I've eaten a lot of steak in New York. I probably couldn't even name all of the steakhouses I've been to. This, though, is Peter Luger's. One of the most famous in New York. I don't remember why I look like an insurance agent here (nor do I remember why Ryan is putting the moves on me, or who Kat is trying to fool with those bunny ears), but I do remember getting off of the G train at Broadway when I was much newer and it was much sketchier, and going into a bodega to take out $100 because Luger's only takes cash. I also remember trying to calm myself as I walked up Broadway with like half of my bank account in my pocket, ready to blow it all on some dry aged beef.
I loved my first Luger's steak (as I loved the second and third ones over the years.) I loved the creamed spinach, and the German fried potatoes. I only liked the thick cut bacon. There is one taste from that restaurant, though, that surpasses all the others. That has continually haunted my dreams, more than the expertly prepared meat and sides.
And that is the Luger's schlag. Piled high on top of an ice cream sundae, that house-made whipped cream remains on of my top five single bites in New York. Perfect sweetness, perfect rich, velvety texture. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
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