If cuisine plays second fiddle to the scene, service plays third kazoo. Hostesses were snooty, and waiters were too pushy when trying to sell wine, cocktails, and expensive specials. On one visit, our dinner rolls — served in a cast-iron skillet and soaked in blue cheese butter with a side of chive oil — arrived simultaneously with appetizers. It would have been nice to have had that delectable homemade bread to munch on with our exquisite and expensive cocktails while awaiting the starters — which we were still eating when servers carrying our entrées approached. They did an abrupt about-face to the kitchen and about ten minutes later returned with the same plates.
We were given the bum's rush that occasion, yet next time we endured long waits. Worse, there just didn't appear to be anybody who truly cared about our dining experience — or anyone else's. A big deal is made of this being a "feminine" steak house, but when women at adjoining tables in the Siberian section of the restaurant mentioned they were cold, there were no wraps brought or thermostat adjusted. Other blunders also occurred, such as not mentioning specials (we heard them recited, too late, at the next table), not wiping down the table, and so forth.
We noticed quite a few Barton G.-esque clouds of green apple cotton candy floating through the room, and the mini-ice-cream-cone sampler likewise appeared to be a popular postdinner sweet. We went with a dense, dark slice of chocolate terrine studded with nuts, drizzled with reduced port wine syrup, and accompanied by cherry sorbet with a candied black cherry or two on top. But our favorite dessert was the s'more assemblage of warm chocolate molten cake, peanut butter ice cream, a square of roasted marshmallow, and a tuile-like graham cracker. We wanted s'more of that dessert and will surely return for s'more of STK's lively lounge scene. When we want a great steak, we're gonna stick with Daddy.