When I chose Wolfgang Puck’s steakhouse Cut as the restaurant for my mom’s visit this weekend, it never occurred to me that the celebrity chef himself might be there. When we settled into a table in the middle of the room, I was actually surprised at the lack of pretension. Sure, there were blown-up portraits of celebrities lining the walls, but compared to other high-end Hollywood eateries that hide unknown diners in the corner, I was pleased with our treatment.
If only it had stopped there, this would be a much easier review to write. I would be able to maintain composure and not erupt into giddy exclamations every time I try to formulate a sentence. But right after we tucked into the crunchy cheese straws waiting at the table and began to study our menus, who should sidle up to the table but Wolfgang himself! No, we didn’t observe him greeting a privileged group of elites or catch a quick glimpse of him in the kitchen. I shook his hand. The hand that has prepared historical, momentous, ethereal culinary creations. Here’s hoping some of it rubbed off.
Focusing on the menu was a bit tough after that. Other distractions included an entirely unique and bizarre silverware set, Holly from The Girls Next Door dining to my left and gargantuan photos of Cate Blanchett and George Clooney bearing down on me. But I pressed on.
While waiting for starters, we were brought a plate of bread selections to choose from. Puck doesn’t have a reputation for baking, but this was easily the best pretzel roll I’ve ever had, especially when spread with their thyme and lavender-dusted butter.
I haven’t really gotten to the heart of the establishment yet, though. The name says it all—when you come here, it is for the meat. There were tribes of testosterone populating tables throughout the dining room, where men far outnumbered women Perhaps this is why our waitress seemed pleasantly surprised when we ordered veal tongue and bone marrow as appetizers, followed up by three different cuts of cow to share. What can I say, we knew what we wanted.
Had we been indecisive, however, the platter of raw meat brought to each table might have helped us in choosing. Easily over 50 ounces of raw beef are displayed on a plate to exhibit the degree of marbling and lustrously sanguine hue of blood.
Our starters came shortly after some amuse bouche gougères—balls of puff pastry filled with steaming gruyère. These melty bites gave way to the even more luxurious bone marrow flan—two bone vessels were filled with a savory custard, drizzled with an earthy syrup, topped with capers and flanked on either side by a wild mushroom paste that made me weak in the knees.
We knew big things were coming our way when seven tiny dishes were delivered to us, carrying Dijon and whole grain mustards, Dijon sauce, house steak sauce, Argentinian chimichurri, sea salt and a grape mustard made with the must left behind from crushing wine grapes.
Our hedonistic foray into blatant carnivory reached it’s peak when they brought out the platter of Japanese Wagyu beef from Kagoshima Prefecture in Kyushu, Japan; American Wagyu Angus “Kobe Style” beef from Snake River Farms in Idaho; and U.S.D.A. Prime Nebraska Corn Fed beef that had been dry aged for 35 days. All of these cuts had been grilled over hard wood and charcoal, then finished under a broiler. The spiced outer char was perfectly flavorful, without overshadowing the true meatiness of the steaks. This meatiness shown through in a way I’ve never tasted, and doubt I’ll taste again soon. The Japanese Wagyu melted in my mouth in an almost mousse-like manner, while the American Wagyu had a bit more marbling. To appear somewhat healthy, we ordered a side of cavolo negro, or black kale, with escarole sautéed in garlic. It was great, as were the sauces, but it was hard to pay attention to much else with such glamorous cow in front of me.
Just when I thought we’d reached the pinnacle of decadence, a colossal Valhrona chocolate soufflé, decked out in crème fraîche, hazelnut glacée and the darkest chocolate sauce imaginable. Too much? Wolfgang doesn’t think so, apparently, since we received caramel cashew brittle and citrus bars made with the Japanese fruit yuzu next.
Coupled with inventive cocktails like the rosemary Tom Collins; Ruby with Grand Marnier pomegranate foam; or the Wilshire, a blend of Absolut Citron, Limoncello and Amaretto, we were resignedly full. And if Mom weren’t footing the bill, I would have been broke. Alas, I can’t recommend this to kids struggling to get by, but if you’ve got the funds (we’re talking hundreds) and a hankering for steak, do it. Maybe you’ll strike gold like me and run into Joe Pesci in the lobby.
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