There’s still time to nominate local icons for Best of D.C.
The Stadium Club isn’t the first strip joint — oh, I can feel the owner cringing now about the use of that cheap term — to inject steakhouse sophistication into a business of peddling another kind of flesh. I used to live in Houston, otherwise known as the Strip Joint Capital of the Free World, where gentlemen’s clubs tripped all over themselves trying to make their patrons feel more cosmopolitan than pervy.
The recently opened Stadium Club has similar ambitions. Owner James T. “Tru” Redding, who also has a hand in Sushi Rock and Public Bar, hired Andre Miller, a former regional chef with Ruth’s Chris, to run his cozy 42-seat restaurant buried within the massive 14,000-square-foot club. Miller’s menu and wine lists aren’t posted on the club’s website yet, but you can browse through them at the bottom of this post.
In short, the menu reads like a classic steakhouse document asking for classic downtown steakhouse prices. The prime steaks run from a $40 filet mignon (9 ounces, center cut) to a $76 New York strip (32 ounces, enough to feed you and three strippers, assuming they aren’t starving themselves). There are also clams casino ($15), a wedge salad ($11), a jumbo lump crab cocktail ($20), and fresh lobster (market price). Similarly, the wine list is just one big swinging dick, full of marquee names and prices, which seems about right.
What do I feel like I’ve just stepped back to a time when women were called “tomatoes”?
Here’s what I wonder about Stadium Club’s food upgrade: Is it an attempt to attract the kind of “gentleman” who wouldn’t normally mix his culinary with his carnal desires? Or is it more an attempt to make those fellas who do frequent such a place feel like they’ve got a legit excuse now for darkening the doorway? (You know, so he could say, “Honey, the guys and I are just going to step out for a couple of good steaks. Be back around 11.”)
It’s like the guys, back in a day, who claimed they bought Playboy for the articles.
Y&H has been down this road before — you know, trying to decide whether the plated flesh at a strip club is worth a trip alone, regardless of the flesh on the stage. You can relive my embarrassing moments from last year’s Sex and the City Paper day right here. I suspect more is in store.