The business of pre- and post-theatre dining dominates Covent Garden, Strand and the surrounding area, part of London that I know well having done work experience in the area. A light, two-course meal with a bit of wine before you saunter over to one of the many theatres in the area and catch a musical, drama or comedy play, is the name of the game here. So a New York steakhouse chain is, then, perhaps an incongruous feature.
Another import from our American cousins, STK’s poster shows a woman in a short red dress and red stilettos carrying a steak on a tenterhook in one hand and a cleaver knife in the other. The fact that Dad, who likes both women and meat, found the image off-putting wasn’t a great start. Reviews on Trip Advisor of STK’s outlets in New York and Miami described the restaurant as tasty but pretentious and over-priced. Their motto is ‘Not Your Daddy’s Steakhouse,’ which intimidated me from the get-go. It was with these images and quotes that my family and I went along on Saturday night.
In the end, we found STK to be tasty but pretentious and over-priced. The menu provided a pleasing variety of inventive salads, tasty-sounding starters and non-steak main dishes. The steaks themselves had a good range of sizes and cuts, however it all came at a price; my brother had the lightest cut, a 150g feather steak, which set us back £19.50 and I can’t even tell you the most expensive steak, as the wagyu steak was ‘market price only.’ I really should have asked.
The complimentary bread was more like a little loaf, smothered in melted butter and a chive dip, too doughy and chewy for anything. We started by sharing a plate of their wagyu beef ‘BRGs’, or mini-burgers to you and I, which had the optional toppings of truffles and, our family vice, foie gras. The beef was succulent, foie gras delicious and overall they were very good. At £15 for three, I would hope so too. My ribs were tasty, or what I ate of them, as they were extremely fatty; Dad’s pork shoulder was good but not amazing and the shared parmesan truffle chips were crispy and rich.
The fine line between attentive and over-zealous was crossed during the 90 minutes we spent in STK; our calls to make a reservation reached nothing but a voicemail and our message was not returned, so we had to walk up earlier in the day to book in person, as they were only accepting reservations prior to their official opening earlier next year. The duty manager and manager of communications came over, profusely apologising for our bad experience with the booking system, each staying for more than five minutes. Politeness strayed into intrusiveness.
Considering our difficulty getting in to the place, it was surprisingly easy to leave. The soundtrack was confusing if anything – what place Cyndi Lauper, Men at Work and The Mavericks have in a steakhouse has yet to be determined – and the 10% pre-applied service charge was not waivered, which I would expect given our wrestle with the booking voicemail. The food was tasty, cooked well and flavoured nicely, but the service was almost American in its zealous friendliness and I don’t mean that in a complimentary way because I love American service. Aside the quiet Italian bistros, buzzing family restaurants and tapas bars of the Strand, STK just felt like an anomaly, an intruder, the odd one out. Of course it’ll be a roaring success, because there are always going to be people allured by a girl wearing a red dress carrying a steak and a cleaver. The world makes sense again.
The Beehive Speaks 