We have a fancy new steakhouse in Gainesville, the kind that announces itself before you ever see the menu. Linen tablecloths. Dim lighting. Servers who introduce themselves like they might also be sommeliers, therapists or both. The kind of place where the chairs are heavy and you’re afraid to scoot one too loudly for fear of being charged for it.
I’m all for it. Truly. Every town deserves at least one restaurant where anniversaries are celebrated, deals are closed and someone at the table quietly whispers, “Don’t look at the prices, just enjoy it.”
Still, I can’t help but wonder how the average person is supposed to afford this on a regular basis, unless “regular basis” now means once every presidential administration.
The cocktails alone cost about $20, which is impressive when you consider that at my house, $20 will buy the ingredients for a week’s worth of drinks and still leave enough change for a bag of ice and a questionable decision or two. At this steakhouse, $20 gets you a drink with a name you can’t pronounce, served in a glass shaped like modern art, garnished with something that looks decorative but may be edible.
You sip it slowly, not because it’s strong, but because you’re doing math.
Then comes the menu. Not a menu, really, but a curated experience. Steaks are listed by cut, origin, philosophy and what I assume is their astrological sign. Everything is “hand-selected,” “artisan,” or “finished with” something you’ve never finished with at home.
The steak prices resemble car payments. Not new-car payments, mind you, but dependable used-car payments. The kind where you think, “Well, it’s reliable and we need it.”
You start rationalizing immediately. This isn’t dinner, you tell yourself. This is an investment. A memory. A once-in-a-while treat. You also stop ordering appetizers, because you’d like to keep your home.
The server asks if you’d like to add a topping to your steak. The toppings have their own prices, which means they are not toppings so much as financial commitments. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a cash register weep softly.
The sides are “meant for sharing,” which is restaurant code for “we didn’t think you could emotionally handle the price if it were just for you.” Creamed spinach has been elevated to a level of importance it never asked for, and mashed potatoes have been whipped into something that feels like a trust fund recipient.
Dessert is presented verbally, because printing those prices might cause panic. You listen politely, nodding, even though you know you’ll be stopping by the freezer section of the grocery store later for something with a picture of a cow on it.
Don’t get me wrong. The food is excellent. The service is flawless. You leave full, happy, and just slightly concerned about your long-term financial goals. It’s the kind of place where everything is done right, including making sure you never forget how much it cost.
What fascinates me is how casually some people talk about going there “all the time.” I assume these are the same people who say things like, “It’s only money,” or “We deserved it,” or “Put it on the card.”
For the rest of us, this steakhouse isn’t part of the weekly rotation. It’s part of the life-event rotation. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Celebrations that require witnesses.
And that’s okay. A fancy steakhouse doesn’t have to be affordable every Friday night. It just has to be there, gleaming softly, reminding us that once in a while, it’s nice to sit at a linen-covered table, order a steak you didn’t grill yourself, and briefly live like someone who doesn’t flinch when the check arrives. Then you go home, make a sandwich, and start saving up for next time.
My View From the cheap seats 