I live, to use the Atlanta vernacular, OTP. And as much as I take perverse pleasure in decrying the food culture of suburbia, and in what is an egregious example of the contradictory nature of man, it turns out that I periodically succumb to the very demons that I try to exorcise.
To put it mildly, I am a recidivist. Practicality gets in the way.
The truth is that although I often come across an incorrigible elitist when it comes to food, I’m glad to sit down with friends and family just about anywhere and eat whatever is served in front of me. I may not consider it real food, but I’ll munch on some Pizza Shooters or some Extreme Fajitas from time to time.
Aspens Signature Steaks is a valiant attempt at fine dining in the suburbs. It’s ostensibly an upper-end steak house, designed to invoke all the right notes of a Colorado ski lodge and while it may sit across the street from a Belk, inside we can all pretend we’re vacationing at Beaver Creek. All the accoutrements are there: the white table cloth, the crumbers, the reserve bottles, the uber-polite and unflappably helpful staff. Even the menu inspires confidence as it is welcomely bereft of fried mozzarella, though the bruschetta managed to weasel its way in.
The illusion works for a little while. For just a few minutes, you think to yourself that it may yet be the oasis in the desert and not a mirage. Then we dig a little deeper.
To be fair, I’ve been to Aspen’s at least four times, visiting both locations, and one of them being their brunch offering. It’s not bad food, it’s just thoroughly mediocre and ends up being a waste of money.
So what is wrong? Let’s dissect.
For starters, they don’t rest their steaks. This is a really big deal with me and one of the primary reasons why I don’t frequent steakhouses. A steak is unforgiving. Premium beef has to experience the perfect sear and rested carefully before delivery. During one of my visits, I opted for their special, a bone-in, dry-aged filet and had the temerity to ask if resting took place. What I got in return was that quizzical look that I’ve only seen in dogs that have been mistakenly fed beer and then asked to play dead while throwing a frisbee at them. For a steak treading awfully close the $40 territory, proper resting should be a given.
On a different visit I tried their NY Strip which was chewy and forgettable and on a third one, a flat iron steak that was equally clumsy in its execution. During this last visit, however, I ate a surprisingly decent braised short rib dish. The problem? The short rib was flanked by some amateurishly bad skillet potatoes. My fellow diners also experienced the overwhelming unevenness that has come to define my dining experience there. The wahoo wahoo was alarmingly overcooked and the tuna tartar stack was dull and grayish. Compared to other restaurants in the same price point, it seemed unacceptable.
Is there anything good? Well, their blue cheese risotto fritters are not bad at all and their seared tuna was ably delivered. Their salmon was good, if uninspired and their bread is divine. The Sedgwick Restaurant Group restaurants tend to be characterized by very good bread and this is one of the reasons that I don’t mind taking the occasional swing by Bistro VG if I’m in the area.
It may be that I’m cranky and brutal when it comes to steakhouses. I’m not one to surrender the premium dollars for middling beef when far less money will deliver more pleasure elsewhere. Aspens certainly has the right setup, it just fails to deliver.
2 out of 5 knives