had a live lobster at the ready, which, much to our horror, she unfurled, overturned, and sprawled out in front of us without much regard for the poor thing’s dignity. When she was finished, the stage manager, who had been standing by just off the stage, whisked the cart away.
But the truly strange part was the narrator’s discourse on the salad and vegetables. She picked up a beefsteak tomato, tossed it gently into the air and caught it, then launched into a description of Morton’s tomato and blue cheese salad with the prop resting in the palm of her hand. It’s quite understandable that some audiences might benefit from a review of the various cuts of beef, but who in the house needs a visual for tomatoes or asparagus? Although we were all in agreement that her memorization skills were truly commendable, we found the whole opening scene rather frightening.
But to be fair, when my friend asked why we were offered Atlantic salmon when our own ocean’s is so far superior, the narrator broke from the monologue and extemporaneously detailed Morton’s (of Chicago, you’ll recall) adherence to an East Coast menu. Hey, at least the girl can improv.
As we had heard the sides and appetizers were even better than the steaks, our table ruminated on the playbill/menu for an extra couple of minutes before settling on broiled sea scallops wrapped in bacon ($10.95), saut饤 mushrooms ($7.95), crab cakes ($29.95), the tomato salad ($6.95), creamed spinach ($7.95), Lyonnaise potatoes ($4.95), steak au poivre ($31.95), and a filet mignon ($34.95). We also placed an order for the raspberry souffl頨$12.95), as the narrator had warned of the necessity to order this difficult-to-prepare dessert ahead of time.
COMPLIMENTS TO the costumer the starched white shirts and black bow ties were fabulously simple, and the entire cast (most members seen and not heard) was immaculate. Despite the professionalism of the cast, star billing has to go to the crab cakes. They were incredibly meaty and almost devoid of filler. Truly delicious. Equally sublime were the huge, juicy scallops. Never have I seen them so big and so beautiful. The mushroom dish, a decadent blend of several top-shelf varieties, was buttery and a bit heavy, but upon scooping some of the ‘shrooms onto our steaks, we found a delicious balance. Speaking of heavy, the creamed spinach was also a little much but, in small portions, quite good in that decadent dairy way. The Lyonnaise potatoes, which were cubed and saut饤 with bacon and onions, were superb. Summon the memory of your favorite diner hash browns and multiply it by 40. No, 45.
As for the steaks, sadly, I’ve had much better. Reared as I was on New York’s finest steak houses, where au poivre truly means your steak is heavily decorated with coarse black pepper and every bite of your filet melts in your mouth like Popsicles on summer days, I was under-impressed with the performances of the main attraction. Even my companions, who spend summer evenings grilling the best available grocery store cuts in their backyard, were not wowed.
As for the order-ahead souffl鿠What, exactly, is the big deal? Most of it sat unfinished when the final curtain fell.
No, Morton’s doesn’t deserve the Tony for best steak in the city (I’ve had better at the Queen City Grill) nor best drama, despite the restaurant’s efficient, diverse, and entertaining production. However, should the academy begin doling out awards for the most spendy meal in town, I’ll bet Morton’s at least gets runner-up: The bill for the three of us, including tip, was just under 300 bucks.
