The Pub Steakhouse
I remember as a kid, constantly passing by the Pub Steakhouse on my way to see relatives in New Jersey. You would pull off the Ben Franklin bridge and wind through what always seemed like an immense entanglement of on ramps, off ramps and merging and converging highways, the old beat up sign popped itself into view in the thick of it all. The place looked like a dusty relic even then, but the strange crumbling castle was always surrounded by a parking lot sea of cars.
And so it went for years and years. I always passed that mysterious building, and always told myself I would check it out some day. Finally I did. No big story or epiphany. it just came to me and I rounded up some friends. Walking up the steps of the fake sheet rock facade and opening the giant oak doors by the ornate brass handles and peering through the windows shaped like a jousters shield, I thought “I’m going into some freaky David Lynchian 1970′s acid trip.
I was right. The Pub Steakhouse is like mixture between Goodfellas and Medieval times. An airport terminal sized steak house opened in the 1950s, who’s minor decor changes stopped in the 70s. It’s all dark oak and fine corinthian leather with taxidermy, barrels and suits of armor everywhere you look. I sat down with my friends and to the left of us sat an elderly couple, him in a smoking jacket and bad toupee, her in the required pink tinted beehive. To the left sat a family huge family of huge Greeks. This was a prime rib and rusty nail kinda place and I was in love. As we left, a bunch of Russian teens pulled up in a Hyundai and offered to sell us a bag of ecstasy. You know what? The shit was good.
Check out their site for their inspired meat on meat menu
- James Jarvis
photos courtesy of http://thepubnj.com