So welcome to the big leagues Mastro’s Steakhouse, a West Coast chain of impossibly lavish steakhouses, which has spent the past dozen years or so perfecting the fine art of wet-aging beef and dry-icing martinis before they were absolutely confident that they were ready to open here, the Big Show of Steak Towns.
Now obviously, with their stately Italian chandeliers and booths the size of small Pacific islands, the dining rooms are your spot for client wooing. Wine them (the glass-enclosed wine cabinets basically beg you to). Dine them (yes, go ahead and order that 24-ounce porterhouse). Expense account them (actually, order the double porterhouse).
And when business is done, and your wooing abilities are still going strong, slip into the lounge. A vocalist, a baby grand, deep leather banquettes and dim light set the stage for everything you need to cap the evening with the Michelle Pfeiffer of your choice.
Something important to note: Mastro’s management team has deep Chicago roots, so they feel they have a bit of a home-field advantage. They’re not, however, above overcompensating. When you order an ice-cold martini, it will come with billowing clouds of dry ice. Order a towering ensemble of shellfish—also billowing with dry ice. Order mashed potatoes—filled with lobster. But no dry ice.
That would be showing off.