In it, I talk about the first time I was able to afford to take my girlfriend out for a proper dinner in DC. When compared to the stuff that I write now for a living, this is just … ridiculous, but it’s cute in an “aaw, that little kitten has feline down syndrome” kind of way.
To be fair, I was about 23-ish when I wrote this, and I like to think I’ve developed a bit as a writer, let alone a boyfriend … but then again, I like to think a lot of things. I remember being very excited about the entire evening, and quite proud that I could pick up the $200 tab, which at the time was (and still is, really) a fair whack of cash, but I was determined to impress. I guess it worked at least a bit, since she’s still with me … for now.
In any event, here it is, pretty much in its entirety, with some new pictures added in because the old links died. If you want to compare and contrast my style in 2005 with my style in 2012 (and I strongly recommend you do), head to my personal blog’s restaurant review section: http://stevenpaugh.com/published-work/cuisine-2/, or don’t and just assume I still use the word “awesome” to describe everything…
So I decided to do something I’ve never done before. I bet you can’t guess what it is!
Shower and/or bathe?
HA HA! No.
Kill for the sake of killing?
Something I haven’t done before…
I decided to take my lady-love on a nice date. Now, usually, I would let my date choose where she wanted to go. I would also let her drive … and pay. But no, I decided to slather on the charm last night, figuring that I had enough money saved to finally take her for an expensive meal. Thus did I set myself a mission, a goal, even, dare I say, a dream … and decided to do a little research.
After much delineation and fervent procrastination, I turned my attention to the Washingtonian online, and began this journey called “romance.” There were some good choices, some bad ones, and then I started reading about midget wrestling and got sidetracked…
I finally happened onto the place we ended up going: The Prime Rib (on K street, between 21st and 22nd street in DC – Feragut West Metro stop). Now, I’ve made some bad decisions in my time, like that whole Captain FantasDick phase I went through, but I tell you, this one was actually a good idea!
I couldn’t believe it myself.
The place’s atmosphere was awesome to start. From the moment my patent leather shoe gracefully alighted upon the leopard print carpet, it just felt right. To explain, The Prime Rib is a circa-1940s supper lounge, complete with a piano/double bass jazz band in the middle of the restaurant. It’s mandatory for gentlemen to be all gussied up n’ spiffed out (and by that I mean wear a tie and jacket), so I put on my new chocolate brown suit, Katy looked uber-hot in a turquoise number, and we sauntered into the heart of glorificence.
The food there was awesome … and that just doesn’t do it justice. It was honestly the best substance I’ve ever put into my mouth [insert inappropriate joke here].
We started with the lobster bisque – the creamiest, richest, one of the most beautiful goos I’ve ever had [...and again], and a nice bottle of Pinot Noir. Then we had the main course. Katy had the rack of lamb, which was f’ing out of this world.
I had their signature Roast Prime Rib, the biggest, fattest cut of meat [laugh laugh laugh] I’ve ever seen, slow roasted for five hours and yet still as rare as a summer day is long. It melted like butter in my mouth. We capped it all off with homemade key lime pie and some of the best coffee ever.
I can’t go on enough about this place. Seriously, it has become my favorite restaurant. It is pricy, and is a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of thing, but it was definitely worth every penny … which we stole from that homeless shelter. Suckers.
Anyway, I highly suggest that if you want to have the best meal of your life with portions bigger than god, if you want one helluva an atmosphere, and if you want to melt some chick’s panties quicker than an ice pop on a july morning, then I definitely recommend The Prime Rib … conveniently located next to The Prime Rob for after-dinner entertainment. And by that I mean male strippers. Obviously.
If you’re reading this … you ARE the Stevolution.