In 1980, a crazy Frenchman decided that an American-themed steakhouse chain would fill a special culinary need in suburbs all across France. Wha' huh? That's like us Americans starting an Australian-themed steak … oh, I see. But this is the French — they wouldn't sit idly by while their culinary traditions are superseded by mass-produced dreck, would they? Don't they hold national strikes every time McDonald's brings back Le McRib?
Now, 25 years later, it appears that kitsch and consistency can infect even the most dedicated food-loving culture. With more than 260 locations throughout Europe, Buffalo Steakhouse is by far the largest steak chain on that continent. In a postmodern maneuver that truly defies imagination, the company has decided to expand its empire into the U.S, right here in the Bay area.
Isn't that like opening an Outback Steakhouse in Sydney? OK, forget that a restaurant that trades on the exaggeration of national cultural stereotypes should maybe avoid confronting the country in question, and forget that America is maxed out with the steakhouse trope just about now. The real question is: Why establish a beachhead on a dismal stretch of U.S 19 in Pinellas?
While many of our native chains concentrate on the grittier aspect of frontier life — bales of hay, wagon wheels, peanut shells thrown on the floor — Buffalo Steakhouse's French design team seems to have focused solely on the relatively refined atmosphere of a bordello train car. Intricate pressed tin covers the ceiling, gold luggage racks sit above every table, and pendants with black shades and red tassels light the room.
The ceilings drop a few feet above each booth, which, along with tall seatbacks, make for a considerably more intimate setting than at your local steak joint. If you find your hand inching up Miss Kitty's petticoats, no one's gonna pay you no nevermind.
The entrées — with the exception of a couple pasta dishes — are completely anonymous chain fare. It's difficult to change these classics of blandness without altering the very template of the "American steakhouse." As a result, Buffalo Steakhouse has successfully captured that elusive lack of character, that aversion to flavor, that signature assembly-line quality that is the hallmark of our native chains. Good job, guys!
Buffalo stew ($12.49) is packed with bright green peas, slick pearl onions, sliced mushrooms and over-stewed hunks of bison with an unpleasantly chalky texture. The full rack of ribs ($16.99) is covered in a sauce so sweet it could give both diabetics and Atkins cult members fits. Burgers ($7.99) are typical, so feel free to load them up with sautéed onions and bacon. It's the type of imitative and ubiquitous chain crap that can quickly make you forget which cookie-cutter place you decided to feed at tonight.
Steaks are the safest choice. The meat isn't any better than what you find at the local mega-mart, but it's well seasoned and nicely grilled. As a change of pace, consider the bison New York strip, which is the best bet for a slightly tasty entrée. The subtle touch of gaminess gives the meat some character. It's a lot leaner than cow, so order it rare and it won't dry out: Although, in my experience, the kitchen will send it out medium-rare no matter how bloody you want it.
Unlike the entrees, starters have not escaped the Gallic desire for good food, as if Buffalo Steakhouse's progenitors were physically unable to leave the menu without a few proper French dishes. Somewhere along the way, one of the investors must have put his foot down — "Enough of your fried onion flower and pepper boppers! What will ze sane people eat?! Haw-haw!" As a result, the appetizer menu looks like a bowling alley fry-cook and a toque-wearing Frenchman got into a fight at the OK Corral.
If I know my frontier history — Buffalo Steakhouse style — a typical evening on the Oregon Trail went a little like this: "Hey, cookie! Whip me up some a yore signature crab crepes. That there delicate cream sauce is just what a hand needs after a hard day herdin' bison. Might wanna toss some bruschetta on the fire, too. Yee haw!"
Actually, the bruschetta ($6.49) is pretty good, piled high with ripe tomatoes, fresh basil and pungent garlic. Stuffed with shredded crab and seasoned breadcrumbs, the delicate crab crepes ($5.99) are far better than those at Outback and Longhorn. OK, those places don't have crab crepes, but, perhaps recognizing the completely incongruous act of serving this dish at a steakhouse, the restaurant covers them in melted cheese to appeal to the American palate. They know us well.
Onion rings ($5.99) at Buffalo are like onion rings anywhere, but the grilled sausage ($6.49) is smoked and peppery and comes with a sauce packed with large Dijon mustard seeds that pop with flavor. Although certainly not the kind of toast they serve in Texas, warm breaded goat cheese and crisp bread ($6.49) work well together.
Easily the best dish served at the steakhouse is the quiche ($6.49). You heard me. It's a full eight inches round, with flaky puff-pastry crust crumbling around the edges. The pale, eggy custard is cooked until just barely solid, resulting in that luscious, silky smooth texture that separates good quiche from Betty Crocker egg pie. There is just enough bacon and cheese to flavor the custard without asserting control. Good lord, the best quiche I've eaten this year came from a restaurant with a cartoon Indian bolted to the roof. Sigh.
In the end, Buffalo Steakhouse is right on par with the better low-cost meat markets anchoring strip malls and decorating highways across the Bay area, albeit with quiche and crepes and bordello chic. These little French accents don't redeem Buffalo Steakhouse, though. It's still a soulless corporate trough that dumbs down its food to please the bovine masses.
Maybe it's fun for French families to trek to an American-themed restaurant — kids crying out, "I'm going to gorge like an overweight American teenager!" and "I'm only going to eat thing that are deep-fried!" — but we don't need it. Americans are perfectly capable of burdening the landscape with our own palaces to bland factory food. We should be in the business of exporting gluttony, not bringing it home from overseas.
Brian Ries is a former restaurant general manager with an advanced diploma from the Court of Master Sommeliers. He can be reached at brian.ries@weeklyplanet.com. Planet food critics dine anonymously, and the paper pays for the meals. Restaurants chosen for review are not related to advertising.
This article appears in Oct 26 – Nov 1, 2005.