Temples of Excess

God I feel awful today. Bloated, constipated, hung over and bleary.

It’s a good thing I’m merely a hedge fund trader and not say a heart surgeon or air traffic controller. No matter what I do, the worst that can happen is that one group of rich people becomes marginally richer, while another group becomes marginally poorer. Ah, the pleasures of a life without responsibility!

At some places, being hung over is actually a positive. If I worked for, say, Stairs Burn, I would probably embrace drunkenness, the better to fit in with their stable of meatheads and muppets. I’m told that getting smashed with your MD is the quickest route to promotion at more than one venerable Wall St firm.

Sadly, I work for Sopwith, where passing out at your table is frowned upon and throwing up on your bosses’ shoes is a definite no-no. We’re kind of pedantic that way.

I suppose it’s my own fault. All life is a learning experience, and I have learned my lesson. In one pithy sentence: “Never eat steak with a man named Truck”.

Truck is a derivatives salesman from Organist Manly. He is also a connoisseur of, well, if not necessarily fine food, then at least of lots of food. There is a reason for his nickname.

Truck called me yesterday and proposed that we celebrate our annual bonuses with some serious meat-eating. He suggested Embers. I knew he would suggest Embers.

A brief digression. America, as we all know, is the land of excess. Within America, New York is the city that best embodies this excess (though LA comes close). And New York’s extremism finds its purest expression in its steakhouses, which are temples of excess. Want a piece of meat the size of a football? Want a tomato the size of a cantaloupe melon? Want enough French fries to blanket a small town? Want enough whipped cream to host a Winter Olympics? Just go to a New York steakhouse.

But not all steakhouses are the same. Different steakhouses aim to capture different, and highly specific, clienteles. And which clientele, gentle reader, carries the flag for the most blatant, shameless, unthinking excess imaginable? Yes, you guessed right, it’s the finance industry. World headquarters: Embers Steakhouse.

When you enter Embers, you are overwhelmed by three distinct smells. Floating on the top is the smell of cigar smoke; every table is filled with investment bankers celebrating their deals du jour. Occupying the midsection is the smell of grease and meat, the canonical steakhouse odors carried to an extreme. But right at the bottom, pervading everything else, infiltrating every conversation, flavoring the wine and seasoning the meat, is the smell of testosterone. You don’t go to Embers to eat the food; you go to Embers because that’s what rich, successful and above all manly bankers do.

Frankly, I can’t stand Embers. Of course, I couldn’t tell Truck that in so many words; his feelings would be hurt. So I spun it as best as I could. I told him I was bored of Embers because I had eaten there so often; could Truck suggest someplace new?

Truck rose to the challenge, and booked us into Ludwig’s. On our way there he told me its story: Ludwig’s was a new steakhouse founded by the chef and two senior waiters from Peter Mauser’s (a venerable Brooklyn institution). And sure enough, when we walked, it looked like Mauser’s reincarnated.

But there was a problem. Unlike Peter Mauser’s, Ludwig’s did not serve German Potatoes.

Truck was apoplectic. “How can you not serve German Potatoes? What kind of steakhouse is this?”

The waiter explained, “We couldn’t reproduce the quality of Mauser’s German Potatoes, and rather than give our diners a substandard experience, we decided to take it off the menu.”

Now, Truck’s gigantic exterior hides a sharp and active mind (especially when it comes to matters of food), and he immediately spotted the hidden premise in this statement.

“You mean to tell me that every other dish on the menu has been vetted as being equal to or better than Mauser’s finest?”

“Yes sir, we think so.”

“Okay, then. Prove it. Bring me one of everything.”

“One of everything, sir?”

“You heard me. Bring me one plate of everything on your menu. I reckon I know my food; let’s see if your quality control is really that good.”

Now, keep this in mind. At the table there were only Truck, Truck’s assistant Trailer (the nickname was irresistible), myself, and a junior trader we all called Pippin (I don’t think anyone knew his real name; he, like Trailer, was there to be seen and not heard). Four people. Meanwhile, the menu had six different cuts of steak alone, ribs, veal, three different chicken dishes, lamb chops, pork loins, sole and salmon filets, burgers, corned beef, and at least twenty different sides. Not to mention ten different desserts.

And Truck wanted it all.

I suppose I should have stopped him, but I had had a few drinks too many by this point, so I’m ashamed to say I cheered him on. Trailer and Pip got into the spirit of things as well. As did the entire wait staff at Ludwig’s. The kitchen moved into high gear, while Truck himself shifted seamlessly into overdrive.

We tried, we really tried. Food kept appearing, and we kept shoveling it down. At one point I vaguely remember trying to add up all the numbers on the right hand side of the menu card; I reached 2000 before it struck me that I wouldn’t be paying for any of this. I promptly threw aside the card and sent the waiter back for more wine.

The next thing I knew, it was morning, and I was staggering back into Sopwith’s offices for another day of wrestling with the markets.

Good thing my investors can’t see me now.

Update, 12 noon: I dialed Truck’s number at lunchtime. Trailer picked up the phone. I said, “God, Trailer, I feel awful today”. Trailer replied, “Yeah, me too. But you know old Truck? He’s sitting next to me eating a steak sandwich for lunch.”

I think I’m going to throw up.

Update, 5pm: It’s the close of business, and we’re up 3% on the day. That’s a pretty phenomenal return, especially considering I was wasted out of my mind for most of the trading session. Hmm, maybe I should go out with Truck more often?