Saturday night, ten of us – frat brothers, wives and girlfriends, had dinner at Rare, just around the corner from the White House. Our server, Allison (the job title on her business card is “Captain,” which is cool), sensed we were game for anything, and mentioned something off the menu: “superhawk.” 80 oz. of meat. My pledge-trainer Al, pictured next to me, is a frequent steakhouse attendee, yet he lit up like a little kid. We all did. Game on.
Back in the kitchen, the chef was thrilled to hear our order. I suppose few rubes like us actually go for this monstrosity. The staff made a show of it. After the chef used a ban saw to cut the meat, Allison hauled it out pre-cooked so we could Instagram the shit out of it. Rare had a woodworker craft a special rack on which to serve it post-grill, Flintstones style. Get the rack – the TEΦ house is here.
