Acme Chophouse

There is no greater manifestation of masculinity in the culinary world than a steakhouse. I don’t mean masculinity in the beer-drinking, dirty-talking sense. The masculinity I’m referring to opens the door for women, works hard for a living, knows how to wear a suit, and goes to the same barber every four weeks. This masculinity smells of oak and tobacco, sounds strong and baritone. A proper steakhouse is all this manifested; all others can be immediately spotted like a man wearing blush.

When San Francisco built a world-class ballpark with brick walls on the shore of its bay, it shed the qualities for which it is well known – new technology, social liberalism, progressive politics – to build a temple to a type of Manhood that seemed long forgotten in this city. So the idea to incorporate into the plan of the stadium a steakhouse on its most prominent corner seemed so natural that one wonders why every stadium doesn’t have one. A popular restaurateur (Traci des Jardins of Jardiniere fame; after all, this IS a city that takes food seriously) was given the opportunity to concept and run the high-end steakhouse. The match seemed like a solid one. Even the name chosen was apt: Acme Chophouse. Straightforward and manly.

The ballpark and restaurant are located in a wildly booming area of San Francisco along a stretch of King Street that has witnessed in the past several years the rise of thousands of loft units and scores of New Economy businesses. I stopped in to Acme Chophouse one day expecting to participate in the lunchtime bustle of this thriving area - especially since it was a game day - but was surprised to find that less than 10% of the large restaurant was occupied. I was the lone diner at the bar. This, it turns out, is no accident.

Just to be clear: I won’t blame the steak itself. But then Thomas Keller once noted that anyone can cook something that’s supposed to taste great. You can make great food with relative ease if you’re given sweet Maine lobsters, prized truffles from Perigord, or wagyu beef that melt from the warmth of your hand. To make the point clearer, try making something appetizing out of pig trotters and stomach lining. Acme Chophouse starts with the same beef that’s featured in a dozen other high-end restaurants in the city, so I’m not convinced that the quality of the beef is responsible for its dismal state.

What, then, if not the steak itself, makes a great steakhouse? Well, the answer is not as simple as making a great steak. (Buy a high quality steak – ribeye recommended, salt and pepper liberally, bring to room temperature, heat a thin layer of canola oil in a heavy pan until it starts to smoke, sear the steak for several minutes on each side or until a nice crunchy crust forms on either side. Remove from heat, tent with foil, and enjoy in about 8 minutes. Medium rare and fantastic.) Perhaps it’s the service, or the ambience. Or something more concrete than that. Is it the side dishes, or the weight of the steak knife? No, that doesn’t seem to quite get at it either.

Is it too soft to say that it’s a matter of Heart? Because THAT statement does feel right. Acme Chophouse has no Heart. A place with Heart forces all the right elements into place and a diner can feel it: long after the dinner when all the concrete details have faded deep into the inner fibers of our hippocampus, we remember with a breeze of nostalgia how much we loved being there. And that thing that makes us feel this way is what’s created by the Heart. The Tadich Grill, to name just one, has it. You can’t pinpoint one single element; It all just works together.

Yes, my flank steak was well seasoned and had a nice flavor. But it arrived with a pile of diced Yukon potatoes, a few sprigs of watercress, and a feeble attempt at a horseradish cream sauce. Preceding that were three shrimps from their raw bar. At $2.50 a piece, I expected some hefty prawns. But no, they were rather small, the kind you should use only in a stew. The bread never arrived. The soda was flat (the small detail of bottled cola would have had such impact). And the décor is indistinguishable from The Cheesecake Factory’s (actually, the area would be better served with this chain restaurant). No… nothing came together.

I wonder if this is just a money-making venture by Chef des Jardins. But given the lack of patrons, it’s clear that she hasn’t learned the fundamental principle that you reap returns only when you invest. In the precarious business of fine dining, the biggest investment is your heart. And like the cowardly lion, Acme Chophouse doesn’t have one.