It was serious drinking money. I suspect flesh parlors from here to Tokyo know only too well that they follow their own warped rules of supply and demand. The supply of nudity is a scare commodity—at least compared to, say, dry cleaning services—but the demand apparently remains high, even with one-click access to varieties of hardcore porn that makes pole dancing seem as harmless as a senior high gym class.
Which no doubt explains why the Stadium Club demands a twenty just for the privilege of parking your car within its gated lot, safe from the rascals who may wander this industrial, semi-desolate section of Northeast off Bladensburg Road. And it surely explains why so many patrons are inclined to nurse a single beer while saving their dollars for garter adornments.
Morality, however, is relative. The Stadium Club wants to redefine strip club eating. My New York strip is a monstrous cut, nearly two inches thick. But it sports no char, no grill marks, no quadrillage—nothing that gives steaks added flavor and texture. The filet mignon at least has some taste buried within the tender muscle, a not-unpleasant liver flavor, but the cut is not seared or seasoned well, either.
When the restaurant manager approaches our table, inquiring about the steaks, I tell him the truth. He deserves the truth. I tell him that I prefer grilled over broiled steaks, just because I like my rib-eyes or strips blackened from the heat of searing hot grates.
Next time, he informs me, just ask for extra char, which the chef can add to any steak. When I tell the bartender how I prefer my steaks, he informs me there is a way around the limitations of the broiler.
