I arrived in Omaha last night with just enough time to get myself in an Uber to the closest (best rated on Yelp) steakhouse before it closed. My Uber driver – an older Filipino gentleman with a wife and four kids – was aware of the place and was excited for me. He informed me that my destination was one of Warren Buffet’s favorite places to eat, so clearly I was making a good choice.
When I got there I chose to sit at the bar. I ordered a dirty martini and started talking with the delightfully drunk woman sitting nearby. I found out that she was a waitress there, and when I told her what my Uber driver said, her response was, “Bullshit! I’ve been working here 15 years and I’ve never seen him here. Not once.” I could tell we were going to get along. I ordered my food and a beer, and chatted with her and her companion, another off-work waitress there who had a degree in theoretical math. Both agreed that had they the money, they would eat at this restaurant every day, which is a high compliment from waitstaff.
The steak finally came, and I ordered a whiskey to accompany it. I ordered a T-bone that they marinated in whiskey for 15 minutes prior to cooking it. It was medium raw (the only way quality steak should be ordered), and the first half was so tender it felt like I was eating the meat equivalent of butter. The second half demanded to be accompanied by a glass of red wine, selected and poured by the mathematician. I could not have asked for a better experience at a steak house.
At the recommendation of the ladies, I went to their favorite bar that was fairly close by. It started with an I, and I couldn’t remember the name then, and I don’t remember the name now, but it was a fun spot. I drunkenly demanded that a group of people read my blog right then and there, and they were nice enough to oblige, but only after I beatboxed with one of them. So of course I did. Then as they were getting up to leave, I forced them to listen to a reading of one the posts, which they said they preferred, as my voice “lends something to it.” Anyway, that may mean I have to do a podcast or something at some point. The bar closed down, and after a failed attempt to find an after hours club, I turned in for the night.
The photo accompanying this post happens to be relevant in that it shows the end results of my meal from last night, but also in that it says “DROVE” – which is the past tense for drive, in case you weren’t already aware. I am in Chicago. Or at least a suburb just outside of it. I got here a little early and will be apartment hunting tomorrow. I have decided to continue writing because I enjoy this process, and because people seem to find it some degree of entertaining, so you can look forward to more of this.