By Terence Tan
Tell people two words, “steakhouse” and “Williamsburg”, and the first thing that’ll spring to mind is “Peter Luger”. These people presumably don’t live in Williamsburg, because honestly — what’s less like the birthplace of Brooklyn hipsterism than a steakhouse filled to the brim with tourists and suits, flush with enough money to blow $13 on tomatoes?
St. Anselm is a much better candidate for the title of the consummate Williamsburg Steakhouse. Open by the same people behind acclaimed ribs-and-brisket joint Fette Sau, St. Anselm sits quietly and unassumingly opposite its barbecue brethren.
A nondescript exterior — I would’ve walked on by if not for people milling outside — gave way to a frankly unimpressive, rustic décor. You know the drill — mood lighting, wooden table tops, long benches for “family style dining”. Charming when it started, but everyone from Mighty Quinns to Ippudo’s doing it now. And of course, there’s a blackboard to one corner illustrating the “Specials of the Day”. Still, the people chomping down on that Ax Handle Rib Eye looked pretty happy. In my book, food trumps all.
“It’s going to be about a forty five minute wait, gentlemen!” To her credit, the maître’d was cheerful in the face of two hungry men with serious post-workout hunger pangs. They’re also smart enough to invest in one of those sophisticated tech systems which tracks available seats and texts you when your spot is available. Maitre’d suggested we head next door for pre-prandial drinks. Of course, the bar next door is also owned by the same people behind St Anselm and Fette Sau, because carving out your own culinary fiefdom in a NYC neighbourhood is a sign that you’ve arrived. (Heard that, David Chang?) Spuyten Duyvil has a bunch of Belgian beers not nearly as pretentious as its name, décor identical to its steakhouse Siamese twin next door, and enough NFL to distract you till you receive a text telling you that your table’s ready.
When you return to St Anselm, and you’re in a party of two, hope to be seated at the bar. The reason for this is an open-air grill right beside the bar, where artists of the grill expertly slice, flip and flambé. We could trace the life cycle of our Butchers Steak and NY Strip from kitchen to grill to table (or in our case, bar top). I love seeing food made behind the counter — one of the reasons why I love ramen and sushi — so this entertained me till our steak was plated and done. We also shared a serving of pan-fried mashed potatoes, recommended by both our server and Yelp.
Was the steak worth the wait and the insufferable décor? Without a doubt. The restaurant could look like a high school lunchroom and I’d put my name down on the waitlist without blinking. My Butcher’s Steak (9/10) arrived sliced, with garlic butter on the side. Done medium rare, each bite was a combination of perfectly charred exterior seasoned simply with salt and pepper, and a juicy, flavourful interior given velvety depth by the garlic butter. Apparently, St. Anselm gets all their beef from an independent farmer in Connecticut. Whatever that farmer is doing to his cows, I hope he keeps it up. For $15, this steak’s a steal.
Special mention must go out to the pan-fried mashed potatoes, done on the grill right beside the steak. (Were there vegetarians out there crying foul at a steakhouse? Nope? Didn’t think so.) Crispy-on-the-outside-tender-on-the-inside is a culinary trope performed ad nauseum, but this is that trope at its finest. In an interesting textural parallel to the steak, these potatoes came with a charred and crisp exterior but after some poking and prodding, yielded fluffy, freshly mashed potatoes. I smeared garlic butter on the fluffy bits, then went to town. My friend and I ended up quibbling over the crispy bits left in the bowl.
Will I be back, given the long waits and distance from Manhattan? Yes, but only with friends game enough to brave the unpredictable waiting times as well as navigate across streets that aren’t arranged in a grid. Fortune favors the bold, and by fortune I mean steak.
For the divas, of course, there’s always Wolfgang Puck.
