Survival of the Fittest

Steak gets such a bad rep these days, but I’m not ashamed to admit it: I love steak! Watch out; those who claim chicken is better for you could be wrong—look what they told us about trans fats all these years. Blame the U.S. livestock farmers who persist in shooting up cattle with hormones and feeding them grain rather than grass. Most Americans haven’t spent much time on a farm, so they tend to think meat comes from Styrofoam packages rather than cows. I can tell you, I had no qualms about devouring a mouth-watering, oh-so-rare hunk of prime rib at Ben Benson’s recently. My own power lunch gave me a protein fix transformed into strength and energy—perfect for the yoga class I went to directly afterward.

The restaurant’s on West 52nd Street and has been there since 1982, founded by—you guessed it—Ben Benson himself. Benson was  a long-time restaurateur, but this was his first solo effort. I dined that day with a regular—a male friend who blended in with lots of other pinstripes on lunch breaks and Type-A movers and shakers fuelled by animal flesh and cocktails. Red meat divides the men from the boys, the women from the girls and the wimps from the machos, and I’m a lady with lots of testosterone. Ben Benson’s caters to the so-called “stronger sex,” with a clubby male atmosphere punctuated by lots of dark wooden paneling and appealingly weather-beaten tables. The head of a stuffed steer is mounted above the staircase leading to the second floor: maybe a trophy bagged by one of these hotshot investment bankers. 

Like most high quality steak joints, Ben Benson’s only serves USDA Prime Dry-Aged Beef. In case you aren’t a card-carrying carnivore, Prime grade beef has more marbling, the key to being more tender, flavorful and juicy. The average, non-steakhouse restaurant serves Choice grade beef, which is why, when you want a really good steak, you save your pennies and go to one of Manhattan’s great steak restaurants.

Mature professional waiters staff Ben Benson’s; they’re attentive and know their clients well. Our waiter, a hoary old Irishman, took our drink order right away—nothing like cocktails in the middle of the day. We started with baby spring mixed greens ($9.50) with blue cheese dressing and an onion and beefsteak tomato salad ($9.75). Since I wasn’t paying, I considered getting the lobster cocktail ($19) or a dozen oysters (market price), but my mind was on the main course. My friend ordered the “slightly smaller” medium sirloin steak, 12 ounces, ($34.75; the full-sized sirloin is $39.75) accompanied by a nice and strong Grey Goose Martini ($14). The medium cooked sirloin was crispy on the outside and a nice color inside—since sirloin is leaner, I’ve always preferred T-bone ($41) or Porterhouse ($82 double order), since a bit of fat is what makes steak yummy.

I ordered rare roast prime rib ($39.95) and washed it down with two pleasantly potent G&Ts ($9.25). “Um, maybe you might prefer the English cut prime rib—it’s a little smaller—most women order it,” the waiter said, a bit embarrassed. 

“Well, you don’t know me. I’m a size queen, and I like my steak huge,” I replied. I’ll admit, it’s not everyday I eat like this during the middle of the day. If I did, I’d be able to get a job as the fat lady in a circus. 

The prime rib was colossal, red and melted in my mouth, but, unlike filet mignon ($39.75), it had plenty of taste. I added a dollop of horseradish to spice it up. 

The waiter was impressed when I finished most of my entrée. He was astonished when I ordered dessert. “You can eat a pecan pie after that prime rib?” 

“Can you add a scoop of vanilla ice cream?” I asked. My friend stuck with a cup of decaf. I asked for a doggie bag so I could bring home the 2-inch sliver I left on the bone for my Siberian husky who attacked it hungrily like the leftover were a wild animal. 

When the bill came, I had to run off to yoga class. It’s advisable to arrive with an empty stomach usually, but the heavy-duty lunch got my motor running, and my yoga asanas were better than ever. 

On the train ride home, my classmates discussed their customary meals. “I love seaweed for breakfast,” the pasty-faced, former dancer told us, “with a dash of wheat grass juice.”

“I usually have a protein shake and a Power Bar for lunch. Or a few sunflower seeds with plain yogurt,” the other one said. She had the emaciated look Kate Moss had pre-drug bust and mentioned a recent attack of colitis. Did I dare mention my lunch of two pounds of prime rib? Ix-nay. 

The definition of the Sanskrit word “rajassic” is passion, action, get-up-and-go. My repast at Ben Benson’s got me moving and shaking, doing headstands, handstands and the usual pretzel shapes. But there was no thought of dinner that night.

Ben Benson’s Steak House

123 W. 52nd St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.)

212-581-8888