Michael Lippman

Don’t tell my wife, but I’ve already been to Cut like 5 or 6 times.  I sit at the bar.  I order the "cheapest" steak and a glass of Bordeaux.  The Petit New York, 10 ounces for 46 dollars.  Is that ridiculously expensive?  I guess so.  But, oh my God, it’s good.  I go alone.  I bring a book.  I let the alcohol start to work on my system.  I let the extremely loud music start to work on my soul.  It’s a great music mix, everything from “Smack That” to “Sweet Caroline” -- and did I mention it’s loud? 

The steak comes, I take a bite and I just shake my head in delight.  I wait for the bartender, she’s beautiful, to pass me by and shoot me an inquiring glance, “do you love it?”  I nod my head, “I love it, I GET how good it is”.  I read a page or two, just to let time pass before my next bite, my next sip, it’s like I’m tripping on ecstasy, between the wine, the steak, the music, I don't need a dinner companion, I'm fine, I just keep the buzz going, right at this level, or am I getting slightly higher each moment?   I turn to look at the crowd, it’s so Hollywood, rich Hollywood, beautiful Hollywood, groups of people sitting on couches in the cocktail area, groups all focused on one person in their midst -- the most famous, rich, entertaining or narcissistic of their small group.  I love it here. 

The next time I come, oh maybe a couple of weeks later (or is it a couple of days later?), as always, the bartender recognizes me.  I look at the wine list, order a glass of the Bordeaux and she tells me she KNEW I’d order that wine -- which makes me feel way too good.  When my Petit New York comes, the server brings a side of Brussels sprouts with it, which he serves me from a beautiful metal dish.  I didn’t order this, but I go with the flow.  They’re amazing, served with huge chunks of bacon.  The bacon's sliced long and thick, half the slice is meat, the other half fat.  After a few pieces, I cut the fat side off before eating it, and that’s not like me.  What a pleasure, what an indulgence. 

She (the bartender, that is) asks “aren’t those Brussels sprouts amazing?  Isn’t the bacon unbelievable?”  I nod.  They don’t charge me for it, because I didn’t order it.  No one ever mentions it.  So correct.  Neither do they charge me for the couple of ounces of dessert wine and four mini desserts she places in front of me when the steak and wine and Brussels sprouts are gone.  I feel so good, so well-treated.  If this is not the best place on Earth ....