A Wagyu Boo-Boo

When, during Tuesday’s visit to The Marble Room, one of Cleveland’s more expensive restaurants, I saw on the specials menu that Wagyu filet was only $50—and Joe and I had a $150 gift card burning a hole in our collective pocket—it seemed like a no-brainer. Maybe I was letting the tail wagyu the dog, but that price for the legendary beef was too good to pass up.

I asked the waitress what sauce she recommended to go with the delicacy. She opined that it is so excellent on its own that most connoisseurs know not to add a sauce at all. She countered by asking me how many ounces I wanted, and, not feeling starved, I requested a mere 6 oz.

That should have been my first clue that something was off. Savvier customers than I will see where this story is going.

Wagyu is a specialty beef of the highest quality in terms of marbling, taste, and texture. The meat must come from four approved breeds of Japanese cattle.

When the fairly diminutive portion of beef arrived, I told Joe repeatedly that it was “the best steak I’d ever eaten.” If anything, I lamented that I hadn’t requested 8 or even 10 ounces.

I told the waitress how incredible the beef was, and she replied that she was “glad I went for it.”

The meat was delicious, slightly nutty, and sweet, unlike anything I had ever experienced. But maybe a bit dry, and I wasn’t sure the waitress was right to recommend no sauce.

So I asked for peppercorn sauce and proceeded to smother my Wagyu beef in it.

For someone who considers himself a sophisticated diner, I have made some egregious mistakes in addition to this bovine blunder. 

During our 2004 dinner at one of Paris’s top haute cuisine restaurants, the waiter brought over a carved wooden box filled with “le produit de la saison”—rare truffles. As if these were so many bonbons, I reached into the box to grab a few and attempted to pop the truffles into my waiting mouth.

“Non, non, non, non—monsieur.” The waiter patiently explained to this American rube that he had presented the truffles merely for our visual delectation and that, if desired, they would be shaved on our salads.

It has been about twenty years since I made that gaffe, so I suppose I was due for another one at Cleveland’s Marble Room.

When our check arrived, I was astonished to see it was for $550 sans tip—extraordinary for a Tuesday night, gift card or no gift card.

Upon closer examination, I saw that my steak was $300. You are probably ahead of me on this, but it suddenly dawned on me that the $50 for Wagyu filet had been per ounce. Ouch.

There was no turning back now, no pleading ignorance, no blaming the waitress. Joe was a good sport, and he rolled his eyes, saying he could not wait to tell his sister and my sister about my profligate ways.

Our gift card helped make a dent, but after I added a tip, the meal still cost us over $500. Moreover, this check arrived on what would have been my frugal dad's 97th birthday. He would roll over in his grave if he knew I spent $300 on a steak, sides not included.

Joe and I will be returning to Paris next month. I will know better if anyone presents me with a wooden box of fancy fungi. I won’t smother anything in peppercorn sauce. And I will steer (pun intended) clear of Wagyu beef for the time being.