It’s hard to talk about Peter Lugers, let alone reserve a table; it’s the IRL Dorsea from American Psycho. Ask for a table, and the waitstaff barely mask their contempt. You’re reminded of a time when Mom rang up the place, and all she got in return was a dial tone, and Dad recalled their stubbornness concerning payment. No credit, no debit. Either cash or check. Peter Lugers became the boogeyman restaurant of NY, this proverbial big boys club that only kept its doors open to Wall Street yuppies. To your surprise, though, Mom did the unthinkable and landed us a table, and we realized that the yuppies had been replaced. Partially. There are still some opulent folk here and there who can afford to eat like this every other day. Still, there are also clusters of Japanese tourists, funnily enough, likely due to PL’s attempts at overseas franchising. We sit ourselves down, and you have to avert your eyes from the prices. 60 dollars. 68. 100. even some kind of Australian spirit costs $1000. Wack. But will you eat here again after this? Even if the food sends us to heaven and back? Probably not, so let’s order and avert our eyes from our wallets. The steak for three arrives, a classic porterhouse, a cut favored for the options it gives an imminent devourer. French fries are a quality side, and you know you’re in some old-fashioned establishment when they’re listed in the vegetable section of the menu. Speaking of vegetables, we ordered florets of broccoli that seemed too large to the standard vegetable but too girthy to be rabe. Dad, post-surgery, eats alongside us. This spooks you despite knowing he’s fit as a fiddle and intelligent enough to know what not to let into his system. You don’t care, though; the anxiety is palpable, and your not ready to guess what will happen when a piece of tenderloin passes his lips. This keeps you from enjoying as much as you should. Knowing you eat things now that are so much more likely to put Dad in an early grave. You know it’s nonsense, but you can’t quite shake the concern.
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