Michael Jordan as host of steakhouse hardly an appetizing thought
NEIL STEINBERG nsteinberg@suntimes.com August 23, 2011 6:38PM
Updated: November 3, 2011 5:34PM
The last night of our trip found the Steinberg family in Omaha, Neb. I don’t know if you have any associations with the word “Omaha” but in my mind there was just one: beef. I didn’t care where, but I wanted to get an Omaha steak, which was procured for the not unreasonable price of $24 at a place called the Upstream Brewing Co. We had a festive dinner — there were deep-fried pickle slices on the menu, so we tried those. Not bad. They brew their own root beer, which we enjoyed: not too sweet.
And the steak, well . . . it was a greasy piece of meat, not awful but not great. I took the first bite, sat back in my chair, gazed dolefully at my plate, sighed, and had this thought:
Gene & Georgetti has ruined me.
When you can get a fantastic steak three blocks from your office, why go elsewhere? This is not to ignore Chicago’s other fine steakhouses, in no particular order: Gibson’s, Chicago Cut, The Capital Grille, Smith & Wollensky, Ditka’s, Ruth’s Chris, Sullivan’s, Harry Caray’s, Chicago Chop House, Lawry’s — there are many more, but those are the ones off the top of my head, places that I have patronized.
I haven’t been to the new Michael Jordan Steak House that opened this week in the InterContinental, and frankly, as much as I love the hotel it’s in — my wife and I were married there — I don’t plan to go. You have to wonder at the savvy of somebody who could survey the Chicago restaurant scene and conclude: “What this city needs is another steakhouse!”
And let’s stipulate that Michael Jordan’s Steak House will have decent food — at those prices, it better. So what’s the problem?
Well, Michael Jordan for one. God bless him, great basketball player, fierce competitor, “the best there ever was . . . ” etc. But a genial mealtime host? I don’t think so.
I’m not so naive as to think that Jordan will be around — one public chow down, perhaps, to create the illusion. But it’s the illusion I’m talking about. The persona of Harry Caray, his bighearted joyousness, suffuses his steakhouse like a glow, and he’s been dead for 13 years. Compare him to Jordan — cool, aloof, with a mean streak. There’s a reason there’s a Ditka’s steakhouse but not a McCaskey’s.
Steak is the rare fancy meal that any idiot with a watch and a broiler can prepare well at home. Go to the grocery, spend some money, and you’re set for a primo steak experience.
What you want from a steakhouse is welcome. You want Hugo Ralli at Gibson’s. You want Tony Durpetti at Gene & Georgetti. You want Grant DePorter, who stalks the floor at Harry Caray’s like the benevolent ghost of Harry, lavishing attention on the regulars.
Can you imagine Michael Jordan with a big padded menu, showing you to your seat? That’s an image from a nightmare. Jordan eats your lunch, he doesn’t serve it. I happened to be at the United Center for Scottie Pippen Night last season, when the Bulls unveiled his bronze bust. I didn’t expect Jordan to show up with roses, but it is noteworthy that, in all the praise and official speeches, nobody whispered Jordan’s name, not once. If he’s a beloved Chicago sports figure, like Ernie Banks, then I didn’t get the memo.
Hosting a restaurant is an art form. The highlight of the opening of the Rivers Casino in Des Plaines, for me, was spying the great Petros Kogiones standing at a table — he was, as longtime Chicagoans will recall, the owner of Dianna’s Opaa, the Greek eatery on South Halsted Street, and as serviceable as the food was — generally — what made dining there a memorable experience was Petros himself, a lank, Nixonian figure in a baggy gray suit, standing guard at the door, pushing back his sheet of black hair to greet women with an overly familiar hug and kiss, and men with a disarming cry of “cousin!” At 9 p.m., he’d quiet the room — threatening to throw out diners who didn’t shut up — and deliver a rambling monologue that was the highlight of every meal. If you went to Dianna’s on one of the rare nights Petros wasn’t there, well, you might as well have stayed home.
This is not to wish ill on the InterContinnental people — best of luck with this Jordan venture. You’ll need it. The old Jordan restaurant had a garish sports bar on the ground floor and upstairs a dining place that included a screened-in cubicle, where the famous people supposedly could eat without being subjected to the stares of the masses.
That isn’t what a steakhouse is about. A steakhouse is joy and mingling. I had drinks with Dan Rostenskowki at Gibsons. Once at Gene’s, the guy at my table said, “Here’s somebody you should meet” and called over Barack Obama. When that sort of thing is happening at this new Michael Jordan’s, I’ll head over. But I’m not holding my breath.