When you think of the New York Yankees, you think of tradition. You think of excellence. You think of ... dry-aged beef?
That's what the Yanks are hoping for with NYY Steak, which is located inside their new stadium.
As a serious carnivore and lifelong Yankee-hater, I'm intrigued by NYY Steak. This team treats anything less than a World Series championship as an abject failure, so anything less than the best steak of my life should be judged as an utter disgrace, right? And how will the Yankees' penchant for Donald Trump-esque opulence play out -- will the menus be diamond-encrusted? Will the men's room urinals be gold-plated? Will the steaks be gold-plated? Will Hideki Irabu be out front parking cars?
With these and other pressing questions weighing on my mind, I recently made arrangements to visit NYY Steak with fellow Page 2er Mike Philbrick, who loves meat (and since he's from Massachusetts, hates the Yankees) as much as I do. Here's a rough chronology of how it went down:
April 8, 6:45 p.m.: I call to make a reservation. The woman answering the phone takes down my information and adds, "Please note that our dress code is business casual -- no jeans, no sneakers." Excuse me, did she say casual? These are the Yankees we're talking about -- shouldn't the dress code be black tie? Or even white tie? A few minutes later it hits me: They had to go with biz casual because that allows for white turtlenecks.
April 14, 7:06 p.m.: Mike and I meet outside the new Yankee Stadium. In honor of the new MLB season and the Yankees' long heritage of excellence, we've chosen a meeting spot that symbolizes all that is holy at this cathedral of baseball: the stadium's on-site Hard Rock Cafe. We've also decided to push the envelope a bit with some strategic clothing choices: a Mets cap for me, a Red Sox cap for Mike (plus, for good measure, a Red Sox tie). Thus attired, we nod to each other and prepare to enter the enemy's lair.
7:07 p.m.: We walk into the stadium and proceed toward the elevators that will take us to the steakhouse. A man approaches us and says, "Oh, you must be the 7 o'clock party, right?" It begins to dawn on me that a reservation may not have been entirely necessary.
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