Never been there for lunch, but we went to Lawry's for Dinner on Sunday.
I have walked by Lawry's for years and always wanted to stop in. I was a bit skeptical of a chain that essentially has one thing on the menu, but it's such an intimidating yet clubby looking building that I had visions of something more sublime happening within. Some friends felt the same and so we all went for a meal.
In reality, what is happening inside is the barely controlled chaos of many many tourists, an overwhelmed host stand, and lots of warm meat.
We looked on open table earlier in the day and the place was completely open, so didn't bother making reservations. Showed up and it was packed with big groups of both asians and beefy looking men, perhaps from Iowa, perhaps in town for a John Deere convention. Plus a swarm of smaller groups, few appearing to be actual Chicago residents.
The host stand was staffed by one tall confused looking man in a grey suit and two girls, one of whom was maybe 18 and the other, I swear, was 12. 14 on a good day. We were told a 45 minute wait so we camped out on a sofa in the bar and waited...waited...waited...an hour and a half. Meanwhile the table at the bar where we sat was never cleaned of the glasses left there by the previous group, and on our one trip to the bar had to wait around 10 minutes to order a round of drinks while staring at other glasses that were never cleaned off the bar. What suprised me the most was how, given that almost everyone is ordering the same thing, they seemed unable to handle the crowds. You would think that they would have this all down pat by now.
We finally got in to the huge, elaborate main dining room which was easily the most impressive site of the night. Wood panneling, mirrored walls, shiny parquet floor, chandeliers, and lots and lots of people, all eating warm meat.
There is a peculiar way of doing things at Lawry's that betray its founding in Berverly Hills in the 30s, a time when people did not go out as much as they do now and apparently expected a bit of a show along with the food. The stars of the circus are the giant stainless steel carving stations carted around like personal Airstreams by large men dressed as chefs and wearing giant Gold medallions hanging around their necks from red velvet ribbons. The waitresses (I don't recall any waiters) all dressed in a kind of ill-fitting dark beige maid's uniform with a big white bow. All of this filtered through a chaos of runners and bussers sprinting around like crazy keeping the whole process moving along.
Everyone is referred to as "Mr." or "Mrs." as in "Mr Jordan will be your carver"or "Mrs Smith will be your waitress." Just about everyone orders the same thing because they only have about four things on the menu and three of them are just different sizes of Prime Rib. After you order, they come out with the "spinning salad" which is a mix of lettuce, beets, egg, croutons, etc in a metal bowl perched atop another bowl full of ice. The spin the top bowl around and pour on the dressing. Why to they spin the salad? Showmanship! That's why. And it wouldn't be much of a spinning salad if you didn't spin it.
So they serve the OK salad along with some OK sourdough bread and a few hunks of butter that look like they'd been cut off a giant block of butter with a hachet. The highlight of the whole experience was the croutons which were quite tasty.
Next lumbers over Mr Jordan with his magical steel meat cart. He opens it up and carves out a slice of Prime Rib for everyone, cooked to your liking, and to be honest, it was a pretty good hunk of meat. Problem was the sides. Reconstituted mashed potatoes glopped onto the plate with runny gravy from a jar with the aplomb of a junior high school lunch line server. I gagged down a few mouthfulls of potato before giving up. There is the Yorkshire pudding which I always imagined as a big puffy greasy popover, but in this case, and in every other one I saw in the room, was more like a fallen tasteless souffle. On the positive side was the horseradish condiment which was so potent that a taste felt like snorting raw wasabi. The mixed whipped-cream/horseradish condiment I found, in a word, revolting, but one of my dinner mates seemed to enjoy it, so maybe I had just lost my sense of taste after searing my nasal passage with horseradish vapor.
The meal wrapped up with a "Trifle" or a layered spounge cake/whipped cream/strawberry syrup concoction that was not bad, and certainly quite large. A trifle not to be trifled with. I got through about half of it.
A memorable experience, but not one I ever need to repeat. Although the meal was not entirely a loss, once you've been there once, you're not going to find anything new on the menu the next time. They been serving up the same unusual mix of foods, service quirks, and showmanship for 70 years. And given the hordes of tourists plying the hallways, it seems to work for them, if not for me.
Last edited by
wak on October 27th, 2008, 2:26 pm, edited 1 time in total.