Nostalgia is a hell of a seasoning. | Getty Images/iStockphoto I recently had a longer-than-usual conversation with an old friend whom I keep running into at steakhouses. After brushes at Musso & Frank Grill (twice), Smoke House, and Little Dom’s (a spiritually steakhouse-adjacent Italian restaurant), a pattern became apparent: We both like restaurants with rib-eye, icy martinis, and red leather booths. “Why are you always out at steakhouses, dressed like Sharon Stone in Casino?” he asked. It’s a good question. Why do I, an analytical, alternative-leaning writer who listens to experimental ambient music and buys organic lettuces at the farmers market every weekend, feel drawn to a setting that unapologetically celebrates power, masculinity, and excess? Why do I want to occasionally make-believe that I’m a millionaire in 1957 (read: a white man with a generous expense account) sinking his teeth into a bloody rib-eye, lit Kent in hand, even if that fantasy isn’t exactly designed for me? I really do love steak and potatoes, cold vodka, and an excuse to dress up, but that’s not the only answer. In truth, like many people, I’m craving something less tangible. Mired in homesickness for loosely defined “times that felt simpler” as I struggle to keep my morale afloat in a sea of endless doomsday notifications, I find a relief in the escapism of steakhouses and the familiarity of olives on a toothpick, a shrimp cocktail, and a room that could plausibly exist in 1940 or 1980 — somehow able to compartmentalize the experience…
