The Silver Lining

We were looking for a steak house last night on our way back from visiting wineries and decided to go to the Silver Reef Casino. We'd been meaning to go there for the last 2.5 years we'd been in Birch Bay, but never found the time.

The casino is in the middle of nowhere, on the Lummi Reservation. First impressions are important ... so we were enthused to hear, then see, the losers hanging out of their hotel room, yelling at their friends in the parking lot. The loser friends yelled back up. Then the hotel room losers yelled back again. It all sounded a lot like "Wooo! Look at us up here!" "Yaaaaaa We're coming up!" "Wooooo! Get yer sorry asses up here!" Very important stuff.

There was a man sitting on a bench outside. As a taxi pulled around, he got up, fell down, got up again, and weaved his way, head tilted to the side, in a zig, then a zag, then a zig and another zag, across the pavement where he pulled open the door and fell again. Reaching up to the door, he pulled himself up, with the help of the driver, and got inside.

Walking through the doors, we were hit by a big wave of smoke. The patrons were all zoned out, sitting at their slots like zombies pushing the buttons over and over, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. We circled through the casino, past the banks of slots, then a small table area, and more and more slots. I can't help but wonder why people choose slots ... they are such a rip off. The $5 tables were packed, the $10 tables were empty, and there were no tables more expensive than that. Las Vegas this is not ... unless you're counting one of the outlying Station properties. That's pretty much what I thought of it. One of the places you go for a cheap, good breakfast buffet but don't stay long after.

 First we had to weather the masses, and make our way to the Diamond Dividends center, the booth that every casino has, where you sign up for a card and get some freebies for it. We're not big enough gamblers to ever get any perks, so the sign-up deals are the only reason we bother. They gave us a coupon for $5 off any of the restaurants, $5 slot play, and $5 match play on any of the tables.

We pushed on through the bar where people were consuming massive amounts of fast food in outdoor patio furniture, then past a ballroom where a private party was being held. A tacky bar band was playing typical wedding fare songs. Harold got a little excited when he saw a poster at the doorway. "Wow, Ray Charles is going to be playing here!" I almost didn't have the heart to tell him it was only an impersonator. Isn't Ray Charles pretty ancient? I remember him being old when I was just a kid. Does he even tour anymore? For that matter, is he even alive?

I wasn't expecting much from the steak house. The door to The Steakhouse was in the corner, almost hidden away, as if they were embarrassed by it. We opened the stained glass door to walk into a completely different world from where we'd come. This was a beautiful, quiet, classy restaurant, something we'd expect in downtown Vancouver, or in one of the nice casinos on the strip. The room was full and we were lucky to get the last table available without a reservation.

While we were waiting to order, I noticed a man walk through the restaurant pushing a bar cart. He stopped at a table across the room where he mixed the man's martini at the table, with a lot of flash and flair. It was a lot of fun to watch, and I was tempted to order my own martini.

We settled on a bottle of Chateau St. Michele Indian Wells Cabernet Sauvignon instead. It's a wine we've enjoyed a lot in the past but haven't had in a year or more. When it arrived, and after Harold had sampled it, the sommelier poured it through a glass aerator, where it funnelled out through the side holes and down the inside edges of a beautiful decanter. It was interesting and entertaining to watch.


We ordered rib-eye steaks, medium rare, and I talked Harold into having the Caesar salad with me. They require a minimum of two people per table order it. While we waited we were served onion crackers with crab dip and sliced fresh carrots. A waiter walked down through the tables pushing a different cart. He stopped at a table across the way from us and began to prepare their meal.

They serve two dinners that are made table side: Steak Diane, a Filet Mignon Sautéed with Shallots, Thyme, Grain Mustard and Mushrooms, and Steak au Poivre, a Filet Mignon, in a Peppercorn Brandy Sauce. Huge flames emerged from his pan, a couple of feet high, in a grand production that got everyone's attention. I could tell from the wonderful smells they had ordered the Steak Diane. I now wished we'd done the same.

