Mastro’s reminds me of a slick, LA version of Chicago’s Gibson’s, but without the rich history. Same piano player. Same triumvirate of botox, Viagra and pretty young things hoping to hook up with a rich old coot. (They don’t call Rush and State the Viagra Triangle for nothing.) And sadly (sorry, Gibson’s) the same over-rated food.
My sister once said to me that if you put enough cheese and butter in a dish, it can’t help but taste good, but it takes a gifted chef to bring out the subtle nuances of a perfectly crisp-tender haricot vert. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think this might be TOO MUCH CHEESE AND BUTTER:
I know, I know, most people go for the steak and the “experience.” (Apparently Dennis Farina was in the house last night. If he wasn’t from Chicago, I’d make a B-List celebrity crack. But he is, so I won’t.) And I’m the dork who ordered the side dish as my main. And it is indeed a pretty, convivial place, with a little bar downstairs and a much bigger one (with the piano player) upstairs:
Plus, every time I got up, an invisible waiter rolled my napkin into a little cigar and placed it, just so, at my right hand. So if you have a mortgage payment to spare, I guess I do recommend Mastro’s for the “experience,” and possibly if you’re really into steak, you’ll find the price tag worth it. (I had amazing steak right off the grill this weekend in Lake Arrowhead, and I can’t imagine anything better than big slabs of beef grilled over an open flame in that clean, crisp mountain air — but maybe that’s just me.)
Finally, there’s this nonsense. (Thanks, Adra.)
I want them! And I will pay someone to watch Piperlime religiously and let me know if they go on sale. Bidding starts at a dollar. Ante UP.