Mastro's-- Christ-- What a disappointment.
There was just something so gross and artificial about the whole experience, like my worse memories of growing up in the transparent fakeness of South Orange County combined with the daft enthusiasm of a San Antonio queso slinger with a dash of country club cuisine thrown in. The servers seemed like refugees from bad chains with their "happy happy happy " and their "aren't we all having fun attitudes" combined with a total lack of knowledge about food. The hostess was blessed with breasts so large and a conception of grammar so slight that I believe she will go far in this town. Slimy men were everywhere. Bleck.
Caesar was okay with very mild garlic and very mild anchovy. The server had no idea what a coddled egg was let alone if it was in the dressing. After quite a lot of prodding he showed no interest in checking.
Crab-stuffed mushrooms were notable for their large size and watery consistency. Stuffing seemed to be entirely made up of bread.
Sides were swimming in grease. Much praised lobster mashed potatoes had large chunks of chewing, terribly overcooked lobester. Chew; wipe grease of face; chew.
Ordered a new york steak, medium rare. Waiter vague on concepts of aging. It was cooked correctly but arrived in a flotilla of grease with lots of nasty red paprika.
FOR GOD'S SAKE WHY IS THEIR PAPRIKA ON MY STEAK?
What moron came up with that idea? Oh, I know-- BECAUSE YOU CHARGED MY BOSS FORTY DOLLARS FOR A WET-AGED STEAK. Tender, almost squishy texture. Weird sort of livery rather than beefy taste. I associate both flaws with wet aging. Wet aging sucks. Bleck.
Desserts were oversized in that particularly repulsive steakhouse fashion-- it doesn't taste good but what value!
The piano player was quite talented.
I like a good piano player as much as the next person but really-- why on earth do people pay good money for a meal here?