DISH
with Maribeth Maloney
Oscar Worthy
Allow me to set the scene: The protagonists are in a dimly-lit hotel room in Manhattan. It's midday and they're lounging in robes. They feel dangerous. Having successfully ditched two kids and fled from an island, they're devising a wicked plan. Earlier in the day, they promised each other they'd do the unthinkable…

Take a nap.

Sorry for the G-rated let down. But in my world, parents + napping = X. We procrastinated long enough to watch a movie on pay-per-view, but I chose badly: "The Devil Wears Prada." Granted, we wanted mindless and we got it. I'm just not sure Meryl Streep's performance was Oscar caliber. Not unless the criteria for nomination has sunk to "greatest number of wardrobe changes crammed into 109 minutes." I suppose I had a severe case of Prada on the brain; I could hear it calling out to me from the building next door. I should mention that my Last Will and Testament includes detailed instructions on the equal distribution of my ashes; half in the shoe department, half in handbags. The only remaining detail is naming an executor with the requisite appreciation for fine Italian leather.

After the rigors of such an afternoon, there was only one decision left: Where to go for dinner. I'd yet to even muster up hunger, when suddenly, it hit me: steakhouse.

Mind you, I don't eat steak, beef steak that is. But one of the reasons I love steakhouses is the tuna steaks, those and the other generally excellent seafood dishes and shellfish cocktails. Then there are the side dishes. I can't say I'm a potato fan, be they baked, au gratin-ized, lyonnaised, shoestringed, julienned or mashed; nor do I ever order the creamed spinach, onion rings, truffled mac and cheese, hollandaise-drowned asparagus or butter-buried mushrooms. However, I do very much enjoy being in the same room with them.

Not surprisingly, my husband was game. He'd never be accused of thumbing his nose at a steak. And since he'd be the preferred focal point of our server (orders more; complains less), I decided to let him choose.

Over the course of years, we've covered a fair amount of turf in terms of the city's steakhouses. Considering there are over 120 Manhattan restaurants that categorize themselves as such, covering all the turf would be far too intrepid an adventure for anyone. To me, there's not much difference between them. They all have waiters who've similarly mastered the technique of emoting one essential behavior: abrasiveness. And they jointly share a collection of characters cast for the sole purpose of drifting from steakhouse to steakhouse to play out their roles as clientele: the expense account guys, the bachelor party/strip joint guys, the "this is my date, not my daughter" guys, and the "hurry up and eat toots, I'm payin' you by the hour" guys. …I'm not sure where I fit in there, but that's part of the fun; steakhouses are pure cinema.

The two that I find most interesting, which is not to say my favorites, are Peter Luger and Ruth's Chris - the granddaddy and the largest, respectively.

Peter Luger opened for business beneath the Brooklyn Bridge in 1887, coinciding with the time that steak as we know it no longer needed to be qualified as "beef steak." Since the 15th century, "steak," which comes from the Old Norse word "steik" ("stick"), referred to a strip of meat or fish cooked on a stick over a fire. From early colonial times until the late 1800s, steak generally referred to more readily available wild venison and buffalo steaks. But once the first Texas longhorns reached New York City via railroad, beef raised solely for eating knocked its feral cousins out of the slaughterhouse. Since then, there's been no mistaking what "steak" and "steakhouse" mean.

Despite Peter Luger's revered place in steakhouse history, it's not my cup of au jus. First, you need a car service to get to its nocturnally treacherous location. Better said, to get out. You won't find any cabbies waiting around to extract you from that part of Brooklyn in the dark. Furthermore, its "cash only." That policy might fly innocently enough on Nantucket, but it's a little too…how shall I say?..."badda-bi badda-bo" for my comfort in New York. That and the fact that the "hurry up and eat toots" contingent weighs in heavily. And, ugh, that blasted steak sauce; they peddle it as a complement to everything and anything, from steaks to salads to brushing your teeth. If I ever feel I'm in need of it, I'll get it at the grocery store - they sell over nine million retail dollars of it yearly. In the meantime, it's my position that salad requires dressing, not steak sauce. And while my husband enjoys the Luger clientele quite a bit, he does find the steak offerings too limited. Try limited to one: if you don't like porterhouse, get thee back into the cab, pronto.

If any mind is paid to the statisticians of the National Cattlemen's Beef Association, the Luger crowd is in the national minority. Porterhouse ranks as Number Four in terms of favorite cuts, trailing behind strip, tenderloin/filet mignon and top sirloin. Then again, Luger's is strictly a New York phenomenon, far out of range of the high steak consumption states of the South Atlantic where more is eaten annually than any other region in the country.

But wherever you may be in the country, it's hard to avoid Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. Say it three times fast - it's been suggested as the perfect field sobriety test. Founded in 1965 by Ruth Fertel, a divorcée from Happy Jack, Louisiana, Ruth's Chris now sprawls throughout 30 states with over 100 locations. As the story goes, Ruth was desperate to find a way to make enough money to send her two sons to college. Though she'd never worked in the food industry, she mortgaged her house for the $22,000 it took to buy the defunct "Chris Steak House" in New Orleans. What she didn't know was that the prior owner, Chris Matulich, had already sold and rebought the bad penny six times - each time making money off the deal from successive failed owners.

Much to the dismay of Matulich, Ruth's hard work paid off. When she opened another branch four blocks away, he sued her for the restaurant's name. Long story short - what would become of the country's largest steakhouse cum tonguetwister was born. My two cents? I admire Ruth's pioneering sass; I'm also grateful for the presence of salad dressing.

Alas, my husband chose Smith & Wollensky, referred to by The New York Times as "a steakhouse to end all arguments." Really? I'm sure I could've started an argument, but the biting wind was colder than a well-digger's toenails; once we set out, I stayed the course.

The abrasive waiters and cast of characters were all present and accounted for, each following the script to a tee. In fact, the bachelor party/strip joint table next to us delivered such an exacting performance, I nearly forgot I was with my husband. That is until he ordered. It was completely out of character for him - a much more delicate preparation than what he typically goes for: Filet Mignon Oscar. Shocking! Could he be taking on a new persona? Or was he channeling the spirit of King Oscar II? No such drama; that's just what he felt like eating.

Regardless, he managed to capture my attention.

And I always enjoy the show. I