House of Prime Rib is Bae

The other day, my friend asked me what my favorite restaurant was and after a sweat-filled and mentally strenuous thirty-minute pause, I blurted out, "HOUSE OF PRIME RIB!" If you've read this blog before, I know what you are thinking and no, I did not misspell "Taco Bell".  And trust me, Taco Bell is my Lord and savior and all, but as someone who grew up in San Francisco, I cannot deny that the enchanting meat rituals performed at the House of Prime Rib shaped me into the creepy hobo woman I am today.

On a recent trip home to the Bay, my angel of a mother bribed my brother and I with lunch at House Prime Rib if we attended mass with her on Easter in our Sunday's best. Being the gracious daughter that I am, I happily accepted her bribe and showed up to mass in a modest frock. But to her displeasure, I wore sneakers with my frock and "reeked of booze". To be fair, she didn't specify what kind of footwear I needed to wear with my dress and it is not my fault that Easter takes place on a Sunday, which happens to be the day after Saturday night, which we all know is party time. Perhaps Jesus should have risen on a Tuesday if he expected us to be sober on Easter, which surely he didn't because he strikes me as a pretty methodical individual.

After an hour of chanting, sitting, kneeling and standing a.k.a. participating in Catholic calisthenics, I worked up quite the appetite and was ready my meat reward.

The feeling I feel when I see this sign and those red awnings are akin to the feelings of unbridled joy and nostalgia that children and untrustworthy adults experience when they approach the gates of Disneyland.

After being led to an elegant and buttery leather booth, my family and I chose a bottle of wine from their extensive wine list. We picked this Chalone Pinot Noir because we heard that 2013 was an extraordinary year for that varietal in the Gavilan benchland. Just kidding - we just picked the cheapest Pinot Noir. 

Aside from the prime rib, their hallmark is the epic salad show put on by their waitstaff. Our waitress expertly spun the salad dressing into salad with such grace and showmanship that we were on our feet cheering like we were at a Warriors playoff game. The salad show prompted this kind of response from every guest at every table whenever a salad was served, which meant that it sounded like Roaracle Arena up in that bitch.

 The service at House of Prime Rib is outstanding. The waiters and waitresses are all blessed with that old school charm and make you feel like you are a part of the family. They perform their jobs with such joy that I told my mom that I was moving back home to San Francisco to get a job at HOPR. She reminded me several times that I do not possess the charm or experience necessary to get a job there, but I have seen Rudy and know that anything is possible. 

This is the only salad that I truly enjoy eating because it is garnished with the understanding that I am about to be presented with a beautiful cut of prime beef. This salad whispers into your teeth while you are chewing it and says, "Yes, you are here and you are going to shit yourself in approximately fifteen minutes when that metal rollie pollie comes around with that roasted torso that you dream of every day and night." 

What metal rollie pollie, you ask? THIS METAL BEEF TROLLEY THAT I WISH I LIVED IN. I'm gonna go ahead and assume that NASA welds these from recycled aluminum alloy from old space stations, so I should probably stop asking my boyfriend for one of these every Christmas? I so desperately wish that I was one of these master beef carvers that get to roll these puppies around and deliver au jus covered plates of ecstasy from table to table. 

This medium-rare slice of fatty heaven, that velvety pile of mashed potatoes and gravy and that fluffy piece of Yorkshire pudding are likely what I will be thinking of when I take my last breath. 

Leftovers so wonderful that I ate them while walking back to the car. 


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