Tuesday 9 July 2013
There are only a few things in life that you can rely on
absolutely, only a very few things that you know for sure, with complete
certainty: The sun that warms your face
on a glorious winter’s morning in Joburg, is a star; the most painful thing in
the world to stand on is an unexpected upturned plug from the vacuum cleaner;
and the almost 17 year old jack russel sitting next to me right now will have
spectacularly bad breath regardless of how many chewy things he gets to eat.
The second outing of the Steak Club winter-threesome saw two
of the members arrive rather majestically on their nimble scooters, while a
third bludgeoned his entrance in on a giant adventure bike. The rest of the club arrived in more sedate,
four-wheeled transportation.
After arguing with the door and having a moment of slight
difficulty getting it open (turns out it’s a push, not a pull) I caught up to
the rest of the members as we were ushered through to the same table that we’ve
sat at three years in a row at Steak Club.
One thing I noticed, as I realised that my psychedelic yellow,
high-visibility vest over my scooter jacket was attracting slightly more
attention than I had hoped on my way past the tables, is that there was a
general sense of steakstacy* on the faces of the other patrons.
I need to, at this point, officially welcome our previous
chairman and Steak Club founder, Sean, back to Joburg and back into the
uncontested seat of the highest order.
Caretaker, Ian, and reluctant stand-in, Dr Gavin, were only too happy to
hand back the burden of administration in organising our monthly meats, through
an enthusiastic toast.
I am unrepentantly ecstatic to report that for the first
time in two months of Steak Club, a toast could be made with a beer that came
from a keg, poured by a bartender who has the control of the tap to delicately
adjust the overall delivery of head to the golden honey in a big glass. Granted, it was Stella Artois and not a
Mitchells or a Nottingham Road or a Gilroys, but it was beer that hadn’t spent
the past month in a plastic-lined tin can or in a bottle with a bullshit
cold-activated label. Explain the logic
please, SAB – let’s get the Castle Lite to almost freezing so that you stand
absolutely zero chance of tasting anything while you numb the functionality out
of your tongue. Ever drunk a warm Castle
Lite before? Yup, that’s how disgusting
it ACTUALLY tastes.
It didn’t take long for the content of the conversation to
take three dramatic and very distinct steps downward into the messiest part of
the gutter and for it to marinade itself there until soaked through. It was difficult to shake off the stench
through several attempts of decency rectification. Motorbikes, creamy beer head and very bad
pick-up lines will do it every time.
Thankfully, our attention was diverted to the menu where we
all perused the simple, but substantial offerings. From trusty fillet and skinny chips to fat
rumps and colourful veg combo’s and a T bone somewhere in the middle. They’re all available from two farming
options – Chalmar Grainfed or Greenfields Freerange with twelve thousand
different combinations of salt or pepper or butter as a marinade/rub. Because I am a notorious cynic I had to order
a rump from each farming option, expecting slight, if even barely apparent differences.
The owner, chef, waitrons, hostess, barmen and everyone else
are very proud and very passionate about their restaurant as you are invited on
a tour of the kitchen and preparation facilities. Salt
blocks, wine barrel chips that are cooked with the steak in their gas-fired
grills and very controlled meat hanging are all part of The Local Grill
experience.
Like a paint-by-numbers portrait is always going to start
off looking distinctly uninspired as the orange bits are filled in first, the
steaks arrive on the blank canvas of a big empty plate. As each of the side orders and sauces arrive,
pockets of colour and flavour and overall sense fill in the gaps while the meal
is constructed in front of your senses.
Then the first forkful hits your lips and the melting steak bursts into
beefy tang and smokey aroma and smooth flavour while your body slumps into an
uncontrolled “mmmm!”. *This is
steakstacy.
While the Greenfields Free Range rump was more obedient in
dissolving and exploding with beefy, chargrill flavour, it looked rather
bland. It was grey in colour and didn’t have
an overly appealing attraction. The Chalmar
Grainfed rump could have stood its own ground against any other rump Ive eaten –
it had a deep brown colour, charred lines criss-crossing it and a healthy bit
of buttery fat that carried out an x-rated scene in my mouth. I cant really choose between the two and I am
not going to try – each of them was absolutely awesome.
Why these guys have won The Steakhouse Championships for
2013 is easy to understand – apart from the sun, an upturned plug and a smelly
dog, you can be guaranteed that The Local Grill will produce not only one of
the best steaks you’ll ever eat, but an experience that you’d be hard-pressed
to find anywhere else (and for value that your wallet will like).
Apart from look of horror and perhaps a glint of excitement
that ran across an attractive blonde’s face when she had walked into the unisex
restroom thinking it was the gents when she saw me washing my hands, the rest
of the evening contained only fleeting moments of respectable content while the
majority was simply unsavoury. Hotdogs
and sauce splattered across a face, the remarkable facebook stalking ability of
a certain Steak Club member, the unbelievably exciting explanation of what custody
bonds are, the slightly creepy portraits of cow head paintings adorning the walls and
Pete’s unparalleled skill at spading the fairer sex saw us through to coffees,
desserts, farewells and good evenings.
While Wombles held the crown for a month, The Local Grill
snatches it from them with ease.
Check out www.votesteak.co.za for the 2013 contenders and
the results.
Until we meat again at The Grillhouse, Rosebank in August.
