After nearly a year-long run of adequate steaks at ridiculous prices, Chow, Baby was tired of screwing around. This time it was going to have a great steak at a ridiculous price, guaranteed.
(Cue ominous foreshadowing music; we know how Chow, Baby’s great expectations always turn out.) So Chow, Baby dug out its cleanest jeans and a shirt with no writing on it and headed to Del Frisco’s (812 Main St.). Headed to Jones Street, actually. In a bit of personal freakonomics, Chow, Baby always allocates expense-account increases to upscale steakhouses (from, what, one visit in all of 1997 to about every other month this year), but no matter how working-class rich it gets, it can’t see paying $5 for valet parking. The few-block stroll from Jones Street to anywhere downtown counts as exercise, completely offsetting any health risk from overeating high-fat foods. According to Chow, Baby’s personal freakodietetics, anyway.