Rare or Well-Done
Got beef?
THE THOUGHT: Beef
Harry Cole
“It’s quite hard to fuck up a steak,” I once boldly told a girlfriend. We were in a shabby hotel in the country and arrived too late for anything other than room service. The options were wildly ambitious given the state of the place and it seemed like the safest bet. How wrong I was. Burnt on the outside, still frozen in the middle. Looking back, the relationship never really recovered from that beef.
Instead, the cow should be the ultimate emotional support animal. Milk makes us strong as children. They taught us to chew the cud, move with the herd and let us know when rain is coming. Belts keep our trousers up, the same leather wallet for 16 years.
The cruelness of veal, guilt too often pardoned by the figleaf of breadcrumbs and gingham tablecloths. Rock salt and lemon strewn across paper thin carpaccio, swilled with cold Gavi and the fumes of terrible Italian drivers. Cherry red tartare sprinkled with gorgonzola and blow torched at the table.
I have a strict no queuing for food rule; apart from that date place that doesn’t take reservations and only serves fillet in the secret sauce with mountains of french fries. Two grown men devoting an entire Saturday to the perfect T-bone, cooked backwards for hours in a tepid oven before blackened on white coals. We didn’t need to talk about anything else.
If martinis unlock love and oysters smooth its course, steak sears it on our hearts.
Harry Cole is another British journo in DC, but he’s here to Save the West.
THE AFTERTHOUGHT: Power Dining
Napoleon
Here I was in the nation’s capital, the current center of world power. I was walking to a dinner meeting at the power restaurant, The Capital Grille. I found myself wondering, was this the original Capital Grille, kind of like the original Chick-fil-A, just south of Atlanta?
Walking in, I was early for my meeting, so I grabbed a seat at the bar and texted my friend telling him I had arrived. I will head over from the Capitol now, see you soon, he replied. I was in the nations Capitol, sitting in the Capital Grille, with my friend walking over from the actual Capitol building itself.
With drink in hand, I began to scan the scene. Funny, everyone there seemed to be scanning also. Not like in my hometown, or in New York, or anywhere I had ever been. They seemed to all be looking at me. Then I realized they were actually looking at everyone. I supposed they were trying to determine who mattered.
Ground zero in lobbyist land is a place in the world where $100 steaks are rounding errors on expense reports, since government spending line items need to be eleven figures to be considered material. In the Capital Grille in Capitol Hill, prime steaks are something like popcorn at a movie.
In walked my old friend, the junior senator from a purple state. Suddenly heads were turning and people were taking note. Now it seemed, I did matter. Who was the guy with the senator? Why don’t we recognize him? Does he have leverage, their stares seemed to ask about me.
We were escorted to our table for two, shaking hands all the way. I imagined this kind of power would be addictive. Soon after we had settled in and placed our order, there was some commotion which attracted our attention. The entourage moving toward us, my friend explained, was that of the senior senator from a very red state. Those men were clearly in the right place. Red meat for the men from the red state.
After dinner, as I said my goodbyes and walked away, I couldn’t help but feel a little small. Maybe one day my friend would be a senior senator instead of the junior one. Maybe one day I would be riding in his black suburban with security, and not walking back to my hotel. Maybe one day my $100 steak would be buried in someone else’s budget. Power and red meat; more red meat and more power. Irresistible in the end.
Napoleon is an entrepreneur from Florida.
THE FEELING: The Perfect Steak
Lily Sperry
The perfect steak doesn’t exist because I haven’t allowed myself to have it yet. I think I’ve had the perfect organ meat burger, at Hearth on 12th Street. The perfect steak tartare, maybe, at Lucien a few blocks over. The perfect ground beef, extra rare, prepared in my gothic studio apartment. But the perfect steak? The perfect steak requires the perfect company. It asks to be split, then devoured, no laffy taffy, cleanly chewed. Its animal was pasture raised, grass fed and finished, living in better conditions than the patron sitting in front of it. It is a reminder of something else and nothing else, because it is perfect, and perfection is distinct.
The last time I had steak, it wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t matter. It was my 28th birthday, and one of my last nights living in New York, and all I could focus on was dancing, and talking, and doing the splits. I have always wanted to have a party trick, but never really did, and was certain that my splits could be just that. But collapsed there, Limi Feu short-shorts barely skimming the warped hardwood floor. I realized that I hadn’t gotten them yet. I still haven’t. I don’t have the perfect splits, or the perfect steak, but I know I will, and it’s perfect.
