My first encounters with Jim’s Steakout took place on Elmwood, when I used to live on the 700 block of Ashland Avenue. Nights would sometimes end at Steakout. I always felt bad for the workers. Whatever they get paid, it’s not enough–there aren’t many tougher jobs than having to deal with drunken fools. Those days, it never occurred to me to order Steakout in the daytime hours, it was something you ate at the end of the night. I can still picture my girlfriend’s cousin trying to eat a twelve inch sub after a long night at Mister Goodbar and Cole’s. None of it seemed to land in his mouth, and much of it definitely ended up in his lap.
But you can’t be in your twenties forever. In my case you get married, your girlfriend becomes your wife, and when her cousin comes to town, you go out for a few hours and are home before midnight. In a phrase, you settle down. You find yourself in your late thirties, your metabolism has nearly shut down, and there aren’t enough Tums to make Steakout go down right. You eat it once in a while anyway, maybe for the sake of nostalgia, maybe because you actually like it. You’re not sure.
These days you try to eat healthy. Whole wheat toast for breakfast. A turkey sandwich for lunch. No chips or soda (a.k.a. pop). One dinner this week was a tofu stir fry with asparagus, broccoli, and red peppers. It tasted terrible but you didn’t feel guilty after eating it. You lean on fruits and vegetables as much as you can, but at week’s end, you relax. That usually means pizza. But on this Friday, you power down a steak and cheese sub from Steakout for dinner. You do a Michael Jordan imitation, (sub)stituting for a basketball. Ridiculous, you know. You wonder how many more visits to Steakout are in your future. You’re already done with Mighty Taco, you don’t enjoy it anymore. Somewhere in your early thirties you lost a taste for it. You figure it’s not long before you quit on Steakout, too.
You wonder who else eats Jim’s Steakout: how often, when, and do they enjoy it? And you wonder if a foodie would be caught eating it? In all the time you’ve followed Buffalo Rising, you’ve never seen a definition of foodie, but you suppose one definition would be “someone who wouldn’t go near Jim’s Steakout.” Still, you can’t help but think even sophisticated people with refined palates might sneak off to Steakout once in a while.
How did the sub taste, anyway? It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good enough to justify the calories. You would’ve been better off if you grilled some chicken (obviously). You don’t plan to eat Steakout again until the moon turns blue. And it’s salad for dinner tomorrow. Until the next time the hankering comes on.
Funny, the relationships we form with food and places we eat. Are Buffalonians even more nostalgic and fond of their hometown places than most? What’s your favorite homegrown guilty pleasure?