Our waiter arrived, pushing a different cart. This one the Caesar salad cart. The original Caesar salad was created in the 1920's by a Mexican man, Caesar Cardini, with restaurants in San Diego and Tijuana. He had depleted most of his supplies during a Fourth of July dinner rush and put the salad together from what he had left, adding in the dramatic flair of the table-side tossing by the chef. It became known that it was to be served table side or it wasn't a real Caesar. I've had a ton of Caesar Salads, some of them amazing, some of them barely edible, but never one made for us table side. It's also been my experience in most of the places I've visited in the U.S. that they don't know how to make a decent Caesar Salad or English style fish and chips (at least as well as what we have in Vancouver). Obviously, I haven't been frequenting the right places, as this Caesar salad was, hands down, the most amazing salad I've ever had.

We didn't see everything he put into the salad, though we were watching very carefully. He brought out a huge, thick wooden bowl, to which he added fresh, crushed garlic. He mashed the garlic all over the sides of the bowl, then added olive oil, salt and pepper, wine vinegar, fresh squeezed lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and mayo (usually coddled eggs are used, perhaps they make the mayo in the back). As he added in each item, he mashed and swirled it into the mix, creating a dressing that coated the entire edges of the bowl. Next he brought up the romaine lettuce, pushing it down and up along the edges, so all the leaves were coated in dressing. Only when he was satisfied that it was all evenly distributed, did he add Parmesan and croutons. Then once again, on our plates, he added more Parmesan cheese. This definitely was not to be a good Paleo day, but we'd already known that.

A fresh baked french loaf arrived, and we just didn't have the heart to turn it away. Paleo was already damned and it smelled so wonderful. Accompanying the bread were little balls of butter. It seemed common sense to use the tiny little English tea spoons to serve ourselves. We only realized our error when the waiter next brought us a sorbet in champagne, served in a martini glass. He saved our pride by returning immediately with new spoons.

Our huge baked potatoes came next, covered in sour cream, real bacon pieces, cheese, chives and I'm sure probably some butter somewhere in the mix there. It's been a long, long time since we've had potatoes, and even longer since we've had a baked potato. We surely would have been happy with this as our main course. It felt so decadent. But a moment later, our rib-eyes arrived, on their own plates, covered by a metal lid. The server whisked away both lids at the same time, then asked us to slice the steaks down the center to see if they were done to our liking. Ironically, it hurt me to do that. My OCDish nature likes to cut around the edges and then into the centre, but my rule-following nature had me slicing the poor thing right down the middle, as he'd requested. Then I looked over to see Harold only cutting part way through the meat, just enough to see the colour, and I wanted to kick myself. Why hadn't I realized I could do that? Of course, it was done perfectly, and once the server left, I quickly pushed the two sides back together, as if they'd meld back into one piece again.

The steak was amazing. Only once before, in my life, have I had a steak as wonderful. That one was at one of the top steak houses in Vancouver, and even though it was 15 years ago, I remember both how delectable it was, and how jaw droppingly expensive it was. This was, a decade and a half later, half the price of Gotham Steak House.

There was just no way we could finish it all, so we returned home with most of our steaks, knowing we could, without guilt, without Paleo cheating, consume them for the next night's dinner. I can't wait.

After our meal, we exited our oasis, and pushed back out again into the masses. It was even more of an assault on the senses, after the tranquility of The Steak House, but the wine we'd consumed helped with that.

We went up to the cashier where we traded in our coupon for a credit of $5, then we found a couple of empty poker machines. I hate slot machines with a passion. They bore me to death. All you do is push a button over and over. The few times I've played them, I make myself pull down the big lever. It makes it more momentous for me. I find the poker machines only a trifle more stimulating. At least you have to think for a second about what best to hold. It's still pretty monotonous and I'm glad when I can either cash out or lose all the free money they've given me. I lost my free $5, Harold was up $11. So, along with our two $5 meal vouchers, that was $21 off our meal. We had planned to gamble a bit at the tables, at least to use our match play coupons, but it was so smokey, I just wanted to get out. Home was calling.