I’ve had the good fortune to dine finely on occasion, to dust off the ol’ wingtips and drop stupid money on one meal: a tasting menu in Vegas or Napa, an omakase marathon into the triple digits, and other edibly metaphorical attempts at winning life.
Sometimes those dinners leave stellar impressions, but none escape some disappointment due to an unreasonable expectation that the cost would be proportionally reflected in the food. I’ve been equally as excited before and as satisfied after less sophisticated fare, like Chef Edwards’ piggy wiggly, taco truck mariscos, or – hell, in the right late night circumstances – even microwaved Michael Angelo eggplant parmesan. Those unfair comparisons nag at my brain as I walk out of fine dining establishments, adding “yeah, but” asterisks to epicurean experiences.
A rare exception is San Francisco’s House of Prime Rib, a meal so unrepeatable that I might consider it priceless. Even as half the patrons noisily celebrate birthdays on tables cramped too close together, and even if they’ve since stopped offering a complimentary second slice, I find myself believing it’s worth it. After half a dozen visits I still walk out the door already looking forward to next time, when I’d get to experience the best prime rib of my life. Again. Asterisk free.
House of Prime Rib
1906 Van Ness Ave
San Francisco, CA 94109