Lily Sperry writes Health Gossip.
THE FIND: Steak as Luxury
Recommended by Rachel Seville Tashjian
In times of economic and social uncertainty many people spend money on things that stand the test of time. Steak, served on a big white plate with a $22 side of creamed spinach, is one such enduring pleasure. It’s not the quiet luxury of foods — it is more the Charvet shirt or John Lobb loafer, an old time and showy indulgence. The fact that I go to a steakhouse these days and see just as many 20-somethings on dates as I do expense account types and tourists shows this is a truth that transcends age, social tribes and politics!
Rachel Seville Tashjian is a senior style reporter and fashion critic at CNN, and creator of Opulent Tips.
THE BLUFF: Reservations
A.P. Belikov
“what’s your favorite virtue?”
“Loyalty”
“why?”
They’re at the oldest steakhouse in the city. The ribeyes have been cleared out. Everyone is on their customary third martini, except John, who has switched to port. John gets things other people don’t.
“What’s on your phone,” says John, lisping.
“I’m talking to a girl,” Mark says.
“Let’s see.”
Mark holds his phone up to the table.
“Give it to me.”
John takes it, takes his glasses off. Squints.
“Brown.”
The table laughs.
“She’s Spanish,” Mark offers, “like—European—”
“Brown country.”
“Careful,” someone murmurs.
“Shut the fuck up.” John yells.
Chris stands, takes off his jacket, walks behind John. Rubs his shoulders.
“Alright,” he soothes. “Take it easy.”
John’s lisp is worse when he’s drunk. Everything is worse when he’s drunk. It doesn’t matter. He’s loyal. He got Mark his job. And Chris. Charlie too.
Mark takes his phone back.
“Have you ever seen St. Elmo’s Fire”
She’s probably never heard of it. He imagines her Googling it. Zooming in on Emilio Estevez, floppy-haired in a J. Press blazer. Reading the Wikipedia, deciding what kind of man asks that question at this restaurant at this hour.
John is watching his glass sweat. Chris and Charlie have gone out to smoke.
A.P. Belikov is a humble bureaucrat.
THE VOTE
HOT MIC
THE TALLY
On the House. Our understanding is that when it comes to steakhouses and working on the Hill: “Cap Grille is the spot. The joke was any time our boss went to Cap Grille we’d get yelled at because he’d get fucked up.”
Tuesday’s State of the Union address prompted watch parties across the city, though many reportedly ended early: at one hour and forty-seven minutes, it was the longest SOTU in the nation’s history. The Ballot’s live chat made a valiant effort, tapping out around the one hour and forty mark.
Farthest Heaven held a reading at Butterworth’s on Sunday night, titled Capitol Letters, featuring Audrey Lee reading from her new collection of short fiction, Utter Goodness, alongside other writers. Guests gathered over martinis and appetizers, and the evening leaned into a familiar, Americana-tinged sensibility, with the writers engaging in extended discussion of craft woven between readings. While some of the commentary expressed reservations about writing from the self, we remain broadly sympathetic to it as a mode.
Call for a Tenant Expert. A Balloter reached out after discovering active leaks in his apartment… water coming from both the bedroom ceiling and the floor. If you know DC tenant law or have experience dealing with landlords over serious maintenance issues, please get in touch: secretballotdc@gmail.com.
Don’t Miss:
Secret Ballot is planning an early spring reading with The Republic of Letters Substack for subscribers. Stay tuned for more information about this and book club announcements.
Right Proper Brewing’s final day in Shaw is March 1. While the date and location of the move are still TBD, we do know they’re staying right here in Washington. We’re thrilled for our friends at RPB and are already looking forward to gathering in their new home and, of course, enjoying a few Senate Beers along the way.
Gossip or intelligence? We can’t tell the difference. Send your scoops and events to secretballotdc@gmail.com and we’ll post them anonymously.
One thing im not doing is giving up steak for lent
For sure Cap Grill has grasped the title of “power” spot in DC for two decades but for some reason it frustrates me. I get that for the politicos and those impressed by them this is the spot to hang but as a restaurant is it ever really exciting? Personally I think Charlie Palmer Steak was slightly more interesting and probably had more ambition at one time but it was never able to wrestle the reins from Cap Grill.